admit I've been morbidly looking forward to this part of the investigation. How does a Memory Catcher work? What does it do? I've seen the final result, but I'm looking forward to learning the rest.
We find Leonard in the kitchen with Lily, where the two of them are chatting over tea.
He jumps up when we enter, his face paling. "Pardon me. I was just about to bring you refreshments," he says, wringing his hands, clearly stretching the truth as there are no refreshments prepared.
I step forward. "I'm feeling a bit sick to my stomach after being in that room. I couldn't eat a thing. But thank you for your kindness."
He smiles in relief, and the stress in the room palpably lowers as he sighs.
"It has been hard living here since her death," he admits. "She was a fair and kind mistress. What happened to her is an abomination."
Sebastian pulls a gold chain out his pocket. A clear crystal set in a base of gold hangs from it and I can see intricate designs etched into its various faces. "I assume you won't mind sharing your memories in hopes it will help us find who did this?" Sebastian says to Leonard.
The butler nods. "Of course not. You may have everything in me. Though I don't know that it will prove useful. I wish I knew something helpful, but I'm useless. Absolutely useless." He wrings his hands again, his face crinkling in despair.
I reach a hand out and place it on his. "You never know what little clue might lead to something. It might not even be a memory you realize is important. Don't give up hope. The light shall reveal the truth. In lumen et lumen."
My words seem to soothe him and his agitation stills as he stands straighter. "I'm ready," he says, with as much bravery as he can seemingly muster.
Sebastian places the crystal in front of George and steps back, then utters the word revelare.
The crystal begins to glow, casting rainbow shards against the polished tile floor and countertops, and then an image appears before us, like the one I saw earlier. It's the perspective of the butler as he goes about his day, cleaning, acquiring blood, cooking and caring for Mary. It's startling to see her alive, to see her laughing and smiling and hear her voice through his mind and memories. It makes the memory of her corpse that much more tragic.
Seeing Mary through the butler's eyes makes one thing very clear.
He adored her. Worshipped her. You can feel it in every look he gives her. It's nearly stifling. He would do anything for her. That much is clear. What I want to know is would he do anything to her? If his affections were rejected? His name does start with an L.
Sebastian says "ante" and the scenes speed up, like fast-forward. We watch through it all, and I work to catch as many details as I can, but I see nothing out of the ordinary. Leonard was right; he didn't see anything helpful, at least not that I can tell.
"Thank you, Leonard," I say when Sebastian removes the crystal and pockets it. "This was extremely useful."
His eyes brighten at that. "It was?"
"Of course. Mary would be proud."
He smiles.
"Just one more thing," I say. "Would you mind giving us a writing sample? We're asking everyone to supply them just in case we have need of them later."
"No, of course not. What do you want me to write?" he asks, retrieving a note page and pen from a nearby utility drawer.
"Oh, I don't know. How about 'I love being on vacation but hate being away from home so long'?" I suggest, thinking about the note from earlier and trying to get some of the words to match without making it too obvious.
Leonard doesn't question the line at all, just dashes it off with a quick flourish and hands the paper over without a word.
We leave him with a tear in his eye and a heavy heart. Is it just grief that weighs on him? Or does he also carry guilt? Is he the man behind the letters?
Once outside, Sebastian pauses to look at me. "His memories weren't helpful."
"I know," I say.
"Then why did you tell him they were?"
"One, because he needed to hear it. And two, because you can't determine the worth of something so quickly. There are many ways to ascertain something—or someone's—worth." I glare at him pointedly. "In this case, his willingness to give up his