"I apologize for interrupting your current duties, Mr. Hastings."

"No need to!" replied the man, sitting down. "What can this humble servant help you with, sir?"

"I was wondering, since you work here you must know of all that come in the house."

He nodded. "Indeed I do."

"What can you tell me about Mr. Eaton?"

"Probably not much that will be news to you, sir. He works with the master, and whenever he comes to visit they both spend all their time stuffed in the study. They did that tonight too, before the party. All I can say more is that, if you may pardon me, I don't like him much out of all Mr. Beckwith's guests."

A curious thread was unravelling. Jealousy was an easy motive to dislike a man, nothing out of the ordinary; furthermore, until it was Davenport against all, one opinion didn't have much relevance – especially since it hadn't been accompanied with a thorough explanation, or any explanation. Hastings had the chance to turn the tides right now. "Oh my, why doesn't one so kind and respectable like the man? He seems like an alright fellow to me."

"You're saying it right, to you! I see him when he speaks to Mr. Beckwith, or to the missus, or to anyone, and then when he looks away. He has such ugly expressions, sir, of someone who is faking his heartiness and hates it. I might be mistaken, of course. That is the impression I was given, sir. People tend to not pay attention to ones like me who are below them in class, so we tend to be witnesses to many revealing moments."

"I believe you Mr. Hastings, I do. Were you able to see how he is with Miss Camden?"

"Oh, Alice, sweet child! She is like a niece to me, sir, and her brother was like a nephew, so much I saw them since they were children. Poor thing... I don't know what you know sir, but I noticed he's good to her. And oh! I heard from the maids he brought a gift for her here. As if Mr. Davenport wasn't enough of a bother. Such a fine young lady she has become, so intelligent, so educated, I'm not surprised of the attentions."

"What do you have to say about Mr. Davenport?"

"The young fellow has lots of energy in him, always running around. The old Beckwith loved him like another son. Took care of him too, and the kid has been grateful, for sure. I heard they were throwing mean stones at him, saying he killed poor James. If I may state my opinion again, sir, he has many flaws, has always been a troublemaker, but he is no murderer. I would bet my own life on it, sir. And if I die, so be it! He has fooled the old Miles Hastings well enough for me to deserve it."

"I really hope no one else dies tonight, least of all you, my dear friend." At the last words, the servant raised himself in pride, invigorated by the warm, respectful attentions given to him. "I mean to ask you about one last matter. Did you only serve wine as beverage for this party?"

"Yes, sir, of the best quality, as ordered by Mr. Beckwith."

"Do you still have the bottles?"

"All except one that broke in the middle of the rush while still half full. They're in the kitchen, sir."

"Can you take me there, please? I want to see them."

The room was accessible by going into the corridor, toward the study on the left, and all the way down to the opposite wing of the building. On all the counters was still the mess to be cleaned from the preparations: food, plates, and cutlery; what the detective cared about was there too, in a corner. Most of the bottles were empty, only two hadn't been opened yet. Alderton grabbed them one by one, bringing them up to his nose to smell. All emanated a similar odor, until the fourth one: Miss Camden was right, this could not have been simple wine, there had been some other kind of liquor inside. How was it possible that no one else had noticed? Possible it was, for Mr. Beckwith, the one who had selected the drink, might have not had the chance to taste this specific bottle, therefore might have never known of this one singular difference. Almost all the other guests must have been too intoxicated or carefree to question anything.

The more he went on, the more layers were forming on top of each other, instead of peeling off to reveal the truth. What did this 'wine' had to do with the death of Mr. Camden? Was it related to some other matter? Was it mere coincidence that it had infiltrated itself that specific night? Who was behind it?