Mrs Dent lay stiff upon the bed, one hand loosely curled around a small glass bottle. Her skin had already taken on a dreadful pallor; her lips were tinged grey, her lifeless eyes fixed upon nothing.
A folded note rested neatly upon the bedside table.
Lord Stanley picked it up first, his expression darkening with every line he read. Without a word, he handed it to her.
I am not able to bear the guilt of the part I played in the kidnappings of Lucy and the others, and can no longer live with myself. I am taking my own life. Forgive me.
Matilda Dent
The handwriting was undoubtedly Mrs Dent’s.
Which meant either the confession was genuine—or someone had forced her to write it.
Slowly, Charlotte surveyed the chamber. It was austere: a narrow bed, a washstand, a small wardrobe, and a writing desk upon which several untouched books sat in perfect order. Nothing appeared disturbed. There were no signs of struggle.
Too neat, she thought.
Lord Stanley uncorked the bottle carefully, sniffed it once, then handed it to her.
‘Laudanum,’ he said quietly.
He summoned two footmen and questioned them again in meticulous detail. Neither had seen anyone enter or leave Mrs Dent’s chamber after she retired for the evening. Their answers were concise, direct, and entirely believable.
On the surface, the conclusion appeared undeniable.
She had taken her own life.
Yet Charlotte remained silent. Mrs Dent had undoubtedly played a monstrous role in the disappearances of those girls, yet death still felt like a grim and hollow end.
Charlotte’s anger, once fierce and righteous, had dulled into something heavier.
Pity, perhaps.
Lord Stanley immediately sent for both a constable and a physician. After examining the body, they reached the same conclusion with disappointing speed: suicide by laudanum.
By mid-morning, the coroner had arrived to remove the body.
Lord Stanley stood motionless in the centre of the now-empty room, staring at nothing in particular. Though his expression remained composed, something about him seemed altered—disturbed in a way she had not seen before.
Stepping closer, Charlotte asked gently, ‘Should we search her things?’
The question appeared to rouse him from his thoughts. He gave a curt nod.
Together they moved methodically through the room. Charlotte examined the wardrobe, shook out folded garments, and checked each book upon the desk for hidden papers or hollowed pages. She searched for coded letters, secret instructions—anything linking Mrs Dent to the Odd Fellows.
Meanwhile, Lord Stanley searched carefully around the bed, lifting the mattress and turning over every pillow. The only noteworthy discovery proved to be a small bundle of money hidden at the back of a drawer.
No labels. No explanation.
Merely a concealed accumulation of coins that spoke eloquently enough of bribery and corruption.
But beyond that—
nothing.
No names. No correspondence. No ledger.
Only silence, and the lingering impression of a woman who had died carrying terrible secrets and damning regret.
