Again?
Alarm bells rang loudly in Russell's mind.
Despite the turbulent waves crashing within him, Russell's face maintained a perfectly measured expression of confusion and curiosity.
"Does Miss Morstan also have an interest in such street rumors?"
"Yes," Mary nodded. "To be honest, I confronted him for a moment last night.
"I nearly caught him, but he managed to escape.
"Furthermore, he stole a brooch worth five thousand pounds. I had intended to wear it to today's opening ceremony."
As she spoke, her tone was flat, revealing neither anger nor joy.
What do you mean you 'nearly caught me'? How was I not aware of this?
Russell sneered internally, while his face timed a look of shock perfectly.
"I didn't expect Miss Morstan to be so formidable. But... you don't sound very angry?"
"Oh my, was it that obvious?" Mary seemed slightly surprised.
"The eyes don't lie, Miss Morstan," Russell said. "May I ask why?"
Faced with Russell's pressing question, ripples spread across Mary's azure eyes, as if an invisible stone had been cast into a calm lake.
She stopped walking, turned sideways to look at Russell, and a meaningful smile played at the corners of her mouth.
"Because I find him very interesting, Mr. Watson."
"Interesting?" Russell raised an eyebrow, harboring a faint sense of foreboding.
Interesting how?
There is something wrong with you.
"Yes, interesting."
Mary's gaze drifted past Russell, looking toward the bustling crowd in the distance. Her voice was soft but distinct.
"Scotland Yard depicts him as a lawless villain, and the newspapers mold him into a chivalrous thief who robs the rich to aid the poor.
"But in my view, he looks more like a child searching for amusement."
"A child?" Russell's expression became complicated.
Charlotte called him a performance artist, and now this Miss Mary calls him a child.
What is with these people?
"Is that not the case?" Mary turned back, her focus realigning on Russell's face.
"The things he steals are of every variety. He never hurts anyone, and he even returns the items to their original owners.
"This doesn't look like a crime; it looks more like he is playing a game that covers all of London.
"And we, the people he visits, are merely the toys he uses to find his fun."
Hearing this, the corners of Russell's mouth twitched. He suddenly felt like an author encountering their own work in a reading comprehension exam.
Is that what I was thinking?
Forget it, as long as you're happy.
"Apologies, I've been rambling on about some strange things," Mary smiled and apologized to Russell.
"It doesn't matter," Russell shook his head. "If there's nothing else, I should head back—Mrs. Hudson asked me to help Holmes move some things."
"Of course. See you tomorrow," Mary nodded.
"See you tomorrow."
Mary turned gracefully, her long silver hair sketching a soft arc in the air before she merged into the endless stream of people and quickly vanished.
Russell stood rooted to the spot and let out a long sigh, feeling as if he had just finished a high-intensity exam.
First a Charlotte Holmes, and now a Mary Morstan.
Of these two people, one could see through his actions, and the other could surmise his psychology.
London... truly is a place of hidden tigers and crouching dragons.
·
·
By the time Russell returned to Baker Street, Charlotte had already finished packing the room next door.
Though, rather than 'packing,' it was more accurate to say she had casually tossed her belongings into whatever corner looked pleasing to the eye and then ignored them.
The most eye-catching item among them was, without a doubt, the human skull placed upon the mantelpiece.
Russell really wanted to ask if that thing was real or fake, but reason told him it was best not to do so.
At this moment, Charlotte was standing in the center of the living room, lost in thought as she faced a wall plastered with a map of London.
Her gaze wasn't actually focused on the map itself, but seemed to be looking through the map toward someplace far deeper.
Russell stood at the door, watching Charlotte's transcendental state, and for a moment didn't know whether he should speak.
Mrs. Hudson's request still lingered in his ears—"Take good care of her."
But the question was, how exactly was he supposed to take care of her?
"Do you need help, Miss Holmes?"
He spoke tentatively.
"Your room... doesn't seem to be fully sorted out yet?"
"No, keep it like this. This way I can find what I need at any time," Charlotte said indifferently.
