Lantern light washed over the pile of documents on Edward's wooden desk inside the Department of Supernatural Suppression and Defense. Charles stood before him, recounting the horrors he had uncovered in the hidden basement of Saint Margaret's clinic—the ghastly experiments, the Black Parasite, the grisly connection to the banquet incident.
Edward pored over the pages Charles had brought, his expression growing graver with each alarming revelation.
"And I suggest we reopen the investigation into Roland," Charles began. "I know there's an order from above not to involve him—to leave him alone and let him return to his family. But after what I found in that basement..."
"This is reason enough to question him again," he concluded, his voice tense with urgency.
Edward set the papers down with a soft sigh. "I'll consider it," he said quietly. "But you need to understand that we must report to higher authorities first. We need permission to override the previous order. We'll need approval from whoever authorized his release in the first place."
"This is urgent, sir," Charles insisted. "If what I've discovered is true, Roland could be the key to everything—Michael's disappearance, the events at the banquet, and the experiments at the clinic."
Edward rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I understand your concern, Charles," he said slowly, "but we must follow protocol. Disregarding procedures could lead to much bigger problems."
"But what if something happens while we wait for approval?" Charles asked, his voice filled with concern. "We don't even know what Roland might be planning. He could disappear again."
Edward drummed his fingers on the desk, weighing the strict regulations against the urgency of the situation. Finally, he exhaled and nodded. "All right. You can begin investigating Roland. But be careful—"
Suddenly, hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor, followed by sharp, urgent knocking at the door. Both men turned toward the sound.
"Come in!" Edward called, his brow furrowed.
The door flew open, lantern light revealing Simon's tall figure rushing in, drenched in sweat and breathing heavily.
"Roland..." he gasped, "Roland is dead."
A stunned silence descended over the room like a heavy curtain. Charles felt his blood run cold, his heart pounding in his chest.
"Dead... how?" he asked in a strained whisper. "When?"
"Just a short while ago," Simon managed, still catching his breath. "He hanged himself."
"Damn it!" Charles cursed and sprinted from the room. His footsteps thundered along the hallway. "Why does everything keep falling apart?" he muttered bitterly, anger and frustration boiling inside him.
He raced down the corridor toward the main entrance to fetch his horse when Theodore suddenly appeared, leaning casually against a doorframe.
"Move," Charles snapped. "I don't have time for conversation right now."
"What's the rush?" Theodore asked coolly. "Don't you want the information you requested?" He held up a thick stack of papers, each page filled with neat handwriting.
Charles stopped abruptly, his eyes widening in surprise. "How did you gather all this so quickly?" he demanded, staring at the documents. "I only asked you this morning."
"I told you I have my methods," Theodore replied with a slight smirk, offering him the file.
Charles hesitated before reluctantly taking it. Despite his dislike for Theodore, he had to acknowledge the man's abilities. "...Thanks," he muttered.
"Don't bother thanking me," Theodore responded flatly. "Just do your job and don't waste my effort."
Charles nodded, tucking the folder inside his coat, and hurried past Theodore without another word.
He had gone only a few steps when he realized he didn't know Roland's address. Turning back, he saw Theodore still standing in the doorway.
"Do you know where Roland lives?" Charles asked urgently.
Theodore shook his head. "No. The documents I found only contain his history, not his current residence."
"Damn!" Charles cursed under his breath, spinning around and racing back to Edward's office, his footsteps echoing loudly again, but in the opposite direction.
Upon returning, he found Simon still there, providing more details to Edward.
"Chief!" Charles called, breathless. "Where does Roland live?"
Edward looked up from the report he was reading. "You really are the type to rush in without thinking things through."
"His house is in the middle-class district to the south, near a women's tailor shop called 'Graceful Lady.' It's a brown wooden house with a curved balcony featuring rose carvings."
"Thank you," Charles nodded, turning to dash off again.
"Wait!" Edward called. "Simon says the actual scene of death is north of the house—about a ten-minute walk on foot. It's a small wooded area with dense tree cover."
Charles acknowledged with a quick nod before rushing out again, his mind filled with questions. Why would Roland take his own life? Or was it truly suicide?
Charles galloped on horseback to the scene. It wasn't difficult to find—a crowd had already gathered, drawn by the grim spectacle. The glow of lanterns and torches illuminated the area, while officers formed a perimeter, trying to hold back the curious onlookers.
After dismounting, Charles looked for a place to tie his horse. His eyes caught a group of weeping people guarded by several officers—likely Roland's family. An elderly couple stood with a woman in her late thirties, her face etched with devastation.
Having secured his horse, Charles approached one of the officers standing outside the barrier tape. "Has the body been moved?"
The officer eyed him suspiciously. "Who are you?"
"Charles Ravencroft, detective from the guild," he answered evenly.
"Never heard of you," the officer replied curtly. "No outsiders allowed here. Move along."
Charles sighed and turned to another officer who seemed to recognize him. There was no point arguing with someone unwilling to listen.
