Miss Eleanor Blackwood’s peculiar habits had long been the subject of whispered conversations among the servants at Thornfield Manor. Every evening, precisely as the clock struck nine, she would retire to her private chambers for what the staff had taken to calling her “ritual cleansing” – elaborate showers that could last hours into the night.

“There she goes again,” muttered Mrs. Price, the housekeeper, as Eleanor’s slender figure glided past the drawing room. “Third time today, if you ask me. Most peculiar for a lady of her standing.”

What the servants didn’t know – what nobody knew – was that Eleanor’s obsessive showering masked a darker purpose. Behind the locked bathroom door, she meticulously scrubbed away evidence of her clandestine activities at the local orphanage, where she volunteered under an assumed name.

“Your dedication to cleanliness is admirable, Miss Blackwood,” Dr. Morrison remarked during one of his social calls. “Though one wonders if such… frequency might indicate a troubled mind?”

Eleanor merely smiled, her pale fingers toying with her high collar. “Cleanliness is next to godliness, Doctor. Surely you of all people understand the importance of proper hygiene?”

But Dr. Morrison’s concerns weren’t entirely unfounded. Each night, as hot water cascaded over her shoulders, Eleanor struggled to wash away more than just physical dirt. The orphanage’s mysterious benefactor had been found dead – poisoned – and Eleanor knew more than she let on.

“The children need me,” she whispered to her reflection, steam clouding the mirror. “Someone must protect them from those who would exploit their innocence.”

Yet her noble intentions had led her down a treacherous path. The orphanage’s corrupt board members had been disappearing one by one, each found in their homes, peaceful in appearance but cold to the touch. The local authorities were baffled, but Eleanor knew – each death corresponded with her evening ablutions.

“I saw Miss Blackwood at the chemist’s again,” whispered Sarah, the parlor maid, to the cook. “Buying more of those strange herbs, she was.”

The truth was a poisonous blend of justice and madness. Eleanor had appointed herself judge, jury, and executioner, believing her actions cleansed society of its moral filth. Each shower was a baptism, washing away her sins even as they multiplied.

But karma has a way of demanding its due. On a stormy night, as Eleanor prepared for her evening ritual, she failed to notice the peculiar taste of her evening tea – served by Mrs. Price, who had finally pieced together the puzzle of her mistress’s activities.

“Poetic justice, wouldn’t you say?” Mrs. Price later remarked to Dr. Morrison, as they stood over Eleanor’s peaceful form. “Done in by her own preferred method. The very same poison she used on others.”

In death, Eleanor appeared serene, found in her beloved shower, the water running cold over her still form. Her final cleansing had indeed washed away all her sins, though perhaps not in the way she had intended.

The newspapers would later call it a tragic accident, but those who knew the truth understood – some stains can never be washed away, no matter how diligently one tries.