As the mechanism whirred, Russell's eyes shifted to the desk. He opened a drawer, found a hidden compartment, and retrieved a yellowed envelope. Curious, he opened it and scanned the inside documents—transaction records. None of the names were familiar. Not that it mattered. What mattered was that Mycroft and the Times crowd definitely would know.
He re-sealed the envelope and restored everything to its original place. No need to be hasty; there were still two rooms left to loot.
His next target: the guest room, for some scandalous photographs. And if time allowed, the jewelry sealed in the master bedroom's safe.
The guest room, opposite the study, felt deserted—as if no one had stayed there in a long while. Clearly, the Roy residence didn't host guest visitors often. The air still held traces of air freshener.
He searched quickly, finding another envelope filled with thick photos. Under the moonlight, he peeked at a few—Ethan Roy in intimate settings with a curvaceous blonde in what appeared to be a hotel suite, as well as other men, some familiar from the news, all handsome and famous.
"Living quite the life, aren't you?" Russell smirked and slid the photos back in the envelope, grabbing an extra one for his own pocket.
After glancing at the clock (7:00 p.m.), he deliberated—move forward, or go for perfection?
Hyde Street wasn't far from Imperial College London, a brisk ten-minute walk at most. Well—since he'd already come this far, in for a penny, in for a pound.
The master bedroom—third floor, the most strictly guarded location in the mansion. But for Russell, who'd already memorized the guards' patrol routes, it was just a matter of a few flights of stairs.
He landed softly on the ruby carpet, moving like a crow through the dark. The master bedroom's sophisticated Swiss-made mechanical lock was tougher, but with Dexterity [C+], just a few extra seconds did the trick.
Breathe. He pictured the inner gears rotating, the pins shifting under his fingertips.
Click. Unlocked.
Inside, the room was thick with luxury: Persian carpet, vast four-poster bed, enormous oil portrait of Ethan Roy glaring down as if judging any intruder.
Russell ignored it and went for the German safe in the corner, half his height.
He pressed his ear to the cold metal, spinning the dial slowly by hand. Every click and spring was amplified by his Scouting [C+] ability. Within a minute, the door thudded open.
Inside—the glitter of jewels: diamond necklaces, ruby rings, sapphire brooches, more than enough to drive most thieves crazy.
But Russell's eyes showed no greed. He picked the flashiest diamond necklace, weighed it thoughtfully, and nodded, satisfied.
He pulled out a different photo—Ethan Roy posing intimately with a popular actress. On the back, Russell scrawled a message with his fountain pen.
A small gift for Mrs. Roy—from Moriarty.
He placed the signed photo squarely in the center of the safe, then shut the door and restored the room.
He wasn't worried Roy would destroy the evidence first thing—any noble would check the study and guest room before the bedroom safe, especially if word of a break-in came.
Even if Roy did find the photo and destroyed it... could he destroy every other copy? The rest would soon be on their way to The Times.
Russell left, pocketed the diamond necklace, and entered Timmy Roy's room next.
It was the epitome of gaudy nouveau riche decor—a young aristocrat's idea of style. Polo sashes, fashion magazines, cigar boxes, expensive cologne, the scent trying hard (but failing) to cover up the hormonal chaos of its teenage occupant.
Russell hadn't come for the secrets under the bed—just the nightstand. He popped open the drawer and, like tossing aside worthless toys, dropped the diamond necklace among a jumble of cufflinks and tie pins.
Ready to leave, something caught his eye—a partially open side drawer, stuffed with stacks of letters. Out of curiosity, he opened one.
It was a love letter—Timmy's ambiguous relationship with a girl named Anne Brown.
No great scandal, just vaguely embarrassing. He rifled through the others—plenty of similar notes, but not always to Anne Brown. The list included other names—Isabella White, Joey Carter—at least five or six different girls, all described (in Timmy's passionate prose) as his "true love."
Russell returned the letters, checked the time—7:45 p.m.
"All done." He snapped the last letter shut, hurried to the balcony, and leapt down.
Time for the party.
….