Holmes looked between Constable Green, Constable Fitzgerald and Quint. "Do you now understand why I wish to speak with the staff? Dr. Ainsworth's killer was either invited inside, or had a key of his own. Either way, Dr. Ainsworth did not see him as a threat, resulting in an attack from behind, as we can deduce by the lack of any signs of a prolonged struggle or reports of a disturbance from the guests in adjacent rooms. At some point last night, Dr. Ainsworth turned his back on his killer, and that's when the single incapacitating blow was delivered."

Quint nodded with grim understanding. His gaze shifted to Bray, and his brow furrowed. "Of course, several members of my staff could feasibly gain access to this room with a staff key, but I don't know of any links between my staff and Dr. Ainsworth. Nothing that we know of was stolen, correct?" He took a more accusatory tone. "Mr. Bray, you have a key to this room as well."

Bray eyed him cautiously, and he scanned the room slowly. "I saw him last night at seven-thirty, and he was alive."

"Did you see him again afterwards?" said Quint.

"I don't appreciate your implication," said Bray. "That man was my friend and coworker."

Constable Green rubbed his chin. "After seeing Dr. Ainsworth, how did you spend your time last night?" he said.

"I went out for a walk, then came back to my room and went to sleep," said Bray.

"Did you see anyone on your walk who can vouch for your whereabouts?" said Constable Green.

"No. I was alone, so what?" said Bray.

Bray looked trapped and afraid. Of everyone in the inn, Bray had the closest connection to Dr. Ainsworth. He was also well versed enough in electromagnetism and Dr. Ainsworth's belongings to conceive of the magnet trick, I reasoned. He referred to Dr. Ainsworth as a friend, but they hadn't seemed like friends when Dr. Ainsworth was berating him during last night's lecture. Bray hadn't appeared terribly upset by the passing of his employer, though admittedly there's no way to predict how an individual will grieve, especially in the immediate wake of a tragedy. I began to wonder if Bray had broken the bottle of wine on purpose to cover up some small clue on the bottle or floor.

Holmes recaptured the attention of the room before the interrogation of Bray could continue. "Who delivered the food and Bordeaux last night?"

Quint considered. "Most likely Michaels."

"Describe him," said Holmes.

"Owen Michaels. He helps the kitchen and cleaning staff, and room service," said Quint. "Young man. Twenty years old, I think. Tall with short blond hair."

"Is he working this morning?" said Holmes.

"Yes, helping with breakfast service," said Quint.

There was a glint in Holmes's eyes. "I'd like to speak with him immediately," he said. Sensing Quint's thoughts through his skeptical expression and sidelong glance at Bray, Holmes continued. "I find Mr. Michaels significantly more suspicious than Mr. Bray."

Bray sighed with relief. Good to have Holmes in your corner during a murder investigation. Quint seemed unsure. Constable Green asked Holmes to elaborate.

Holmes raised one finger. "The killer possessed the necessary strength to incapacitate Dr. Ainsworth in one blow, and then move him to the bathroom without making an uncleanable mess. Thus, the killer is most likely an able-bodied man or an uncommonly strong woman. This fact does not disqualify Mr. Bray or Mr. Michaels." Holmes raised a second finger. "Second, let us acknowledge that the killer cleaned this room last night. He cleaned up blood, and disposed of Dr. Ainsworth's checkered jacket, implying that he had access to cleaning supplies and an opportunity to dispose of waste. Thus, the killer is most likely a member of the staff." Holmes raised a third finger. "Third, there's evidence that both the killer and Mr. Michaels are color blind."

"What evidence?" said Constable Green.

"When Dr. Ainsworth was struck, his blood spattered onto the painting, and his pill box fell from his hand or pocket, resulting in the fresh crack on the side," said Holmes. "The killer did a decent job staging the scene, but he failed to notice red blood on red paint. In a similar vein, when the pill box popped open and spilled its contents on the floor the killer reorganized the pills as well as he could, but he put one red pill amongst the green, and one green pill amongst the red. I believe the killer suffers from congenital red-green color blindness, a condition that affects less than ten percent of men in this country, wherein they have difficulty differentiating shades of red and green."

"And Michaels?" said Quint. "He never mentioned anything to me about color blindness."

"Dr. Watson and I happened to cross paths with Mr. Michaels in the dining hall this morning," said Holmes. I was surprised at this comment. I didn't recall any such encounter, until I remembered the tall blond busboy who refilled our tea as we ate breakfast. He fit Quint's description of Michaels. Holmes continued with his explanation. "He struggled to clean red jam off of a green tablecloth because he genuinely could not perceive the red in contrast to the green."

I considered the statistics of the situation. There were only a handful of people on staff last night who were strong enough to kill and move Dr. Ainsworth. It was statistically unthinkable that more than one or two of them would happen to be color blind. If Holmes was correct in his deductions, then he had cast a bright light of suspicion on Michaels.

Holmes raised a fourth finger. "Fourth, let us discuss the wine."

The floor by the table was sticky and red with wine. Bray averted his eyes, ears reddening with embarrassment. I scanned the table, from the broken bottle stem, to the cracked pill box, to the dirty plate and silverware. The plate had scraps of steak and potato in a thick, dark sauce. Dr. Ainsworth's last meal. I felt even sorrier for him, realizing that he hadn't drunk any of the wine. There wasn't even an empty wine glass to speak of.

