Mr. Samson was now operating on the principle that the most crucial information is often held by the people the elite habitually overlook: the staff and the children. He had established the motives financial ruin for the Mayor, inheritance for the family, and power for Mr. Walter and the opportunity (the unlocked study, the gold thread). Now, he needed the timeline and the final, quiet witnesses.
He returned to the Walter Estate, a place that felt increasingly like a stage where a terrible play had just concluded. He sought out the two long-standing employees: the Housekeeper, a woman named Martha, and the Gardner, a man named George.
He found Martha in the pantry, polishing silverware with the automatic, weary movements of someone whose life was defined by cleaning up the messes of others.
"Martha," Samson said gently, his usual theatricality muted out of respect for her evident sincerity. "I am not interested in the affairs of the family, nor in the melodrama. I am interested in the clockwork of the house. You have been here for years. You know the rhythms of Mr. Walter."
Martha put down a spoon, her hands gnarled and strong. "I know what I'm supposed to know, Mr. Samson. He paid me well to keep my eyes down."
"That is exactly what he paid you for," Samson agreed. "But tell me, the code for the study lock—the birth year of his late wife. Did he ever change it? Was it truly a secret?"
"Never changed it," Martha confirmed.
"Seventy-four. His first wife was very important to him, in a possessive way. But everyone knew that code. Theodore knew it, Chris knew it, Mrs. Walter knew it. We all knew it. He didn't care who knew the code, as long as he was the one who told us."
This was a critical clarification. The 'secret' code was, in fact, an open key to the study, exposing the sash to almost everyone in the household.
"Tell me about the night of July 12th," Samson pressed. "Did you hear anything unusual? Not a fall, but before that. Voices? Arguments?"
Martha frowned, concentrating. "I went to bed around midnight. But I woke up around 2:00 AM. I heard Mr. Walter's voice. He was on the phone, in his study. He was shouting, but quietly, if you know what I mean. Not the usual bellowing. It was a vicious whisper. He was saying things about 'exposure' and 'Tredex being clean' and that he had 'all the numbers' to prove the other man was a liar."
Samson's eyes narrowed. This directly corroborated Lorenzo's claim about Walter threatening Mayor William with evidence of financial misconduct.
"Did you recognize the other person on the phone?"
Martha shook her head. "No, sir. But he sounded very agitated when he finally hung up. After that, nothing. Complete silence until the Housekeeper's assistant found Mr. Walter at the bottom of the stairs."
Samson thanked her and sought out George, the Gardner, who was back on the lawn, compulsively trimming the same hedge he had been trimming the day before.
"George," Samson said, observing the man's nervous energy. "You were busy on the night of July 12th, weren't you? Not tending to the garden, but perhaps, watching something."
George froze, the shears falling silent. He was a large man, but he looked tiny with fear. "I was in my cottage, Mr. Samson. I sleep early."
"A busy man, who sleeps early, but is manic about trimming a hedge that is already perfect," Samson observed, walking closer. "George, I noticed something when I arrived yesterday. There are faint, scuff marks on the dirt near the side gate, much newer than the others. They look like the heel of a man's shoe. Not the shoes of a staff member, but a nice, Italian leather heel. A shoe, perhaps, belonging to a man who needed to slip out of the side gate around 3:30 AM."
George swallowed hard, his eyes darting toward the side gate. "I didn't see anything, sir."
"But you heard something, George,"
Samson insisted, his voice gentle but firm. "You heard the side gate click shut. And you saw someone. Tell me who, George. This is not about loyalty to the dead; it's about saving the living."
George finally cracked, wiping a dirty hand across his brow. "It was young Theressa. The Mayor's son. He was arguing with someone near the gate, around 3:30 AM. They were very quiet. But I heard him say, 'You can't do this, Chris! It will ruin us both!'"
This was the explosive piece of information Samson had been waiting for. Theressa, Mayor William's son and Chris's friend, was involved. The political and domestic secrets were intertwined by the young generation.
Samson immediately put a call into Ms. Cynthia, demanding to speak to Theressa.
He met the Mayor's son in a private conference room at the Municipal Building.
Theressa was young, clean-cut, and possessed the same manufactured anxiety as his father, only layered with youthful arrogance. He played the part of the uninterested student perfectly.