"Could you tell me what happened?" Charles asked calmly but urgently.
"We found him hanging from a tree in that forest," the officer explained, pointing toward a dark cluster of trees. "A villager passing by saw him and ran for help. When we arrived, we identified him as Roland Bradford."
"Were there signs of struggle?" Charles inquired.
"None. Everything indicates a straightforward suicide."
Charles frowned. "Where is the body now?"
"Already sent to the department's forensic unit," the officer replied. "But if you want to see the site itself, I can take you there."
Charles nodded and followed him into the woods. The noise from the crowd faded behind them, muffled by the trees. Eventually, they reached a large oak tree with thick foliage. At its base, footprints and disturbed soil marked where the body had been found.
"We found him hanging up there," the officer said, pointing to a high branch. "The rope was secured around it; we've just cut it down."
Charles raised his lantern to examine the area. Multiple footprints overlapped in the damp soil—some fresh from the removal team, others possibly Roland's or someone else's. Some resembled running marks, others long drag marks.
"These footprints..." he pointed to the ground.
"Most are probably from our team moving the body," the officer explained. "But some are older, possibly from the deceased..."
Charles inspected the area thoroughly but found no obvious signs of foul play. Everything seemed consistent with suicide. He turned his attention to the family of the deceased, who remained standing where he had first spotted them.
"What about Roland's family?" he asked the officer quietly as they walked back. "Do they all live together?"
"Yes, he lived with his parents and wife. No children."
Upon reaching Roland's grieving relatives, Charles approached with a gentle manner. "I'm sorry for your loss. My name is Charles Ravencroft, a detective from the guild."
"Get away!" Roland's father shouted, his voice trembling with anger and grief. "You detectives are all the same! My son is gone—what more do you want to probe into?"
Roland's mother held her husband, trying to calm him, though her wary gaze at Charles revealed she shared his distrust.
"I understand how you feel," Charles said softly. "But I only want to help uncover the truth—"
"What truth?" Roland's wife demanded, her voice quavering. "He took his own life. That's all there is to it!"
"If this were just an ordinary suicide, I wouldn't trouble you," Charles explained gently. "But Roland might be connected to something bigger—something that could put others in danger."
His words gave them pause. Roland's wife exchanged worried glances with his parents.
"What do you know?" Roland's mother asked in a subdued voice.
"Not enough," Charles admitted. "That's exactly why I need your help. I don't want anyone else to suffer the same fate."
Roland's father exhaled shakily, the anger in his eyes giving way to exhaustion. "Fine. Let's talk somewhere quieter."
They moved to a nearby bench, away from the crowd. The lantern light from surrounding people flickered across their tear-stained faces.
"These past few months..." his father began in a hoarse voice, "he changed completely—always nervous, refusing to talk to anyone, even us."
"He barely ate," his wife added, tears welling again. "Some nights I heard him in his study, talking to himself... it sounded like he was apologizing to someone."
"And then there was a letter," his mother continued. "He said it was from an old acquaintance. As soon as he read it, he left the house immediately... and when he returned—" Her voice faltered.
"Did anyone see who sent it? Was there a name or return address?" Charles asked.
They shook their heads. Roland's wife swallowed hard before explaining, "He burned it in the fireplace before leaving. When he came back, he took some rope from our storage and left again... He only left behind a suicide note."
Charles hesitated. "Could I see that note?"
"The authorities have it now," the mother replied, her voice shaking. "They took it as evidence."
"What did it say?"
They exchanged glances. Finally, Roland's wife spoke. "He wrote... that he had a terminal illness that couldn't be cured." She struggled to continue. "He said doctors told him he only had a few months left, and he didn't want us to watch him suffer."
"He also wrote," Roland's father added bitterly, "that all his savings were for the family. He begged that no one investigate or blame themselves—that it was entirely his decision to spare everyone the pain."
Charles frowned. This sounded too convenient: a sudden mention of a terminal illness never discussed before, plus instructions against any investigation. It seemed designed to silence everyone—eliminating any reason to look deeper.
'The writing style...it seemed meticulously planned,' Charles thought. 'Too meticulously, as if someone wanted to ensure no further questions would be asked.'
"You never heard him mention this illness before?" Charles asked quietly.
Roland's wife shook her head. "Never. I've never even seen him visit a doctor."
Suspicion grew stronger in Charles's mind. Roland's death coming so soon after the banquet incident couldn't be coincidental. The mysterious letter, burning it, and leaving a too-perfect suicide note—everything pointed to a cover-up.
A grim thought occurred to him: If his theory was correct, Humphrey could be next.
"Thank you for speaking with me," Charles said, rising from the bench. "I'm truly sorry for your loss."
He walked away with purposeful strides, his thoughts racing. 'Should I return to the department and report first? But that might waste precious time. If someone is targeting Humphrey next, it might already be too late.'
'Damn it,' he muttered to himself, looking around in frustration. 'I wish I had some way to contact the chief directly—like Joseph's message parchment—but I have nothing. There's no time. I'll go find Humphrey first.'