Elsbeth watched Henry Wright struggle to the edge of his cot. Each movement cost him—the beatings had taken their toll. She pressed close to the cell gate, alert for approaching footsteps. The prison''s eerie gloom did nothing to calm her nerves.


    Cordelia crouched to maintain eye contact, a fierce look in her eyes. Elsbeth knew the questions would soon pour out faster than Henry Wright could answer.


    Cordelia leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "We need answers, Mr. Wright. The truth—something you want even more than we do."


    He met Cordelia''s gaze and nodded firmly.


    "Start with Henrietta Hampstead."


    Henry let out a harsh laugh. "She murdered my family."


    Cordelia kept her voice steady. "Our belief as well. But we need to understand why. Tell us from the beginning—keep it brief."


    A long breath escaped him. "She arrived two months before Anne fell ill. Claimed to be a widow—said her husband died in a brawl outside Manchester. She brought her daughter Beth. My wife took to them both immediately. We needed a housekeeper, and they seemed harmless enough. I didn''t question it. I should have."


    He rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them. The cell was freezing.


    "Anne was fond of her. I thought it providential that Beth and Oliver were the same age. I was too absorbed in my work to notice what was happening at home. That was my first mistake."


    Footsteps echoed faintly in the corridor beyond. The three froze. The footsteps faded. Then silence. Cordelia exhaled.


    "Anne grew suspicious. A tailor mistook Hetty for someone he knew—a woman named Rebecca Miller. She laughed it off. But later, Anne mentioned the Miller farm near Widdershire, and something shifted. Hetty changed—tense, cold. Two days later, Anne was dead. Quick and sudden. I didn’t see it until it was too late."


    Elsbeth''s breath caught at the mention of the Miller farm. The pieces fell into place: Henrietta Hampstead and Rebecca Miller were the same person—and the timing fit perfectly. The Millers had adopted a young girl thirty years ago, matching Hetty''s age exactly. But who was she before becoming Rebecca Miller, and why had she taken the name Henrietta?


    Cordelia leaned in. "What about after Anne’s death?"


    His voice cracked. "After Anne died, I kept Hetty on to care for Oliver. She managed everything—cooking, cleaning, the whole house. She kept to herself and never had visitors. Though she''d run an occasional errand, she kept to the house. Always quiet, always polite."


    "I abandoned my work and drowned myself in drink. Hetty tried to draw me out—by talking about Oliver, God, and the importance of my research. Especially my research. Her questions grew numerous and probing. She took interest in matters that shouldn''t have concerned her. Then, one night, I discovered my desk had been disturbed—someone had gone through my notes. I stopped everything immediately and hid the research."


    Elsbeth shifted, glancing toward the hall. Cordelia noticed, her voice growing tense.


    "What research, Mr. Wright?"


    Henry hesitated. "A blood-based serum designed to enhance healing and fight disease. I worked with Dr. Elias Hayward—an old friend from school. He was the genius behind it. My role was to perfect it."


    "Was it complete?"


    Henry took a long pause.


    "Yes. No. Perhaps."


    "The serum worked at first—patients improved dramatically. But then they''d collapse. It drained their strength too quickly. I developed alternatives to fix this flaw but never had the chance to test them. Elias had been conducting the patient trials but was lost at sea six months ago."


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    "The curious thing is, Miss Greaves—Elias and I have exchanged many letters over these past six months. He''s expressed sorrow for Anne''s death, offered encouragement, and made passionate pleas for me to continue our work. He keeps stressing how important it is for the sick and poor who fill our streets."


    “Hetty?”


    Henry considered this. "The penmanship was familiar, yet distinctly different from Hetty''s hand. No, someone else must have been crafting these forgeries."


    "After I hid my research, I did little but drink, and when I wasn''t completely drunk, I held Oliver in my lap. It was a dark time, Miss Greaves. I was not myself."


    “What changed Mr. Wright? Leading up to Oliver’s death. Something must have happened.”


    Henry''s shoulders sagged, and his eyes drifted shut. The mention of Oliver''s death had struck him like a physical blow.


    "Hetty seduced me—plied me with drink. In my weakness, I revealed where I''d hidden my notes. Not everything, but enough. The next morning, I woke in her bed, sickened by what I''d done. The following night, Oliver was dead."


    The words hung heavy in the darkness. Cordelia swallowed, her throat dry.


