"Tell me, Mr. Eaton," the detective said in a low tone, leaning forward. "Do you really think it was an accident?"

Alice walked up to the drawing room door, accompanied by Hastings, who had been waiting in the corridor, making sure that nothing bad was happening. He had been working for the family for such a long time, and although the two had never talked that much, she couldn't forget his constant kindness at every visit to the Beckwith's with her brother. Even in his grouchy manners he had a soft spot for the polite, educated little Camdens; she could tell James's death had touched him too.

"Mr. Alderton asked for Mr. Eaton again, he'll be waiting in the drawing room."

"Very well."

"And, Mr. Hastings?" He turned to her. "Thank you for everything."

"You have nothing to thank me for, Miss," he grumbled; deep down she was sure he had appreciated it.

In she went, out was called Eaton. The woman lowered her gaze to look at the watch still in her grasp, as to not betray herself to the one walking beside her. She waited by the door for some time, at attention to hear any sound, any indication that he was out of range. There it was, the distant whisper of a door being closed. She walked forward, scrambling in her head to find the right words, maintaining the same outward composure as usual. There was no option other than to be swift and precise. Looking up at the exhausted crowd, she spoke with a clear, imposing tone: "Listen to me for a moment, please." The subdued murmurs stopped, all eyes fixed on her. She pushed down the sobs that were threatening to come out at the worst time, trying to channel her coldest rage instead. "My brother, James Camden, was murdered by Oscar Eaton." Gasps ensued, loud, dramatic comments filled the air; Beckwith was right by her followed by Davenport.

"Did the detective tell you that?" said the former in an accusatory tone.

"I do not like your attitude tonight, Felix. It is rather ungraceful, it does not suit you," responded she, with untamed harshness in the expression as well as the tone. "And yes, the detective told me. I was also shown how he did it, by my own request."

His voice was softer now. "Why would he want to do that?"

"Mr. Alderton believes that killing James wasn't his real objective, that he did it to blame Mr. Davenport, to ruin his reputation," saying so she glanced at the other, whose expression was pure disgust.

"Goodness gracious, what reason could he possibly have!"

She sighed. "Do you know about the package for me that was left here?"

"Yes."

"I believe it was sent by him."

Mr. Beckwith rotated his head to the side for a moment, covering his mouth with one hand. "It was him. He was caught by my mother trying to sneakily leave it here, bribing Mary to say nothing of it."

"There you go. We have a clear motive. Now..."

"It's just so hard to believe that he would go to such lengths..."

"But it's easy to believe that I would?" barked Oliver, who had been biting his tongue for too long.

"Well, yes, haven't you been giving the most disrespectful speeches about me behind my back?"

"No, dear Mr. Beckwith. Unlike some, I bother people directly if I have a problem with something they did."

"I can get you six minutes. Do you think they'll be enough?"

She took a deep breath, gripping the object in her hands. "I'll make it enough."

"Stop it, both of you. You can quarrel later. Now we don't have time, the detective needs our help to wrap up this long night. Our... my parents must be worried sick, I have to go home soon."

The two looked back at Alice, penitent. They were ready to listen, at last.

The man was taken aback by the question; his shoulder tensed, his fist closed. "Why would you ask me, detective?"

He sighed, resting his back on the chair again. "You see, it's just that I've been thinking... dying by a falling bookcase isn't at all common at all, as an accident or otherwise, and no one here seems to have a strong enough motive to want the victim dead anyway. I was hoping for a second, objective opinion on the matter."

Mr. Eaton relaxed, bringing back his hearty smile. "Oh, I see. I agree with your observation. It must be such a confusing investigation to conduct."

"It is, I must have rusted from all this time of mentally unchallenging work. Don't get me wrong," he put a hand to his chest. "I'm glad it has been such, complexity means much trouble for all involved, moreso for the relatives. Alas! I wish I could be quicker in uncovering this mystery, at least for poor Miss Camden, who has her parents at home waiting for their children."

"You are such a compassionate fellow, Mr. Alderton, a true gentleman," responded he, with a sort of grave admiration which nauseated the detective a little. "I will do all that is in my possibilities to assist."

"You honest offer is appreciated and will be taken. Follow me into the crime scene, I want to show you something."

So they changed rooms; as he glanced at him, Mr. Eaton looked pleased with himself. He couldn't wait to knock that smug expression off his face.

"I believe it was not an accident, and I believe I know how it was done, or at least I'm close to figuring it out. See how the bookshelf is not aligned with the one on the opposite side?" he said, tracing a line connecting the two pieces of furniture with his index finger. "It seems that the one that fell on Mr. Camden was moved from its original place. Then, if you go look at the corners of the carpet over there, there is some oil under it, only in those points," Alderton continued, and started walking around to get a glimpse into the other's countenance – which, by the way, was growing paler at every centered observation. "Furthermore, there are visible indents near the legs of the desk, suggesting that it was moved too, possibly to make sure that the victim would get trapped between the two pieces of wood, like in a death clasp," and he joined his hands together mimicking the image he mentioned. The detective paused, relishing the panic of his companion. He turned around again. "Last but not least, the watch. Do you know whose watch the victim is wearing right now?"

"N-not his... own?" Eaton stuttered.

"Not at all. That is Mr. Beckwith's. Mr. Camden's was thrown outside of that window, the one mistake this clever murderer made. My theory is that he thought he might get away with making it seem like the victim had been caught stealing, or something of the sort. But it must have been a sloppy, last minute decision, it's the only logical explanation." He paused another time, his gaze locked forward. "Do you know what all this means, Mr. Eaton?" No answer. "All evidence points to Mr. Davenport. However, I can't wrap my head around it! How can one like him execute such a clever scheme? Why would he kill his beloved's brother? I don't get it!"