"Mr. Samson, I don't know why I'm here," Theressa said, crossing his arms. "I was home late that night, asleep."
"Lies are merely an attempt to build a comfortable house on a shaky foundation, Theressa," Samson said, leaning back and balancing his left foot on his right knee. "The foundation of your alibi has just collapsed.
Your father's gardener, George, saw you and Chris near the side gate of the Walter estate around 3:30 AM, hours before the body was found. He heard you say, 'You can't do this, Chris! It will ruin us both!"
Theressa's face went white. He knew the game was up. He slumped back in his chair.
"It wasn't a murder," Theressa whispered, his voice trembling. "It was an accident. Chris and I were just trying to… to stop the madness."
"Stop the madness of Mr. Walter?" Samson prompted. "Tell me the truth, Theressa. Your father, Mayor William, was in trouble. Walter was threatening to expose a financial conspiracy concerning the Development Fund that would ruin your father, correct?"
"Yes! That's why I was involved!" Theressa blurted out. "My father was clean, but Walter had manipulated the numbers he kept a separate ledger that looked like my father was getting massive kickbacks, when really, it was just Walter hiding his own skimming. Walter was going to use that ledger to destroy my father at the Economic Summit and take over the whole fund."
Samson was intensely focused. "How did you and Chris plan to stop him?"
"Chris found out that Walter kept the incriminating ledger locked in the study. Chris knew the code it was his grandmother's birth year. He and I planned to go in late that night, steal the ledger before Walter could use it, and give it to a neutral party," Theressa confessed, rushing the words out.
"So you and Chris entered the study using the code 74 around 3:30 AM," Samson summarized. "Did you find the ledger?"
"We did. Chris had it in his hands. But Walter was still in the study—he was reading late. He stood up, furious. He saw the ledger in Chris's hand, and he saw me. He lunged at Chris, shouting that he was going to ruin my father and that Chris was a disgrace. He saw us ripping away his control."
"And what happened to the sash?" Samson asked, holding up the envelope with the gold thread. "The Founders Gala Sash was also in the study. It's a symbol of his control. Was that involved in the struggle?"
"Yes!" Theressa exclaimed. "It was hanging over the case. When Walter lunged for the ledger, he knocked the sash off the case. Chris instinctively grabbed it he was terrified and just grabbed whatever he could and used it to block Walter. The thread…..... it must have ripped then."
"So, Walter, enraged that his ledger was stolen and his precious sash was damaged, pursued Chris and you out of the study?"
"He chased us down the hall! He was trying to grab Chris and the ledger. Chris bolted toward the staircase. Walter caught him just as Chris reached the top step. They struggled violently for a moment, near the railing. Then, Walter slipped. He lost his footing, his silk robe went out from under him, and he fell. Hard." Theressa buried his face in his hands. "It was an accident. We just wanted the ledger back."
Samson leaned in close. "And after he fell, what did you and Chris do?"
"We panicked. We checked him—he was dead. Chris took the ledger and we ran. We went out the side gate—that's when George must have heard us. Chris kept the ledger, and we agreed to tell no one."
The conspiracy was now clear: the murder was the unfortunate, accidental result of a financial robbery engineered by the Mayor's son and the stepson to protect their fathers. But Samson, the eccentric left-handed detective, wasn't finished.
"You said Walter caught Chris at the top of the stairs, and they struggled. And Walter slipped," Samson said, his voice slow and deliberate. "A silk dressing gown on a polished wood floor is slippery. But where did Walter hit his head, Theressa? Was it the floor, or the wall?"
Theressa lifted his head, confused. "The floor, I think. He was at the bottom."
"No," Samson said, retrieving the initial police report Ms. Cynthia had supplied him.
"The report indicates a severe trauma that occurred on the left side of the back of his head, suggesting his head struck the low, sharp corner of the second riser on the side near the wall, precisely where an accidental fall from the center would not land. He was found further to the left, near the wall. And there was a faint scuff mark on the third step near the wall. This was not a simple slip, Theressa. It was a slip that was guided."
Samson looked at the terrified young man.
"You've told me everything, Theressa. Now, tell me who guided Walter's fall and ensured he hit the precise spot that would kill him."