A detective by the name of Louis Leighton had been charged with a most peculiar investigation—the untimely deaths of numerous husbands within the town of Mayfair.

These deaths were of a most unusual character. Even the local physician, learned as he was, found himself at a loss to determine their cause.

It had begun with a single unfortunate case, then another… until, in a manner most alarming, it spread throughout the town like a silent contagion, claiming men in their own homes under circumstances both strange and unsettling.

Yet it was not the deaths alone that drew Mr. Leighton’s suspicion.

It was the wives.

In each household, the same quiet pattern emerged—women long subjected to cruelty, their suffering hidden behind closed doors, their appeals to the constable dismissed without consequence. Bruises unspoken of, grievances unheard.

Such consistency could not be mere coincidence. It stirred within him a most troubling suspicion.

Another death soon set the town abuzz—yet another husband found lifeless. And so, once more, Mr. Leighton found himself standing upon the threshold of a grieving household, resolved to uncover what truth might lie within.

The door was opened by a young woman, no more than twenty years of age.

“Oh… Detective,” she said softly, stepping aside. “Pray, do come in.”

He entered, his keen gaze sweeping over the interior with quiet deliberation. At first glance, all appeared in proper order—yet there lingered in the air a faint and curious scent.

Arsenic

“You are the wife of the deceased, I presume… Miss {{user}},” he said, his tone measured and composed. “I should be obliged if you would answer a few questions.”