The other walked up to him. He now was sporting a triumphant expression, akin to the one he had when he'd been called in for questioning after Miss Camden. "May I suggest that Mr. Camden wasn't the intended recipient?"

"You think this was a mistake?"

"Wouldn't Mr. Beckwith make much more sense as a victim? Although, I must agree, it is quite baffling to learn how well contrived this plot is. Mr. Davenport must know how to hide his brains well. I mean, I wouldn't be surprised if it turned out to be someone else, or that he was collaborating with another more intelligent than him."

The detective scratched his chin, feigning pensiveness. "If it is really him, it won't be easy getting a confession. I doubt he would budge at this point."

"Yes, I agree. We need to think this through."

"I might have an idea that will require your collaboration. It could be dangerous... I wouldn't blame you if you refused."

The man put his hand on the other's shoulder. "I'll do it. There is no one else here you can be sure to trust for this. Anyone could be an accomplice to the heinous act."

"You're right," Alderton assented, and reciprocated the gesture, loathing every second of the interaction. As of that moment, the idea of the end result was rather exciting. "When I send you back, ask Hastings to call for Davenport. Don't go in, stay near the drawing room entrance. When you hear the door of the study close, come wait near it, and if you hear things go wrong..."

"What is your plan?"

"Trust that I know what I'm doing, now go, we must hurry."

"All right." And out he went.

Mr. Eaton followed the man's instructions. Whatever the outcome, it would bring him some kind of benefit; he looked the most forward to dear, precious Alice regarding him as a hero. He could already taste the victory: her deep eyes fixed on his, her pouty lips calling out his name with the most gratifying sound, her arms thrown around his neck in tender gratefulness.

When Mr. Davenport came out of that door his expression was surly, he glanced at the other with a most disagreeable frown. She must have rejected him once again.

The man's heart was beating so hard in his chest that he feared it would cover his cue to get into action; unfounded was the anxiety, for the door was slammed with such fury it was surprising that it didn't come off the hinges.

It was his time.

He quietly walked up to his post, put his ear to the wood, and listened, without paying much attention to what was being said – he was too excited to care. He did notice when a dull sound preceded another louder one of something – or someone! – falling on the ground; and then there was silence. Panicked for possibly being too late, he ran inside. Mr. Alderton was on the ground, unconscious; Mr. Davenport stood near, with a large tome held up in his hands.

"Goodness, what did you do?"

"Well, dear Oscar, it's rather simple. The detective found out my murderous ploy, so I have to get rid of him, and now of you too."

Mr. Eaton stayed quiet for a moment, then erupted in laughter, as if shaken by a sudden full body paroxysm [a fit, attack, or convulsion]. "It is quite adorable," he stated, catching his breath. "In a ridiculous way, of course, that you think you could even loosely compare to the genius of this magnificent plan."

"What are you saying?"

"Oh, I think you know what I'm saying," the man spat out in feverish emphasis. "Or perhaps you don't have the mental capacity for it. Alas! Such is the life of a small-brained ape like you. It was me the whole time, Davenport, it was all me."

"You mean that..."

"Yes, I killed Mr. Camden. Although, I must say, I wanted to off Mr. Beckwith, but he was good enough. All I needed was to ruin you, and gain the sympathy of the sweet Alice. Oh, Alice! You don't deserve her. I can't wait to have her in my arms, where she belongs."

"You filthy... Why are you telling me this now? Have you no fear, no shame?"

"Why would I? Whatever happens here, they would never believe you over me. Never, I say!"

Mr. Davenport charged at him; Eaton Backed up to run away: instead of encountering the free space of the corridor, he bumped onto a surface, which he soon found to be two men who grabbed him tight. Mr. Alderton started up and ran toward his aggressor, stopping him just in time to push him to the side.

"Mr. Davenport!" he screamed in his face.

"Let go of me this instant!"

"Mr. Davenport, if you attack him now he'll be a victim. Don't give him the satisfaction."

"Did you hear what he said? He's a depraved excuse of a man."

"I did, I did, and she did too," the detective said, looking over to the window. "It's all done now, all done. He'll get what he deserves."

Eaton turned his head in the same direction. It couldn't be! Alice herself was right outside. He couldn't see her well, but he would recognize that silhouette anywhere. She was leaning on some man, probably Mr. Beckwith.

"No, no, no..."

Mr. Alderton placed himself to block his vision, and put both hands on his shoulders. "I hope you can forgive me for such a blatant lie." He then leaned to whisper in his ear: "You know, I get it. I understand why you would do all this for her."

The man went wide eyed, starting to writhe, scream and foam at the mouth. "You... you... if you touch her... let me go! Oh, if I catch you..."

"Gentlemen, restrain him before he becomes too much to handle. Has the police been called?"

"Yes sir, we sent the cook on horse as soon as Miss. Camden told us. It shouldn't take too long."

"Very well, great job everyone."

As a third man tied Eaton's wrists together, the detective turned around to meet that gaze again. Her face was dimly lit by the chandelier inside. He took two steps forward, only to stop: he wanted to impress that image in his head, the figure of one of those Greek statues depicting a powerful goddess forgotten by time, with hot fury tears wetting the majestically expressed features, etched in perfect, still, cold and hard marble, dauntingly imposing in the middle of that chaos, as if it didn't touch her at all, as if it somehow fortified her dignity all the more.

Oh, how he understood!