Schiller was certain he smelled alcohol. That was not something ginger ale could imitate. He frowned at Bruce, who merely lay quietly on the sofa, breathing evenly, apparently asleep.
If the person before him had truly been nothing more than a wealthy second-generation heir, Schiller would not have found it surprising at all.
The empty manor, the drunken young master, the extinguished and unattended fireplace—all of it told the story of a lonely heir.
But Bruce Wayne was more than just a rich kid. He was Batman, the most self-disciplined man in the world.
Schiller had seen him substitute ginger ale for beer. The spicy bite made his act more convincing, and Batman had an exceptional grasp of how a drunk person should behave. Even Schiller could not be entirely sure whether he had actually been drinking.
So he walked over and poked Bruce with the tip of his umbrella. The instant Bruce lifted a hand, he did not react further. Schiller was sure now—he really was asleep.
Batman drinking was simply far too abnormal.
Schiller sighed and turned toward the fireplace. He found the rack beside it piled with firewood, only none of it had been added to the hearth. Judging by how damp the wood was, it had been put there recently. Before leaving, Alfred had prepared everything for Bruce.
Schiller picked out several drier logs and added them to the fireplace. Before long, the flames burned brightly, revealing everything in the hall.
Clearly, something had just happened here. In a space where people had been, every trace represented a story.
Schiller took a deep breath and began his deduction.
The most conspicuous trace in the entire hall was the footprints stretching inward from the front door. Naturally, Schiller had not left them; he habitually wiped his shoes