The afternoon schedule wasn't heavy.
By the time the last class ended, it was only a little past three. Getting back to Baker Street would be easy.
"Mr. Watson, do you have any other plans this afternoon?"
Mary set down her fountain pen and looked at Russell, who had already packed up and was clearly preparing to bolt.
"No specific plans," Russell said. "But I need to tell Holmes about the case first. This is mainly for the sake of my sleep quality tonight."
"All right." Mary nodded. "Then… see you tomorrow."
"See you tomorrow."
After parting ways with Mary, Russell left the classroom at a brisk pace, exited the campus, boarded a tram, and headed toward Baker Street.
Back inside the classroom, Mary watched Russell's figure disappear—and only then did the faint smile at the corner of her mouth slowly fade.
She tidied her things at an unhurried pace, occasionally lifting her head to respond—polite, measured, basic courtesy—to the classmates who drifted closer, attempting to curry favor.
For Mary Morstan, socializing and reading people were skills she'd mastered long ago.
What attitude to show, what tone to use, what kind of reply would yield the result—or the answer—she wanted.
To her, these were fill-in-the-blank questions. Do enough of them, you develop a feel for the pattern, and you start applying formulas without thinking.
Unbidden, her mind returned to last night—to the ill-mannered thief's "compliment."
—A social butterfly who plays all sides.
Much as she hated to admit it, she couldn't deny that the label was accurate.
She simply despised having it pointed out to her face.
"Tch."
Just remembering that infuriating, punchable attitude made Mary click her tongue.
Next time she saw him, she'd break his leg.
[Mary Morstan is displeased by your provocations last night. Malice +10]
"?"
On the tram, Russell looked up and reflexively glanced around, bewildered.
What now?
What did I even do this time?
Why is she digging up old accounts now?
Don't try to guess a woman's thoughts—guessing won't help you understand them anyway.
Russell sighed, then got off at his stop.
The moment he pushed open the door to 221B Baker Street, he saw Mrs. Hudson busy in the kitchen.
"Russell, you're back so early?"
"Yeah. Not many classes this afternoon." Russell nodded. "Where's Holmes?"
"Charlotte? She's been in her room all day, hasn't come out once—except for lunch," Mrs. Hudson said. "Seems like she's working a big case, but she can't find a way in."
"If she can't find a way in, that's because she's looking at the wrong door," Russell chuckled as he went upstairs. "Her direction's been wrong from the start."
He paused at Charlotte's door and was about to open it when it swung open first.
Charlotte Holmes stood in the doorway, still wearing the oversized robe from last night.
Clearly, the Nicholas Winter case had irritated her to the point where she couldn't even be bothered to change clothes.
"Who did you say had the wrong direction?"
Before Russell could speak, Charlotte struck first.
"Obviously you," Russell replied calmly. "From the beginning, your line of reasoning has been wrong."
Charlotte's gray-blue eyes narrowed—like an offended cat that had just been challenged.
She didn't refute him immediately. Instead, she stepped aside and signaled him in with a look.
The room was even messier than last night.
Nicholas Winter's file, the scene photos, Edgar Light's background—all scattered across the floor. And the skull atop the fireplace looked as though it were mocking every effort made within these walls.
"A person who just finished university classes," Charlotte said, "now intends to inform me that my deductions are wrong."
"Begin your performance, Mr. Watson. I'm listening."
Her voice was emotionless. Arms folded, she leaned against the wall and watched him.
"I wouldn't call it a performance," Russell said, stepping around the hazards on the floor to find a clean patch to stand. "But would you believe me if I said I had a dream last night?"
"A dream?" Charlotte raised an eyebrow; impatience nearly overflowed her expression.
"If you're about to say an angel told you the truth, I'm throwing you out."
[Charlotte Holmes is strongly irritated by your theatrics. Malice +20]
See? She's already irritated.
"Relax," Russell shrugged. "I'm just saying—at university, I happened to hear some gossip. And that gossip happens to prove one thing."
"You got the motive wrong from the start."
"Motive?" Charlotte gave a quiet scoff. "A fortune large enough to change a man's fate—doesn't that suffice?"
"What if," Russell countered, "that fortune was always going to be his anyway?"
The mocking expression on Charlotte's face froze for a fraction of a second.
"Go on," she said.
"Someone told me Nicholas Winter had already intended to leave everything to his apprentice—from the beginning," Russell said. "And he'd said it in public. Edgar Light was there when he said it."
Charlotte fell silent.
"That proves nothing," she said. "What if he couldn't wait?"
"That's where the second piece of gossip comes in." Russell smiled—maddeningly calm.
"Nicholas Winter wasn't going to live long."
"...!"
Charlotte's pupils constricted sharply.
"Unknown illness. Initially misdiagnosed as consumption, but it clearly wasn't," Russell explained evenly. "Some disease that current medicine can't diagnose."
"And not many people knew about it."
"A teacher with little time left. An apprentice with inheritance all but guaranteed."
"Tell me, Miss Holmes—does your 'murder for money' theory still stand?"
Charlotte stared at him.
The room turned brutally quiet, with only the distant noise of Baker Street seeping in through the windows.
"Your source," she said at last, voice roughened.
"Mary Morstan," Russell replied without hesitation, selling Mary out cleanly.
She won't confront her anyway.
And even if she does—Mary's far too skilled for Charlotte to gain much.
And even if—worst case—she does…
Russell liked watching women fight.
At the name, something like recognition flickered across Charlotte's eyes.
"So it was her," she murmured, then fell into thought again.
The old chain of logic collapsed; a new chain assembled in her mind at speed.
Less than two minutes later, Charlotte looked up, then strode to the telephone.
Dial. Receiver. No wasted motion.
"Lestrade."
No pleasantries. Straight to the blade.
"Let him go. Nicholas Winter killed himself."
-------
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