Fifteen minutes later.
Russell exchanged somewhat awkward glances with the man standing in the doorway.
Greg Lestrade.
An Inspector from Scotland Yard.
After receiving Charlotte's call, he had rushed over almost immediately, wanting to get to the bottom of things. As for why he didn't just ask over the phone?
Because Charlotte had hung up the moment she finished speaking.
"Hello, Inspector Lestrade..." Russell reached out his hand toward Lestrade.
"Hello..." Lestrade shook his hand. "And you are...?"
"My name is Russell Watson. Holmes' neighbor, and... in a sense, her guardian."
"I see..." Lestrade wore an expression of sudden realization, followed by a look of sympathy directed at Russell.
He was clearly also a victim of Charlotte's elusive and difficult personality.
"So, what is this about a suicide that Charlotte mentioned?" Lestrade lowered his voice, as if they were meeting in secret. "To be honest, that Edgar Wright's mental state isn't looking too good right now."
"Well about that..." Russell rubbed his nose, debating whether to drag out Mary's theory.
But on second thought, discussing art and faith with a pragmatic cop like Lestrade would be tantamount to playing the lute to a cow.
Before he could organize his language, Charlotte's voice drifted out from the room, carrying her usual commanding tone:
"Come in. Stop whispering at the door like two Basset Hounds that have lost their master."
Lestrade's face twitched, but he resigned himself to his fate, pushed the door open, and walked in. Russell followed behind him.
At this moment, Charlotte was standing in front of the photo of the unfinished painting, which she had pinned to the wall.
"Nicholas Winter did not die from murder, nor did he die from suicide. He died from art," Charlotte said without turning her head.
Lestrade's expression was exactly the same as Russell's when he heard the word 'martyrdom' yesterday.
"Can you say something I can understand, Charlotte? I'm a police officer, not an art critic."
"Tsk." Charlotte let out an impatient click of her tongue. She turned around, sweeping her grey-blue eyes over Lestrade, and then over Russell.
"Explain it to him, Watson," she commanded.
Russell froze for a moment, then turned to look at Lestrade.
Fine. For the sake of all those Malice Points you've farmed for me.
Consider this a kickback to a patron.
He decided to abandon Mary's overly metaphysical theory of martyrdom and use a more grounded explanation that fit police logic.
"Ahem, it's like this, Inspector Lestrade," Russell began his work as a translator. "Miss Holmes means that Mr. Winter knew his days were numbered. Therefore, he hoped to complete one greatest work at the very end of his life."
"So he committed suicide?" Lestrade was still confused. "What does that have to do with him being poisoned by pigment?"
"A huge connection." Russell pointed to the photo on the wall. "That painting—look at its colors. Aren't they extremely intense, possessing an almost... abnormal vitality?"
Lestrade leaned in to take a look and nodded. "A little. Looks like it's on fire."
"Exactly. Because that pigment was mixed with something that could get him excited."
Russell offered a more common-sense explanation.
"Prussian White itself is a highly toxic substance that stimulates the nerves. Mr. Winter, in pursuit of an ultimate creative state, actively and chronically used this toxic pigment to paint. As for the reason, don't ask; people who do art are more or less like this."
Lestrade's brow furrowed tightly, seeming to digest this crazy conclusion. "Then what about Edgar Wright? Why didn't he stop him?"
"Because he couldn't stop him." Russell sighed. "Or rather, he was persuaded. At his teacher's request, he chose to compromise, and even became an accomplice."
"He prepared the pigments for his teacher, took care of his daily life, and watched helplessly as he walked step by step toward death. That is why he is in such pain, and why he said his teacher went to pursue his art. Because in his heart, this was a great, mutually agreed-upon sacrifice, not a murder."
The room fell into silence.
For the first time, a look of shock appeared on Lestrade's face.
Charlotte leaned against the wall, listening to Russell's translation. A trace of imperceptible approval flashed through her grey-blue eyes.
This guy was actually quite smart.
He had precisely extracted the metaphysical concept of martyrdom and transformed it into the logic of "creating while high," which was easier for the secular world to understand, perfectly explaining the entire case sequence.
Although it sounded like it might cast a bit of a shadow on Nicholas Winter's reputation.
But Lestrade didn't care about that.
"You mean... he assisted in a suicide?" Lestrade asked.
"Correct." Russell nodded.
"...Madmen. They are all madmen." Lestrade rubbed his temples, looking as if he had a splitting headache. "So, what should I do? Just let him go?"
"That I don't know." Russell shrugged. "That involves the law."
So, Lestrade turned his gaze to Charlotte again.
"I didn't study law. If you want to ask me that, why not make a call to Mycroft?"
Charlotte indicated she had no desire to take over this mess.
"Fine." Lestrade sighed. "At least the matter is resolved."
He paused, then looked at Russell again, his eyes filled with sincere gratitude. "Thank you, Mr. Watson. Your explanation... helped a big deal."
"You're welcome. Consider it compensation."
"Compensation?"
"Nothing, don't worry about it." Russell smiled harmlessly.
Lestrade shook his head, as if trying to dispel the tangles of art and madness from his brain. He fished a flat silver flask from the inside pocket of his trench coat, unscrewed the cap, and took a large swig.
The spicy whisky seemed to give him some courage to face this absurd world.
"Anyway, thank you both. Scotland Yard will handle the rest."
Lestrade left 221B Baker Street carrying a belly full of shock and relief.
The room was once again left with only Russell and Charlotte.
After the brief sense of accomplishment passed, Russell only felt a wave of drowsiness wash over him. Dealing with these geniuses was simply too mentally draining. Right now, he just wanted to lie back in his own bed, have a good sleep, and make up for the rest he owed himself from yesterday.
"Since the matter is resolved," Russell yawned and walked toward the door, "then I won't disturb you, Miss Holmes."
Charlotte didn't stop him. After Russell left, she picked up the violin she had thrown onto the sofa and began to play.
Only, this time, the melody was finally not so ear-piercing.
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