My eyes opened on their own, and I was back in the office. The pain was home again. Graves sat at his desk. Calm, eerily so. His fingers were still interlocked, but his gsses were back on.

  "Have you found the killer, detective?" he asked.

  "Your Mr. Longford was afraid of death," I finally said, feeling the words struggle their way out, sticking in my throat. "That’s all I learned. Though, if you think about it, I could’ve guessed an old man feared death without diving into your head."

  "I could’ve just told you that myself, detective." Graves cocked his head, his gsses catching the light and reflecting it toward me. "So why were you there?"

  "I had to see if you were the killer," I replied. "If a criminal knows a detective is rummaging through his mind, he fixates on not thinking about his crime. Which means his entire consciousness fills up with this single thought. And then... I see it."

  "Well, now that we both know I’m not a murderer," the doctor made a movement that barely qualified as a smile, "what else can I do for you?"

  "The deceased feared death, yet he smoked?"

  "Yes. That only heightened his fear. Addiction are stronger than reason, you, of all people, should understand that," the doctor either smelled alcohol on me, or he meant that I am able to see people's addictions.

  I stood up, feeling a heaviness in my legs as if I were Longford’s age. The smirk that escaped my lips was more for myself than for him.

  "I’m done with you," I said, adjusting my coat. "I suppose I’ll return to my prime suspect - the butler."

  "It was a pleasure speaking with you," the doctor said, watching me.

  I had already reached for the doorknob when he added:

  "This time."

  I turned.

  "Don't make ambiguous jokes about a detective, Doc. Especially when you're a suspect in his investigation. There's a saying, haven't you heard?”

  "I was merely stating that not every psionic is... stable," said the doctor's absolutely bnk face. "The st one I had the misfortune of speaking with... It was as if someone had cranked up his affective response centers to the maximum. Uncontrolled aggression, primitive stress responses, an inability to suppress impulses. A complete psycho, to put it simply."

  The butler was waiting for me at the end of the corridor, his motionless figure was like a clock hand frozen before striking. I was already expecting him to materialize out from thin air. His face was impassive, like a mask, but there was something in his eyes that I could not understand.

  "Woodsworth," I approached him. "We're not done with you yet."

  "Of course, sir," he replied, his voice as devoid of emotion as ever. "How may I be of service?"

  "Take me to your room," I nodded. "We have things to discuss."

  He asked no questions, merely turned and walked ahead of me.

  "Woodsworth, tell me about the staff. How many people work in this house?"

  "There are only three people working in the house, sir: myself, Mary the maid and Mr Harris the driver," he replied, his voice ft as if he were reading a grocery list.

  "Three?" I raised an eyebrow. "For a house like this?"

  "Mr Longford preferred minimalism, sir," Woodsworth expined. "He believed that fewer people meant less... disorder."

  "They say the servants know everything, considering the nobility doesn’t even see you as people," the sentence wasn’t my masterpiece, but I was already sharing control over my speech with my headache.

  "Oh, sir," his voice was softer than footsteps on a carpet. "I’m sure you’ve already realized: knowing everything is impossible." He was trying to drag the conversation into philosophical nothingness.

  "Is it? But isn’t that the whole point of an investigation?"

  "Why ask when you’ll soon see for yourself? Sir." He showed no emotion, and I would’ve thought him a psychopath if I didn’t know this type of person.

  "Who says I’m not just enjoying a good conversation? I like asking questions."

  "Then I’d say you’re quite lucky with your line of work, sir."

  The butler’s quarters were at the far end of the hallway, behind a door identical to all the others, yet somehow... more unnoticeable.

  The room was small but immacute. Everything was in its pce, not a speck of dust or dirt. A bed with a crisp white bedspread stood against the wall, next to it a small dark wood wardrobe. On the wall hung a clock, its ticking the only sound in the room. On top of the wardrobe, neatly arranged, y several books, their spines perfectly aligned, and next to it stood a photograph. It was of a young Woodsworth, his face just as impassive. Just a Victorian boy-scout. There were no new smells, different from the rest of the house. Just a pce to sleep.

  With no chairs in the room, we both sat on opposite sides of the bed. I said what I needed to say about the dangers of mind-reading. Woodsworth nodded.

  I crossed my arms over my chest, my revolvers resting against me.

  Closed my eyes.

  And stepped inside.