"Alright then..." Russell wasn't surprised by this answer. "If you need anything, I'll be next door—"
Having said that, he prepared to turn and return to his own room.
But just then, Charlotte called out to him.
"Mr. Watson."
"I'm here."
"What is your view on locked-room murders?"
Charlotte turned her head, looking at Russell in the doorway.
"Locked-room... murders?"
"I refer to a criminal act where the perpetrator executes the crime within a sealed space while ruling out the presence of others—a homicide possessing logically contradictory characteristics."
"No... you don't need to explain the definition of the term to me," Russell said. "I'm just a bit surprised. Why ask me this all of a sudden?"
Charlotte turned around completely. "I need a control group to verify whether my thinking has deviated due to common sense."
"...So, I am that 'common sense'?" Russell pointed at himself, feeling the phrasing was a bit subtle.
Charlotte tilted her head noncommittally, which he took as a default yes.
She walked to the sofa, pulled a file from a pile of clutter, and tossed it onto the coffee table.
"Case files. Lestrade just sent someone to deliver them.
"A renowned painter died in his own painting studio, which was locked from the inside. The cause of death was the ingestion of highly toxic Prussian White pigment."
"Can you really just show this kind of thing to other people?"
Despite his words, Russell honestly picked up the file.
No wonder that guy Lestrade didn't have time to bother with him; turns out he was busy with new work.
Inside the file envelope were several photographs: an elegantly furnished studio, an old man collapsed in front of an easel, and an unfinished oil painting with intense colors.
"What do you think?" Charlotte pressed, like a teacher asking a question.
"What do I think?" Russell spread his hands. "I think I'm standing here looking at it, Miss Holmes," he said.
"For this kind of professional question, you should ask Scotland Yard, not an ordinary university student who just suffered through an opening ceremony and only wants a good sleep."
"If Scotland Yard could see anything, I wouldn't need to ask you," Charlotte retorted mercilessly.
"Please, as my new neighbor, could you not make me feel that you are terribly boring?"
"Fine, fine..." Russell sighed, then took a closer look at the file.
"A locked-room murder. Cause of death is pigment poisoning... The location and method are there; next is the time and motive."
"Time of death was four hours before the body was discovered. The forensic doctor has verified it. It was a type of chronic poison," Charlotte helpfully added.
"Only the motive is missing."
"Greed?" Russell asked tentatively.
"The crime scene wasn't ransacked, and no property was lost."
"Then... a vendetta?"
"The deceased, Nicholas Winter, had a social circle as clean as a blank sheet of paper.
"He was obsessed with painting his whole life. Aside from his only apprentice, he was practically isolated from the world.
"His enemies were likely only those art dealers whose acquisition offers he refused, but they wouldn't go so far as to use this method for revenge."
Charlotte cleanly rejected this answer.
"His only apprentice?" Russell caught the key information. "Then he is the only suspect."
"Obviously," Charlotte tossed the photo back onto the table. "Lestrade has already taken him into custody.
"Only the fingerprints of the deceased and the apprentice were at the scene. The apprentice also admitted that during the timeframe of the teacher's death, only he had entered or exited the studio.
"All evidence points to him."
"Witness and material evidence are all there. What about the motive?" Russell pressed.
"Inheritance," Charlotte said in a flat tone. "Winter had no heirs. His will stated that all his paintings and assets would be inherited by his apprentice, Edgar Wright.
"A fortune large enough to instantly propel a poor boy into high society."
Russell rubbed the center of his brows, feeling less like he was assisting in solving a case and more like he was accompanying a genius in a deduction game.
He picked up the photo of the apprentice, Edgar Wright. It was a young man who looked somewhat frail with a timid gaze. In the photo, he was being held up by two police officers, his face covered in tear tracks and despair.
"So, everything makes sense," Russell followed Charlotte's logic.
"To inherit the estate early, the apprentice exploited his teacher's trust, poisoning the pigment over a long period, and finally staged a scene of extreme grief to win sympathy."
"Completely correct," Charlotte's lips curled up slightly as she reached for the coffee cup at hand.
"But there is still one problem now."
"What problem?"
"He refuses to plead guilty."
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