By this time, I had drained my tumbler of its contents and was in the process of replenishing it from the decanter. Though my extreme sensitivity to alcoholic stimulation led me—under ordinary circumstances—to maintain a rigorous temperance, I could scarcely refrain from indulging in Asher’s excellent vintage, whose beneficent warmth had already served to quell much of the inner agitation induced in me by the trying events of that long, fatiguing, and exceedingly debilitating day. Imbibing another large swallow of the sherry, I felt my entire being infused with a sense of such profound contentment that the glum, oppressive kitchen—with its cobwebbed roof beams and crimson-eyed rodents peering out from the shadowy corners—began to assume a most pleasing, snug, and even homelike aspect in my perception.

“If I may be so bold,” I said at last, speaking very slowly and deliberately “I am most curious to learn the details of your family’s misfortunes, having heard certain rumors over the years in regard to the matter.”

Asher responded with a dismissive wave of the hand. “I do not wish to discuss it. Suffice it to say that the calamity was brought about by the Machiavellian dealings of a scoundrel named Macready.”

“Macready?” Crocket said in a tone of exaggerated ingenuousness. “Like that poor landlady that was so savagerously murdered in her boarding house on Howard Street?”

Asher, who had just taken a sip from his tumbler, appeared so startled by these words that he nearly expectorated the liquid from his mouth. “Murdered!” he gasped. “When?”

“Just two days past,” said Crockett. “On Wednesday.”

“How very bizarre!” said our host. “I myself was not far from Howard Street that day, having escorted my poor sister Marilynne to the home of the eminent Dr. Balderston for a consultation on her rapidly worsening condition.”

At this casual admission—which established Asher’s presence in the city at the very time of the killing—Crocked: and I exchanged a meaningful look.

“And who was responsible for the deed?” Asher continued.

“Danged if I know,” Crockett replied with a shrug.

For a moment, Asher sat in silent meditation. At length, in a voice so muted that he appeared to be reflecting aloud, he said: “Then that is the end of the detested line. Good! Good! But how strange that it should happen now, when I myself dream of—” Before he could finish articulating this enigmatic thought, he gave his head a rapid shake, as though rousing himself from a reverie.

“Enough of these morbid musings!” he exclaimed in a tone of somewhat strained and hollow-sounding conviviality. Reaching for the wine decanter, he replenished all three of our glasses, then lifted his own in a toast. “To your health, gentlemen!”

Raising his tumbler to his lips, he threw back his head and drained his drink in a single swallow.