“Perhaps it became tangled on the climb and she had to cut it free,” he said, his eyes glinting with possible triumph. “No, I think you were quite correct the first time,” I said cheerfully. “This is a case of murder.” “I reject this,” Stoker said in a tone that bordered on desperation. “Stoker, as you well know, murders happen,” I told him. “But why must they happen to us?” I patted his shoulder kindly. “Because Fate knows we will always rise to the occasion, for we are the servants of Justice.” “Even servants have the occasional month off,” he said in some bitterness.
