There weren't many classes in the afternoon.
The last lecture ended around three, which gave Russell plenty of time to get back to Baker Street.
"Do you have any other plans for this afternoon, Mr. Watson?"
Mary set down her pen, watching as Russell packed up and prepared to escape.
"Nothing set yet, but I do need to discuss this case with Holmes. For the sake of tonight's sleep, as well," Russell answered.
"Alright," Mary nodded. "See you tomorrow."
"See you tomorrow."
Saying goodbye, Russell hurried out of the classroom, headed for the tram, and made his way back to Baker Street.
Inside the classroom, Mary kept an eye on Russell's retreating figure, watching his faint smile fade away.
She packed her things at an unhurried pace, pausing to respond with the most basic politeness to the classmates slowly approaching her, collecting goodwill along the way.
For Mary Morstan, social intelligence and the ability to read people were skills honed since childhood.
Knowing how to handle different kinds of people, adopt the right tone and attitude, and showcase the right reaction to achieve the desired outcome—it was like filling out a workbook; after enough practice, the formulas came naturally.
Mary, for no particular reason, recalled the "compliment" the rude thief had given her last night.
—A sociable person who can handle every social situation smoothly.
As reluctant as she was to admit it, the girl couldn't outright deny the truth in those words.
She just hated anyone pointing it out to her face.
"Tch."
Mary let out a small sigh, thinking how irritating that man's expression had been last night.
Next time she saw him, she'd be sure to break his leg.
…
[Mary Morstan is still unhappy about your provocative behavior last night—her malice increases by 10.]
"?"
Russell, riding the tram, unconsciously glanced around with a vacant look.
What now?
What did I do this time?
Why bring up old grievances at such a time?
Never try to guess what a woman is thinking. You'll never figure it out.
Russell sighed and got off at his stop.
As soon as he opened the door of 221B Baker Street, he found Mrs. Hudson busily at work in the kitchen.
"Russell, home so early?"
"Yeah, there weren't many afternoon classes today," Russell nodded. "How's Charlotte?"
"Charlotte? She's spent the whole day in her room except for lunch," Mrs. Hudson answered. "Seems to be occupied with some big case, though she hasn't thought of any ideas yet."
"No new ideas is probably for the best," Russell chuckled, heading upstairs. "She's been pursuing the wrong path from the start."
He paused at Charlotte's door, reaching out to knock—but the door swung open before he could.
Charlotte Holmes stood there in the same oversized nightgown as last night, looking disheveled—obviously stumped by the Nicholas Winter case, not even bothering to change clothes.
"Who was it that just said you're on the wrong track?"
Charlotte attacked first before Russell could speak.
"Of course it's you," Russell responded calmly. "Your reasoning has had a flaw from the start."
That wiped the sardonic look off Charlotte's face for a moment, her steel blue eyes narrowing slightly.
She didn't counter immediately, just waved him in.
The room was even messier than the previous night—piles of reports about Nicholas White, crime scene photos, Edgar Wright's biography scattered everywhere, and the skull above the hearth seemed to be sneering.
"A regular college student who's just finished class comes here and tells me my deductions are wrong," said Charlotte, folding her arms and leaning against the wall.
"Watson, please perform. My ears await."
"I wouldn't call it a performance," Russell said, tiptoeing around the minefield of notes on the floor and finding a clean place to stand. "But would you believe me if I said I dreamed about it last night?"
"A dream?" Charlotte raised an eyebrow, clearly on the edge of impatience.
"If your dream involves some angel telling you the truth, spare me. Get out."
[Charlotte Holmes grows intensely irritated by your mysterious, flamboyant remarks; her malice rises by 20.]
Always so impatient.
"Don't rush me," Russell shrugged. "I just happened to pick up some university gossip."
"That information proves only one thing:
You misunderstood the motive from the start."
"Motive?" Charlotte scoffed. "Isn't inheriting a huge fortune— one that could change a man's fate—reason enough?"
"What if that wealth was destined to be his all along?" Russell countered.
Charlotte's mocking expression froze for a moment.
"Go on," she said curtly.
"I heard Nicholas Winter always intended to leave everything to his disciple and had even announced as much," Russell said.
"Edgar Wright—his disciple—was there at the time as well."
Charlotte fell silent.
"That proves nothing," she eventually replied. "What if he couldn't wait anymore?"
"Here's the second rumor I heard," Russell said, a mysterious smile touching his lips.
"Nicholas Winter wasn't going to live much longer."
"...!"
Charlotte's pupils constricted.
Exact symptoms were unclear—initially misdiagnosed as tuberculosis, but it was obviously something else.
Most likely, it was a disease beyond the reach of contemporary medicine.
Russell explained calmly.
"Hardly anyone knew about it."
"A teacher with only days left, and a disciple whose inheritance rights had long been guaranteed.
Tell me, Holmes—does your theory of murder for fortune still hold up?"
Charlotte stared at him intensely, while a deathly silence filled the room—only faint sounds from Baker Street filtered in through the window.
"Source?"
After a long silence, she finally croaked out.
"Mary Morstan," Russell tossed Mary's name without a second thought.
He didn't think Charlotte would clash with Mary—but even if she did, considering Mary's skills, Charlotte was unlikely to gain the upper hand.
Not to mention…he was dying to see the catfight.
The moment her name was spoken, Charlotte's gaze shifted as if she'd had a revelation.
"So, it was her." She muttered, falling into deep thought again.
Her previous chain of logic crumbled, and in that instant, a new one rapidly took its place in Charlotte's mind.
Not two minutes later, she looked up, striding directly to the phone.
She dialed in one smooth, practiced motion.
"Lestrade."
She didn't bother with pleasantries, heading straight to the point.
"Release him. Nicholas Winter committed suicide."