Once the dinner rush subsided, Barnham took off, leaving Ms Nguyen to cover the slow night shift by herself as usual. Somewhat less usual was the pace at which he left—Constantine was having a bit of trouble keeping up tonight.

Layton would have spent most of the day looking into the murder. Barnham partly wished the professor hadn't dug too deep, but it would be foolish not to accept any assistance he was offered.

If Sir Top Hat would rather not host a murderer, then let him cast me out by all means. Just let him hand over the information I need first.

He came up to the house and knocked before entering. Most of the lights were off—it got rather dark when the windows were blinded, but there was no need to waste electricity—but the dinner table was set for two. Layton stood at the doorway to the kitchen, looking up from the book in his hands.

"Mr Barnham. Welcome back. I'll fetch dinner."

Barnham stepped to his usual seat and pulled the chair out without seating himself. "Where are Luke and Miss Flora?"

"They've already eaten and are entertaining themselves upstairs," Layton called from beyond his field of vision. "I felt dinner might be the best time for us to discuss a few matters."

He stepped back into the dining room, setting two bowls of stew at the appropriate places. They both sat, although Barnham rested his chin against his hands rather than taking a spoon.

"You are speaking, of course, about the case of Colin Bristow and Constantine Barnham?" he said.

The professor nodded. "I'm afraid I wasn't able to get as much information as I had hoped for, but between the two of us, we may be able to piece much of the puzzle together."

He tipped the brim of his hat down, obscuring his eyes. "I must admit I had been painfully curious as to what would make an intelligent young man throw away both his past and his future, but I did not feel it was my place to ask nor to make assumptions. However—" he straightened his hat—"since you have asked for my assistance in resolving the manner, I ask for yours in return. I shall tell you everything I know about the incident, and you will do likewise. Does this sound reasonable to you?"

"Yes." Barnham shut his eyes. Whatever the professor's ultimate reaction would be, the information would be shared. "As you say you have been unable to find much, you may go first."

"Very well." He folded his arms. "I was able to speak with Inspector Chelmey, but I'm afraid his lack of involvement in the case when it was active has prevented him from having much authority over its records. I don't believe he has any intention of pulling more strings unless it proves useful to him personally. He has informed me that he has enough cases to investigate already without looking into anything irrelevant."

Barnham's expression remained solemn as he sat silently, ignoring the smell of the stew.

Layton smiled. "Constable Barton, on the other hand, has informed me that he was somewhat familiar with the case. Although it has been considered solved in every aspect but the suspect's arrest, there were still a few unsettling points."

Barnham's eyes flicked open.

"For one, no convincing motive was established. Additionally, no reason was given for the difference in cause of death between the victims. What I believe is of most interest to you, however, is the result of... Constantine's autopsy. His time of death was several hours before Colin's."

Barnham flinched back. "What?!"

"Yet the key witness stated that they had seen you strangling him not long after Colin was killed. The issue came under debate but was never definitively resolved."

Layton at last reached for his spoon. "I'm afraid that's all of the information I was able to obtain. May I have your report now?"

"O-of course..." Barnham took a moment to straighten himself out before beginning. "I can resolve the most glaring contradiction immediately. As you may imagine, I did not kill Constantine myself. Ms. Primstone must have mistaken my checking his pulse for an attack." He let out a breath. "But you're certain he had been dead for hours?"

"Yes. Does that raise an issue?"

He nodded. "He... couldn't have even left the house by then. Or... I suppose he could have. But for what reason?" He pounded his fist on the table. "Why would he go against our carefully-laid plans?"

Layton sipped at his cup. "What plans were these?"

Barnham let his eyes slip shut. "Plans... to escape our house."

He recounted that dreadful night to the point of reaching the park before a physical pang shot through his chest. Halting mid-sentence, he gripped the edge of the table, his spoon dropping to the floor with a thump.

"Mr Barnham! Are you all right?"

Unable to reign in his breathing long enough to reply, he sat there shaking as another jab went through his ribs.

Layton jumped to his feet, his chair scraping back on the rug. "Is it a heart attack?" His arm shot out towards the phone on the side table. "I'll call—"

"No!" Barnham seized his hand before a single number could be dialed. "You m-mustn't... call them...!"

Chest heaving, he had no choice but to watch the images flickering across his mind's eye—his brother's dead face, the blood swirling down Jessica's drain, the stab in his thigh, the wide slash across the urchin's stomach, dead eyes, dead eyes, dead eyes...

"I must ask you to control your breathing as best as you can." Layton's voice was somewhere behind him. "Deep breaths. As you are a knight of Labyrinthia, I have faith that you are able to do this."

Barnham struggled to follow the professor's instructions as cold sweat dripped down the back of his neck.

Was he, in fact, having a heart attack? Why on earth did he stop the man from calling an ambulance? Fool! Now he really would die...!

You mustn't You mustn't You mustn't You m—m-mustn't be caught, mustn't be caught

His hand locked around the door handle as he stood behind it trembling.

Th-they're coming! But I... mustn't be caught...!

"I wished to be rid of these memories!" Barnham roared, slamming his fist into the table with a crash.

It took him a moment of panting before he realised he had sent his hand straight down into his stew, breaking the bowl and letting the hot broth lap over his wrist. His breath stuttered again as he lifted his hand out of the mess, but he pulled in a lungful of air and let it back out. He looked to Layton silently before growling a sigh and using his napkin as best he could.

"I can take care of this," the professor said. "Please see to your hand in the meantime."

Barnham rose to his feet, examining his hand, which retained a sliver of the bowl. After a moment of silence, he stepped back.

"...Very well. C-Constantine would be more than happy enough to help you clean up."

"I-is everything all right?"

Barnham recognised Luke's voice before he looked over to the stairs. The boy was leaning halfway over the rail to peer their way, with Flora two steps above him.

"Yes, we're quite all right. Just a bit of an accident." Layton pushed his chair in. "We're finished down here if you'd rather be on the first floor with us."

Finished, you say? I've hardly finished my story, but I suppose he does not consider me capable enough to continue speaking on the matter tonight. That, or he fears another breakdown, which could very well be a valid concern.

Barnham stepped into the washroom to tend to his hand—it was a shallow scratch, although it still stung like mad—and paused as warm water ran over his palms.

Was the professor trying to protect him, then?

He shut his eyes, letting his forearms rest on the sink.

"Of course there's nothing wrong with you wanting to be a protector." Zacharias folded his arms. "But you can't protect me."

Constantine exclaimed, "What?! Why not?"

" 'Tis simple. I cannot protect you if I myself am being protected."

Was that it? After all his years of being a protector of Labyrinthia, a hero, now he was merely one who needed protection? Was that truly the hopeful future that the Storyteller had promised, that everyone had striven for?

Was the end of the experiment a good thing at all?

His hand had stopped bleeding by the time he shut the water off and made use of the towel.

He could not let himself think that way. Inglorious as it may seem, this was reality—the truth—and any true knight would have the courage to face it. The present and the past both—he could not cower before them. That may have been the easy road, but such was no path for a knight at heart. He would face them, sword drawn, and battle till it was they that knelt trembling before him.

...Somehow.

At the present moment, there was nothing more for him to do than assist the professor in cleaning up. After that, he would try to reason out how the new information on the cold case could possibly fit with what occurred. And after that...

I admit it. I want desperately to return to Labyrinthia, shadow of its old self as it may be. I need to return for... several reasons.

But only if it would not delay his battle for the truth of the past.