"Again?"
Russell's heart rang with alarm. Despite his confusion inside, he managed to maintain an expression perfectly balanced between bewilderment and curiosity.
"Miss Morstan, are you interested in this kind of gossip as well?"
Mary nodded. "To be honest, I had a confrontation with him for quite some time last night. I almost caught him, but he got away in the end. And the brooch meant to be used for today's opening ceremony—worth 5000 pounds—was stolen."
She said all this in a flat tone, showing no emotion.
You almost caught him? Russell thought to himself, suppressing a chuckle before putting on a surprised face.
"I didn't expect you to be that capable, Miss Morstan… You don't look angry at all, though?"
"Oh? You noticed?" Mary seemed surprised.
"The eyes never lie, Miss Morstan," Russell said. "Care to explain?"
When Russell pressed for her reason, Mary's blue eyes rippled as if an invisible pebble had been dropped into a quiet lake. She paused, looked back at him, and a mysterious smile played on her lips.
"Because I think he's fascinating, Mr. Watson."
"Fascinating?" Russell raised his eyebrows, a vague unease creeping over him. "What's so fascinating?" "Yes, fascinating." Mary gazed past Russell to the distant bustling crowd, her voice soft yet clear. "Scotland Yard paints him as an outlaw, a villain. The newspapers say he's a Robin Hood, robbing the rich to help the poor. But to me, he's more like a child in search of amusement."
"A child?" Russell's expression grew complicated. Charlotte claims him to be a performance artist, while Mary calls him a child. What kind of nonsense is this?
"And if that's not the case?" Mary turned back, her gaze meeting Russell's. "He's stolen everything imaginable, but he never hurts anyone. Everything he steals, he returns to its rightful owner. It doesn't feel like a crime at all… it's more like a game spread throughout London. And to him, we're simply toys he uses to entertain himself."
Upon hearing this, Russell couldn't help twitching at the corners of his mouth, feeling like an author face-to-face with their own characters during a reading exercise.
Is that what I should think? Whatever makes you happy, I guess.
"Sorry. I'm probably talking nonsense," Mary apologized with a smile.
"It's fine," Russell shook his head. "If there's nothing else, I should head back. Mrs. Hudson asked me to help deliver something to Holmes."
"Of course. See you tomorrow." Mary nodded elegantly, her long silver hair tracing a gentle arc in the air as she vanished into the bustling crowd.
Russell stood there, breathing a long sigh of relief, as if he'd just finished a grueling exam.
One Charlotte Holmes. One Mary Morstan.
Of them, one can see through his actions, while the other can understand his thoughts. London… A place overflowing with hidden talent.
⋯
When Russell returned to Baker Street, Charlotte had already 'tidied up' her adjoining room. More accurately, she'd shoved things indiscriminately aside to make the place look presentable. What caught Russell's attention most was the skull atop the fireplace. He wanted desperately to ask if it was real, but reason told him not to.
At that moment, Charlotte stood in the center of the living room, gazing at a wall covered in a map of London—her gaze not truly focused on the map but on something farther away.
Russell hesitated, Mrs. Hudson's words still ringing in his ears: "Take good care of them, will you?"
But how, exactly, was he supposed to do that?
"Can I help you with anything, Holmes?" he asked, tentatively.
"Room's not arranged yet, right?"
"No, that's fine. I can always find what I need this way." Charlotte's voice was calm.
"Alright... If you need anything, I'm just next door..." Russell turned to go back to his room.
Just then, Charlotte called out, "Mr. Watson."
"I'm here."
"What do you think about locked-room murders?"
"Locked-room… murder?" Russell repeated, puzzled.
"It refers to a crime in which the perpetrator manages to kill someone within a sealed space, creating a logical contradiction," Charlotte explained.
"You don't need to explain the definition to me," Russell said, a little surprised. "But why are you asking all of a sudden?"
Charlotte turned to face him. "I need a control group to check whether my thought process is too conventional."
"So I'm… the voice of common sense?" Russell pointed at himself, feeling that the implication was… delicate.
Charlotte tilted her head vaguely, which he took as tacit agreement. She walked to the sofa and pulled out a file from a messy heap, tossing it onto the coffee table.
"This case file was just delivered by someone sent over by Lestrade."
A renowned painter, Nicholas Winter, was found dead inside his locked studio. Cause of death: poisoning via a highly toxic white Prussian pigment.
"Are we supposed to be reading this?" Russell asked, but still accepted the file.
No wonder Lestrade doesn't have time for me anymore, Russell thought. He has more important crimes to handle.
The folder contained photos: a tastefully decorated art studio, an old man collapsed in front of an easel, and an unfinished, dazzlingly colored oil painting.
"What do you think?" Charlotte quizzed him like a teacher.
"How am I supposed to know?" Russell shrugged. "Shouldn't you be asking Scotland Yard? I'm just a university student looking to nap after the opening ceremony."
"If Scotland Yard saw anything, I wouldn't need to ask you, would I?" Charlotte replied immediately. "As a favor to your new neighbor, please don't bore me."
"Fine, fine..." Russell sighed and looked more closely at the file. "A locked-room killing. Death by paint poisoning. We know the place and method—now all that's left is time and motive."
"Time of death was four hours before the body was found," Charlotte added helpfully. "Forensic tests confirmed it was a slow-acting toxin."
"Motive is all we're missing," Russell said.
"To embezzle the money?" he asked, uncertain.
"The scene was untouched, and nothing was stolen," Charlotte shot back.
"...Then, revenge?"
"Nicholas Winter led a blameless life, except for refusing to sell paintings to a few art dealers who wouldn't resort to this," Charlotte dismissed the idea.
"Only one student?" Russell picked up the key detail. "Then the student is the only suspect."
"Obviously," Charlotte dropped the photo back onto the table. "Lestrade's people are keeping him under control. Only the prints of the deceased and his apprentice, Edgar Wright, were found at the scene. Edgar himself admitted he was the only one who came or went during the crucial time. All evidence points at him."
"But if there are eyewitnesses and physical evidence, what about the motive?" Russell pressed.
"Inheritance," Charlotte said quietly. "Winter had no children. His will left all paintings and wealth to his apprentice, Edgar Wright."
For a poor boy, suddenly this was a fortune.
Rubbing his temples, Russell felt less like he was solving a case and more like he was playing a logic game with a genius. He looked at Edgar's photo—a frail, timid young man, being supported by two officers, his face stained with tears and despair.
"So, it's all…" Russell continued, following Charlotte's line of reasoning. "To inherit early, the apprentice poisoned his master over time, using long trust to his advantage, then staged a tragedy that would elicit sympathy."
"That's right," Charlotte smiled slightly, lifting her coffee cup. "But… there's still one problem."
"What's the problem?"
"He insists he's innocent."
…