    "I''m sorry, Mr. Wright. I wish I had words to offer comfort."


    Henry nodded solemnly. "There are no words, Miss Greaves. I trusted her with my boy, and she murdered him."


    His breath caught as a sob tore from his chest.


    "Was your work funded? Did Dr. Hayward pay you directly?"


    Henry shook his head. "No. Elias had an investor."


    Cordelia''s pulse quickened.


    "An investor?" she pressed.


    Henry nodded. "Development and testing were costly. Someone with deep pockets."


    Cordelia moistened her lips. "And you never met him?"


    "No."


    "But surely you know his name?" she persisted. "Dr. Hayward must have mentioned it at some point."


    Henry Wright leaned forward, his voice dropping to a hushed murmur.


    "Elias never gave me a straight answer about him—only that the money arrived like clockwork. After I hid my research, I conducted my own investigation. Every lead pointed to one man—Mr. John Ashcombe."


    Cordelia''s breath caught, and Elsbeth let out a gasp.


    John Ashcombe—the name on the letter and the man who had leased the Miller farm.


    Cordelia felt a surge of grim satisfaction alongside dread. Finally—a tangible lead. The level of villainy was staggering. How many lives had Ashcombe ruined, playing puppet master from the shadows?


    Henry sank against the cot, eyes haunted and voice a whisper.


    “Be careful, Miss Greaves. Ashcombe doesn’t play games—he ends them.”


    Percy and Hex sat in the warmth of the carriage, awaiting the girls'' return from their latest risky venture. After almost dying at the hands of those wretched creatures at the farmhouse, Percy was content with his minor role tonight.


    Hex babbled on and on about cricket and football, subjects in which Percy held only mild interest. He let Hex dominate the conversation, preferring even sports talk to Hex''s other favorite subject—girls. Though Percy himself was quite interested in the fairer sex, he had no desire to discuss them with Hex. The man was, after all, a shameless playboy whose escalating behavior would cement his reputation as a proper cad.


    Percy''s eyes were fixed on a carriage parked near the prison''s service entrance. It bore a striking resemblance to a Black Maria—the type used by the Metropolitan Police to transfer prisoners. Though it lacked any official insignia, the similarity was unmistakable.


    He watched as three men exited the rear. The men were not policemen, but their behavior suggested that two were escorting the third into the building. It struck him as odd that the escorted man was unrestrained. The three walked together as if they were close acquaintances, yet there was a clear difference in their manner and dress.


    Finally, Hex noticed that he was no longer paying attention; Percy should have been riveted in his seat by his recounting of his winning goal against his school’s arch-rival. Instead, he was staring at something out the window.


    “Percy, pay attention. I was getting to the best part.”


    Percy gave him a blank look and returned his gaze to the window.


    “What is it? What are you looking at this more interesting than me?”


    Percy rolled his eyes but did not turn his attention.


    He was looking at the driver of the Black Maria.


    Hex leaned forward to peer out the window, but Percy held up a hand and pushed him back.


    “What are you doing?”


    “There’s a carriage parked near the entrance of the prison. Look’s remarkably like a Black Maria, but it''s a private carriage.”


    Hex leaned in again, but Percy held up a finger, causing him to pause.


    “I’m watching the driver.”


    “Why? What is he doing?”


    Percy’s words hissed out slowly.


    “He’s watching me.”


    Hex sat back, eyes wide.


    Percy’s heart froze in his chest. He leaned closer to the glass, dread pooling in his stomach. It couldn’t be—but the man’s face was burned into his memory. The chase through Acton was a nightmare he could never forget.


    “Do you think he’s made us?”


    “No. I don’t think he can see me. The problem is I’ve made him.”


    Hex looked confused. “What does that mean, you recognize him?”


    “You remember the carriage that chased us through Acton?”


    Hex’s eyes couldn’t grow wider, but somehow he managed it.


    “It’s the same man.”


    Hex shook his head.


    “Percy, that’s impossible. You’re seeing ghosts. It was pitch dark that night—we could barely see the road, let alone faces!”


    Yet the tremor in his voice betrayed his bravado.


    A thrill of grim satisfaction swept through Percy as Corvus dove from the darkness, talons flashing.


    “I don’t think so, Corvus agrees.”


    “Now you’re acting mad, Percy; how could you possibly know what Corvus thinks?”


    “I know, because Corvus just attacked him.”