Finally, he had in front of him the object of chaos, loved and hated by all – for the most part hated. All three interrogations had him more than just mentioned. Who was he, outside of all the different roles he portrayed in other people's lives? Was he capable of murder? It would be too obvious: if he had wished to finish soon in the beginning, he now hoped not to be disappointed.

"You came late to the party."

The man was leaning forward, elbows on his legs, fidgeting with his fingers; his blond hair lay as disorderly as his shirt; his jacket and waistcoat were off; his eyes were evasive.

"Is that supposed to be a question?"

"I was hoping you'd confirm or deny."

"Yes, I came late."

"How come?"

"I had some business to attend to."

It was way too easy believe Eaton and Beckwith's semi-implicit accusations: he did look guilty of something, based off of the distressed appearance - or at least he felt guilty about something; and that haughtiness too! "Can you tell me what happened until the body was discovered?"

"Not much, really. I ate, I drank, I talked. The music was a bit too loud for my taste." As if it was a relevant detail. "I took a walk outside because I had one too many glasses. Came back in, hoping to have a good time, but at some point they all came screaming in my face about how James was dead, like it was my fault or something."

"When you say they you mean..."

"Felix and that ratbag that always follows him around."

"As in, Mr. Eaton?"

"Yeah, him."

"Mr. Davenport," the detective said, then paused, looking at him straight in the eyes, causing visible discomfort. "Is there a part of the story you forgot to tell me?" No answer. "For example, the argument you had with Mr. Camden?"

Oliver scoffed with exaggerated emphasis. "That was nothing more than a passionate discussion over a topic we cared about, it was before I went out. It didn't even last that long."

"What did you discuss?"

"He thought I was spreading injurious falsehoods about Felix, so I tried to explain to him that I had no reason to, I owe my life to the Beckwiths, but he was drunk and wouldn't listen to reason."

"Weren't you drunk too?"

"Yes, that is why it looked like an argument from outside."

"Sir, I'm not saying I don't believe you, however, if it is as you say, wouldn't it be natural for others to suspect that some kind of accident might have happened between you two, since you were also the last one to see the victim alive?"

"Are you accusing me, detective?" he asked with much indignation in his tone; without waiting for an answer he added: "I had no reason to want the man dead, he was my beauty's brother. And we didn't even argue! For goodness' sake."

"Your... beauty?"

"Mmh, my Alice," he replied, nodding with gravity. "By the way, I hope you weren't mean to her over here. She was in a terrible mood when she came back."

"Why don't you like Mr. Eaton?" Alderton asked, ignoring the question on purpose, with an idea in mind.

Davenport sported a sort of bitter smirk, or a conceding frown. "I have the feeling you might have already guessed it. Consider me impressed, Mr. detective man!"

What a wonderful accomplishment.