The man's name was Pastor Jeremy Rathbone, which Eleanora thought was rather a silly name, but then again, she wasn't the one who thought it up. In a way, his name was fitting because as Eleanora despised his name, she also despised the one to which it was attached.

He was so vain, waltzing in like he owned the place, elegantly allowing himself to be tied up and then, after he had been presented to the Earl of Phantomhive and then released, calmly and coolly took over the murders, as if he had done absolutely nothing in his whole life except for solving murders. Mighty suspicious, what with his flawless alibi and all. She didn't trust him at all.

Eleanora couldn't stand him. She excused herself and went to fool around with the dinner ingredients, trying to think of a way to feed a bunch of guests when one had a bottomless hole instead of a mouth. She wondered what the butler would do if he was around. It was such a shame that he was too perfect; now no one would be able to replicate his methods and thought processes. She sighed and leaned against a kitchen counter, trying to think about the matter at hand and not how her late husband was a damned selfish bastard who rudely died instead of staying alive and helping her…

"Are you crying?"

She jumped and looked behind her. That old guy—Pastor What's-His-Ugly-Face—was now downstairs with her. Shoot. She had so looked forward to spending an evening without seeing him. Couldn't a maid have any time to herself? What—she had only been down here for five minutes…fifteen minutes, tops...

She glanced at a clock. Three hours. Wow. Time really did fly when one was at a loss.

"I'm not crying," she sniffed and turned her back to him. She had no time for talking to pastors.

But Jeremy didn't get the hint that he wasn't wanted and moved to stand beside her.

"Are you thinking of your husband?" he asked softly.

Eleanora looked away.

"Yes."

"Are you missing him?"

"Not really," she said and sniffed again. "I don't miss him, exactly; I just wish that he was here so that he could take care of it all." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "He told me that he was putting me in charge, and I thought that I could handle it, but…" She sighed, which effectively held back a sob.

"Poor thing," he said and his voice was filled with genuine sympathy as he offered her a handkerchief. "It must be hard on you—to suddenly be tasked with keeping such a huge mansion as this running smoothly, especially with all of this unpleasantness going on."

Eleanora sniffed again.

"Thank you; yes, it is unpleasant."

She sighed again, hiccupped once and then felt better. She even smiled up at the pastor, who smiled back. Geez, he was tall, as tall as that butler, maybe even taller. She had never trusted people taller than her, but maybe he wasn't all bad. Her first impressions had been wrong before.

"By the way, have you discovered what killed them?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I mean, what killed all of the murdered people."

"Yes. You see, George von Siemens faked his death…"

"WHAT?!"

"…before he was actually murdered from being stabbed in the chest. Then the butler—forgive me for mentioning him—but I'm sure that you know that he died from a blow to the head and then a stab in the chest."

"This murderer seems to enjoy stabbing people in the chest," Eleanora said. "Do you suppose—No, forget it."

"What?"

"No, it's nothing."

"I'd be most anxious to hear your thoughts on the subject, Miss Black."

"Do you suppose that—maybe—that Earl Grey did it?"

Jeremy raised an eyebrow.

"What makes you think that?"

"Well, if two of the victims died by stabbing…The only one in this house with a sword and the insane mentality to keep twirling it around…is the Earl Grey."

"You'd make a fine detective, milady."

"Oh, I really wouldn't go that far," she said, embarrassed. "But what about that last man—the pathetic one, who's name I can't remember?"

"Ah, him. He is an interesting case. But I wouldn't worry too much about him. I doubt that the murderer will return."

"Oh? What makes you say that?"

"I have found enough evidence that gives me the strong impression that the butler—before he passed away—had taken ample care of the murderer beforehand."

"You mean he killed him? The murderer?"

"Interpret it as you will, Miss Black," Jeremy said, again in that soft, almost gentle voice, "but I don't think you should allow it to prey on your mind."

Eleanora wanted to say something snappy to him, something like, "how could it not prey on my mind?" but before she could, Jeremy clapped his hands together.

"In any case, I can't help but notice that you seem to be having trouble preparing tonight's dinner. If you don't think it too bold, might I offer you my assistance?"