Harry's house seemed to be the complete opposite of mine, having seemingly no order to any part of it. The front door had an unwelcoming feel to it with a rough, almost sharp, door handle and wood rot spreading from a small window smashed to small shards of glass. I knocked on the door, careful not to Break it.

When the door was opened I saw a more energetic person, a young rebellious teenager, his son, unfortunately. "What do you want, I'm busy." But I just pushed past him trying to avoid being aggravated. The inside of the house was in a similar state as the outside, possibly worse as the entire house smelled of rum.

The living room was more presentable with chairs made from red cloth and a painting that was still in a partly destroyed frame. Upon hearing my voice, Harry walked into the room and pointed to the picture above the fireplace, the one in the best condition. This one was taken by a camera. It was back before it all went downhill before he was a drunk. before I knew about my family curse, before all the victim's, when everything made sense. This was not the time to dwell on the past.

Beneath the picture was a book and in that book was an envelope that Harry wanted me to get for him. "Over the last couple of days, I have been given time. Time to think about my life. I'm just adding some extra details with my lawyer, you can read it if you want."

"The last will and Testament Of Harry West.

Even as I write this now, sitting at my desk, there is an unshakable feeling of regret. I am a man without a real family, only an ungrateful son born to unmarried parents. To him, I leave the house in whatever state he may find it in, and all the staff that work in the halls. Be kinder than I have been. For Rory, a personal friend, the only one close to family, I give..."

He was questioning something, there were many great things he owned, but the only thing passed down was the house and its workers. A feeling of discomfort followed as I saw it in his eyes. He was dying. How could I have been so stupid? He looked worse than I did, his eyes seemed pale, he had a runny nose and struggled to walk properly. The book the will was in was a fresh copy of the Bible, a strange detail as he had taken to the ramblings of a man called Charles Darwin. Harry asked to be alone, so I listened and left him to his own demise.

The station was about a fifteen-minute walk from Harry's house and likely to still be open. Percival stood at the door and greeted me.

"Hi Rory, back so soon?" But I had no time for that conversation. "I need to speak to you in private." We walked to his office, quickly slammed the door shut, and locked it.

"Don't ask about my eyes, that's not important. Yes, I forgot to go to Parker Street, but I know who the killer is and I have proof." On his face, I saw a never before seen the excitement with only a hint of concern.

We both sat down on the couch and I told him about Harry. "There's something wrong with Harry. He's rather ill, or the more likely explanation is he was poisoned by the killer. The killer is Mary." He seemed surprised but happy. "Where is this so-called proof?" The walk home was long and cold which ground both of us to a near halt by the savage wind, but we pushed forward determined to see justice done.

Many minutes later, though the specifics were unclear, we arrived at the house. We opened the door and searched the house.

"Honey are you home." The sound echoing through the house, but there was no response. All throughout the house every door was unlocked and opened. Even the basement had a slight puff of cold air that rushed up cooling the beads of sweat dripping from my forehead.

"I take it your proof is in there." He was trying to use sarcasm like a mask to hide the uncertainty he felt and his nerves.

The basement was a big open dungeon-like room, chains hung from the walls surrounded by bones ground to a fine powder. At the back wall, protected by a layer of darkness was a long, almost empty, wooden set of drawers. In the top left drawer, pushed out of sight at the very back, was a blood bag with a scratched label. Barely readable was the name, Dalton.

"Is this the proof you need." It took him about a minute to accept it as fact, but when he did there was still more questions that I couldn't answer without risking my own life.

When I picked up the bag I felt a piece of paper under it. Picking it up revealed that it must have been there for a long time as the dust building up on the back rubbed off on my fingers, creating an uncomfortable dry feeling, but it was still mostly intact.