Author's note: The thoughts expressed by Mr Stevens are his own, and do not necessarily represent the thoughts of the author.

We returned to the constabulary, carefully escorting Stevens along with us.

As no appropriate interview room was available at the station, we had to have a rudimentary interview with him, by tying him to the chair with some rope from the late Mr. Gregory's shop.

"Now then, Mr. Stevens." said Athelney Jones, as we stood off to the side "Please tell us everything about what you have done. And I mean everything. And don't step a foot out of line again, or it will be the most fatal mistake that you will ever make."

"Humph. Well, there is no need in trying to conceal it. After all, everyone in that pitiful pub heard me, so naturally all of this town of gawking gossiping goose-brained fools know about it. And hence, I shall tell you that I am a wronged man. A scorned lover, would probably be the better descriptive term.

"I arrived in this town only a number of weeks ago, as I told you myself. A little experiment of mine, was that stutter and stammer. I-I-It's j-j-j-j-just a m-ma-ma-matter of lett-ting it play out na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-naturally." he read off in a mocking and condescending manner.

"I must confess that it was a rather good mock stutter." said Sherlock Holmes, with a conceding shrug. "But you let it vary too much in terms of severity."

"Yes, yes, whatever. I happened to meet Ms. Hawthorne outside of the train station, where she was speaking with Mr. Bruno. I had arranged for his cart to collect me at the front of the train station. I had sent enquires via telegram to the local greengrocer and postmaster, Mr. Gregory, who had obviously made the appropriate arrangements on my behalf for the collection of both myself and my luggage.

"And there they were. Mr. Bruno, that greasy-haired and post-pubescent idiot of an Italian immigrant. If his brows were any further together I would have suggested they marry. And that beautiful young belle, Delia. Both of them introduced themselves, of course. Her voice was as pleasant as the song of a lark, while he was about as understandable as your handwriting, Inspector."

"If we want your opinion on penmanship, we will ask for it." said Constable Randall, trying to make some form of attempt of acting intimidating.

"Quiet, I'm speaking!" growled the librarian, causing his chair to almost leap off of the floor with anger "Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, I rode with them in the cart to my new cottage. It was dank and drab, but it at least served purpose for living. I live a surprisingly quiet life, keeping only to books and to a number of newspaper and magazine subscriptions. As I stood re-organising that clumsily organised library; I mean honestly, you'd think they'd never heard of the Dewey decimal system; my mind was lost in the thoughts of that beautiful girl.

"After a while, I wound up the courage in-order to confess my love for her."

"And how did you do that?" then, said Sherlock Holmes, rolling his eyes.

"Hmph, well I can't see any reason why you of all people would be interested, Mr. Holmes, but alright. I shall humour you. After all, it is not like I can claw your face like I currently wish to do.

"I had asked a few villagers where she was, under the premise that she had left something behind in the library when she last visited, and that I wished to return it to her. Surely enough, I found her, and presented her with some flowers. Needless to say, she was in shock.

"Before I or she could say anything else, Mr. Bruno happened to be driving past. He wondered what on earth was going on, quite naturally, and stepped down from his cart to enquire. In a fit of tears, she explained to him what had happened. Naturally, the pair of them were upset, angered and annoyed, for she was evidently spoken for. He slapped me in the face, and threatened that if I should ever approach her again that I would be the sorest soul that had ever existed, and that not even God himself would be able to give me any form of mercy. I imagine the pair of them went home in a terrible mood."

"They did indeed." said Sherlock Holmes "In-fact, it was the testimony of Mr. Huddlestone who gave you away."

"Mm? Me?" grunted Huddlestone. He and Mr. Hawthorne were sat in the corner silently, to the point where you would have thought they were no longer in the room at all.

"Indeed. Recall that you testified as to what Mr. Bruno said. Although my Italian is rather unpolished and your pronunciation shaky at best, I was able to properly understand it. Libro di prestito idiota means 'Book lending idiot'. And sciocco balbuzie means 'stuttering fool'. You are the town's only librarian, who has the job of managing the town's library, so it is only natural that you authorise the lending of the books available. Furthermore, you are the only villager here that has, or at least pretended to have, a stutter."

"Aha!" exclaimed Stevenson "So that's how you worked it out."

"Continuing my story before Dr. Watson needs to treat you for a swollen ego, Mr. Holmes," snapped Stevens "After that, I was torn on the inside, and angered deeply. Mr. Hawthorne is a frequent visitor of the town library, as he's often researching a law or American Puritan history or something, so it didn't take too long for me to track down where she lived. I had brought my pocket knife with me, the one that you confiscated, and with the full malice of forethought went to go and kill her.

"I scaled the drainpipe and carefully jimmied the window open. Heh. She was obviously surprised and frightened when I drew the knife, and went to unlock the door. However, I was too fast for her." he chuckled, with a malicious grin on his face. He nearly struggled to get the rest out through laughter. "The blood was such a lovely colour. And it went everywhere! The wound was... beautiful! As though her beauty had been augmented by the very wound."

Mr. Hawthorne nearly knocked over his chair as he stood up and left the room, pursued by Constable Randall with a handkerchief.

"Sick bastard." grunted Jones.

"I couldn't help but chuckle and dance around her like a wild Indian before I left again. It was exquisite, the feeling of having killed her. But I kept it to myself so that I would be able to execute action again in a similar way. Oh, the way the village mourned. Big tears, dabbing each-others eyes and blowing runny noses. I felt the need to murder the grocer not long after, for he and I were at school together. The way he behaved... his ego was bigger than yours, Mr. Holmes."

"There will be plenty of time for defamation of my character later, Mr. Stevens." said Holmes "Please, simply continue your story until the end without interruption."

"Your pride has evidently been wounded, Mr. Holmes. The villagers were always so panicky. Why, a piece of crating fell off of a cart and onto some poor bitch's flowerpot, and half the village was calling for the cart driver to be tracked, found and forced to pay back every penny in cost. In-fact, chances are it was only worth a ha'penny.

"I was walking around one night when I happened to encounter Mr. Bruno. Oh, how beautiful it was to exact further revenge upon that foolish Italian. Praying to Beata Maria and Gesu Christo. I laughed as he writhed the life out of himself, and ensured that he suffered, and that every breath he took would be more painful than the last. I even trod on his neck, and ended up dancing around him happily. Oh, how astounding it was!"

"The murder of the school master was the same as the murder of the greengrocer. Simply because I could, Inspector. Because. I. Could."

He took into another fit of laughing. A high and wiry uncontrollable cackle of sheer lunacy. Afterwards, he could no longer be properly understood.

"I think as though we've heard enough." said Athelney Jones "Constable, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, help me move him into a cell."

"At once, Inspector."