"What difference does that make?" Russell frowned. "Whether he admits guilt or not doesn't contradict the evidence."
"Finding direct evidence for slow-acting poisoning is extremely difficult," Charlotte said calmly. "Unless he confesses, Lestrade can only keep him for two days at most."
"So, now the problem is—how do we get him to confess?"
"Sorry, can't help you there. I didn't major in psychology." Russell put down the file and glanced at the photo of the unfinished painting.
At the center of the painting was a hellish sunset, colors so intense they threatened to spill off the canvas—bursting with both end-of-life brilliance and madness. Somehow, Russell couldn't shake off an uneasy feeling about it.
He even felt that the apprentice's grief was genuine. Someone who kills for gold should have greedy, fearful eyes, not those empty and shattered like the apprentice's.
Maybe spending so much time inside the System gave me a beast-like instinct for human malice… But that's not my concern.
Whether or not they confess, it has nothing to do with me.
He looked away and left Charlotte's room, closing the door on the air tainted by chemical reagents and the eccentric aura of a genius.
Collapsing on his bed, he realized he hadn't felt this exhausted since pulling all-nighters for the Imperial College London entrance exam.
With things as they were, he'd better take a nap and recover. Tonight, he needed to return the brooch to the Morstan Estate.
…
…
A sudden burst of frantic violin pulled Russell awake. The sound was as chaotic and grating as a pack of drunken cats brawling—a clear sign it was coming from the new neighbor.
The detective was clearly struggling to break the suspect.
Out his window, the sky was filled with a gentle, golden-orange light as dusk neared London's rooftops. He stretched, his stomach growled in protest.
Dinner would have to wait—professional ethics came first.
Being untrustworthy wasn't a trait befitting an excellent gentleman thief.
He retrieved his hidden clothes from beneath the bed and changed with practiced speed.
The reflection in the mirror was no longer lazy student Russell, but the masked, black-clad phantom thief: Moriarty.
He opened the window and let in the cool night breeze. Baker Street's daytime bustle had melted into streams of lamplight below.
And like a silent owl, Russell's figure leapt from rooftop to rooftop—soon lost in the depths of London's night.
⋯
Morstan House.
Unlike yesterday's stillness, tonight the place felt… almost too quiet.
Russell crouched in the clock tower opposite, peering through a store-bought telescope obtained via the System. The manor was fully lit, but everything appeared normal—no extra precautions, despite its recent criminal visitor.
That's not normal.
Thanks to today's events, he'd confirmed something: Mary Morstan was no ordinary human being.
Star student. Society darling. Cultured duke's daughter. All just masks to fool the world.
But how did returning the missing money as an honest man relate to all this? Never mind. Just hand it back and get some sleep. Even if it was a setup, fortune favors the bold. No matter how mysterious you are, could you be more mysterious than my tools?
He smirked, remembering how he could block out smoke and pass through walls without leaving a trace.
No more hesitation.
He adjusted his angle, used a grapple hook, and slipped like a ghost into Morstan's courtyard.
But this time, Russell planned not to head for the collection room. If you seek thrills, go all the way—he would break into Mary Morstan's private chambers.
Avoiding patrolling servants, he crept along the mapped path and blended with the building's shadows until pausing at a finely carved French window.
Second floor. It led to a terrace—and beyond that, Mary's bedroom.
Russell drew a slender silver pick from his pocket and slid it into the keyhole.
Click!
With a barely-audible snap, the lock gave way.
Russell slipped the glass door open. Immediately, a cool, clean scent—distinct from yesterday's must and gloom—filled his nose.
The room was spacious, surprisingly simple in furnishings. A massive bookshelf lined one wall, crammed with books in languages from classical philosophy to modern engineering. The dressing table featured no glittering jewels—just expensive skin-care bottles and a small table lamp.
A few oil paintings decorated the walls. He couldn't recognize them, but they looked costly. Also, their style oddly familiar.
Everything was tasteful—yet tinged with a coldness that didn't fit the owner's age.
Of course, Russell didn't stop to appreciate it.
He strode to her vanity, pulled out the brooch, and set it atop the dressing table.
Then he looked around for a moment, grabbed a lipstick, and began writing on a slip of white paper he'd pre-prepared. He actually had his own pen, but guessed using lipstick would irritate her more. For that reason, he'd picked the most expensive-looking, popular brand.
But before he could finish, a set of unhurried footsteps sounded behind him.
Russell froze, turning to face the door.
The newcomer made no attempt to hide her presence—calm as someone returning to her own territory.
Doesn't sound like she means well, Russell thought. But no, he was the intruder here.
What now? Run?
His gaze, by instinct, flicked to the window. If he wanted to escape, he had time.
But… is it necessary? To leave without gaining any Malice would be a waste.
He was a phantom thief—why should he run from a young lady?
So, like a true master, he remained where he stood, waiting for the footsteps to draw near.
Mary Morstan appeared at the doorway.
The girl had shed her freshman uniform for a silk nightgown, long silver hair cascading nonchalantly over her shoulders. The chill of the day had eased, replaced by nighttime languor and a touch of danger. She was unarmed—just holding a steaming cup of tea, a half-smile on her lips.
"Good evening, Mr. Moriarty."
She gently eyed the lipstick in his hand as she greeted him.
"Even the great thief has a bit of a maiden's heart, it seems?"
…