I interjected, possessed by inspiration. "The wine was sealed," I said. "Why didn't Dr. Ainsworth drink any of it with his steak and potatoes? His meal was cooked to be paired with the Bordeaux."

"Why, indeed," said Holmes with a nod, like a teacher encouraging a student.

"He was saving it for later," said Constable Green.

"No," I said. Taking a page from Holmes's book, I captured the attention of the room. "There's no wine glass. If he was saving it for later in the night, Michaels would have left him one. If he wanted wine for another day, or as a gift, I think he would have gone elsewhere in Cambridge for a better selection. Dr. Ainsworth didn't drink the wine or eat the food. Michaels brought the wine and food to the room as directed, and killed Dr. Ainsworth before he had a chance to eat and drink. Michaels tossed the food away, but he didn't think to open the wine or leave a wine glass." I stepped over the sticky pool of wine. "The wine bottle shattered earlier from the lightest touch."

"All I did was pick it up," said Bray.

"It broke easily because it was damaged last night, tiny cracks formed in the glass, when Michaels struck Dr. Ainsworth," I said. "The heavy bottle was his weapon."

Holmes smiled. "Well deduced."

"I've heard enough," said Constable Green. "Let's find Michaels and hear his story."

Michaels was scheduled to be in the kitchen at this morning hour. Before going downstairs, Holmes pulled Constable Fitzgerald to the side and directed him to a side exit. He instructed the constable to wait and remain vigilant in the southern alleyway.

Holmes, Quint, Constable Green and I made our way down to the kitchen to confront Michaels. He was in the back, washing plates and silverware in soapy water. Michaels looked us over. He had icy blue eyes. There was something in those eyes, like some creature hidden under the frozen surface of a pond. Constable Green innocuously asked Michaels about the prior night.

I suppose Michaels possessed a similar skill as Holmes in regards to reading thoughts through body language. He seemed to know immediately that we suspected him, and that the ploy with the magnet and the bathroom lock had failed. He casually gestured to someone at the other end of the kitchen who could vouch for his mundane retelling of room service duties, and took the split second distraction to turn and sprint for the door. Pushing out into the alleyway, we were fast on his heels, Holmes leading the pursuit. Upon bursting outside, we found Constable Fitzgerald grappling with Michaels on the damp ground. The constable managed to pin him down, and Constable Green was quick to lend aid and fully restrain Michaels.

"Excellent work," said Holmes to Constable Fitzgerald.

"Yes, nicely done," said Constable Green. They pulled Michaels up off the ground, hands cuffed behind his back, and held him against the brick alley wall.

"Just like you said, Mr. Holmes, he came out the door with a head of steam," said Constable Fitzgerald. "I was ready for him."

Holmes nodded. "I knew our quarry was quite clever and impulsive, the traits of a man who might sense our intentions and attempt to flee." Holmes spoke directly to Michaels. "Clever, because you covered your tracks better than most. Impulsive, because the murder of Dr. Ainsworth was not entirely premeditated."

Michaels faced Holmes with those cold blue eyes, but he did not respond. Realizing the hopelessness of his situation, he relaxed his struggle against the constables. They searched his pockets and found nothing of value or great suspicion.

"If it was premeditated, then you wouldn't have picked the bottle of Bordeaux as your weapon," said Holmes. "Far too unreliable, when you could have simply poisoned his food. No, the blow inflicted upon Dr. Ainsworth was the product of an impulsive rage. You're fortunate that the bottle didn't shatter upon impact; any attempts to clean the room after making a mess like that would have been completely futile. So, you're not a hired assassin. Truly random acts of psychopathic violence are exceedingly rare, so I assume you had some palpable motivation. Did you steal something from Dr. Ainsworth last night? Other than his bloody jacket?"

I detected the trace of a sneer on Michael's lips, and then a longing glance up the brick wall to the morning sky. Grey rain clouds hovered high overhead. There was a note of moistness in his eyes. Sadness, but not regret.

Holmes studied his expression, and pondered for a long pause before speaking. "He stole something from you."

Michaels looked directly at Holmes, blue eyes into grey. Holmes had broken through. Michaels took a deep breath.

"He stole from my father," said Michaels. "People thought he was a genius, but that bastard stole my father's ideas, his life's work. He ruined him! My father died on the streets, penniless." Michaels stared at the brick wall. Tears welled in his eyes. "I knew about the conference, and knew he would be staying here. I just wanted to talk to him, man to man. He told me my father was a dog. That he was nothing, and deserved what he got."

Michaels said nothing more.

Dr. Ainsworth was killed beside the oil painting, with his back to Michaels. He was downed between the door to the hall and the window overlooking the riverside shanty town. I wondered when and why Dr. Ainsworth had turned his back on Michaels. Perhaps they were conversing, and he turned to gesture to something outside, in the cold dark, to make a comment. At that moment, bottle in hand, Michaels snapped. Your father was a dog. Michaels let a long burning hatred consume him.

Cold December rain pattered down, forming little rivulets of dark water, gently cleansing the alleyway.

(End of Part 2 of 2)