"The Dead Hand system."
Charlotte calmly took over from Mary's words.
"An ancient yet always effective tactic. As long as his subordinates do not witness his death, or fail to make contact with him for a set period of time, scandals capable of shaking the very structure of British society will spread through the streets like snowflakes."
She turned toward Russell.
"In this situation, even Mycroft would be powerless. He is the symbol of absolute governmental stability. If Milverton were to expose every corruption within the government at once, at least half the cabinet would be forced to resign—and even the royal family might be drawn in. Mycroft could never allow an earthquake of that magnitude. Therefore, as long as Milverton does not directly touch the core secrets of Buckingham Palace or Whitehall, Mycroft can only pinch his nose and endure this vampire who sucks the blood of the powerful."
"A media king who accumulates wealth through blackmail is far safer than a terrorist who flips the table when cornered."
Russell said.
"That is precisely why, the moment he returned to London—right after Adrian admitted defeat—he sent me that provocative letter. He knows you cannot kill him. At least until you uncover the filthy secrets he is hiding and the terrifying mechanism behind them, you are powerless against him."
Mary said.
Russell leaned deeply into his chair and once again picked up the cheap paper on which the three-word mantra was written.
[I Know U]
"Do you need help finding his current hiding place?"
Mary asked.
"No."
Russell shook his head. "He never intended to hide in the first place."
The moment he learned the name, Russell had already used the system to lock onto Milverton. The places where Milverton hid the evidence that could prove his own guilt were concentrated mainly in Sheffield, Birmingham, and Manchester—and there were a considerable number of them.
"The fact that he sent a letter like this means he is not the least bit afraid of me coming to him."
"Of course," Charlotte sneered. "He holds your identity in his hand. It is like holding the Sword of Damocles over Mary's head on a murder charge."
The girl held her teacup and swept her sharp gaze back and forth between Russell and Mary. "In a sense, he is dragging you into his game, forcing the phantom thief to step down from his high perch and sit at his negotiation table."
"Negotiation, is it…" Russell sighed. "To go that far for the position of head of the family—I truly admire him. Arthur Morstan is quite the character, training two heavyweight boxers at the same time."
"A tyrant is always betrayed by his own subordinates."
Mary gave a small laugh.
"As for this cousin…" The girl's gaze fell on the letter; a faint contempt appeared in her eyes. "A man who went to the trouble of coming all the way from Birmingham doesn't even know who owns London."
The similarity of the words made Russell burst out laughing.
Dong… dong…
The old mahogany pendulum clock in the corner of the study struck twelve with deep, long tones.
As noon approached, the thick fog outside the window gradually cleared under the rising pale winter sunlight, revealing the gleaming red-brick façades of the Kensington district.
"It's almost time."
Mary glanced at the pendulum clock, then rose from behind the desk and smoothed her moon-white morning robe.
She smiled at Russell, then looked at Charlotte for a moment.
"Now that the rough outline of the problem has been settled, would the two of you care to stay for lunch? I have already asked the kitchen to prepare Wellington steak and fresh oysters just caught from the sea."
"Rabbit."
Charlotte refused without hesitation, rose from the guest sofa, and smoothed the wrinkles in her coat.
"If I had to watch the two of you exchanging glances across the table, I would lose all appetite for even the finest Wellington steak."
Undisguised contempt shone in her ash-blue eyes.
"What a pity."
Mary softly sighed, yet a meaningful smile appeared in her emerald eyes. She turned to Russell beside her and immediately softened her tone. "Then, Russell, would you stay for lunch? This afternoon we could go to the greenhouse together and look at the camellias that have just begun to bloom."
"Just…"
"You can stay here and protect her."
Now that Milverton's influence has already reached London, this is no longer something that can be discussed over morning tea. Charlotte interrupted Russell in a tone that sounded as though she were offering a sacrificial victim.
"Mrs. Hudson is still waiting on Baker Street, so I should be going."
She did not linger further. She gave a light wave in farewell, turned, and pushed open the oak door of the study.
"William, arrange a carriage to take Miss Holmes back to Baker Street."
Mary called the order toward the door.
"Yes, Miss."
The old butler's voice came from the corridor.
A few minutes later, a black carriage bearing the Morstan family crest sped out through the iron gates of Kensington Manor.
Inside the carriage, Charlotte leaned deeply into the soft leather seat and watched the cityscape flowing past the window.
Compared with the stifling luxury and ambiguity of Kensington Manor, she preferred the air of London's streets, filled with coal smoke and cold.
Milverton.
The name circled endlessly in her mind.
As Mary had said, if Milverton truly possessed a dangerous system filled with catastrophic scandals capable of shaking the very foundations of the British Empire, then this problem had already gone beyond the scope of ordinary crime. It was a sword pointed at the entire British government.
In this country, no knife can escape that man's eyes.
The carriage smoothly stopped in front of 221B Baker Street.
Charlotte pushed open the carriage door and stepped down, but did not walk toward the familiar dark-green wooden door.
"Miss Holmes, shall I wait outside?"
The driver politely asked.
"No need. Please convey my thanks for the young lady's kindness."
Charlotte waved the Morstan carriage away.
Then she stood by the roadside and directly signaled a four-wheeled open public carriage that happened to be passing, bringing it to a stop.
"Where to, miss?"
The driver pulled on the reins and asked, white breath escaping his mouth.
"Palmer Street, Diogenes Club."
Palmer Street was a den of vice frequented by British officials and old aristocrats.
Yet the Diogenes Club was the strangest and quietest place within that nest of luxury.
It was the residence of the most antisocial—and yet most powerful—people in London.
The carriage stopped in front of a solemn, dignified stone building.
When Charlotte pushed open the heavy glass-and-wood door of the club, a receptionist in a tuxedo stepped forward as if to stop the young woman.
But the moment he saw the aloof expression that closely resembled a certain regular member, he immediately fell silent and merely bowed respectfully.
There are rules here, and the most important among them is absolute silence.
Charlotte walked lightly and skillfully through the many corridors covered in thick sound-absorbing carpet.
Inside this building, even the sound of leather shoes striking the floor could not be heard. The only sound was the faint crackling of charcoal burning in the fireplaces.
She walked straight to the reception room at the end of the corridor and, without knocking, pushed the door open and entered.
The spacious yet somewhat gloomy reception room was dimly lit, heavy velvet curtains drawn.
A man sat in an oversized leather armchair by the fireplace.
He wore a loose, high-quality waistcoat and held that day's Times, radiating a languid atmosphere that suggested even if the sky fell he would not so much as flinch.
"Mycroft."
Charlotte sat in the chair opposite him and immediately got to the point.
Hearing this, Mycroft, still seated, raised one eyebrow and looked up at the sister who rarely came to visit.
"Charlotte, what a rare guest. Why have you come here?"
"Have you ever heard the name Milverton?"
Charlotte ignored Mycroft's teasing.
"There are many people in Britain named Milverton."
Mycroft stated.
"Charles Morstan Milverton."
Charlotte gave the full name.
"Chairman and CEO of the Birmingham Daily Mail, the Birmingham Daily Express, and the Sunday Courier, based in Birmingham."
"Ah, that Milverton." Mycroft thought for a moment and then nodded. "I know of him. What about him?"
"He is in London."
Charlotte said.
"It is not at all unreasonable for a nephew to visit his hospitalized uncle."
Mycroft did not even bother to look up.
"What if this uncle had a blood feud with him over the death of his mother?"
Charlotte dropped the bomb.
A faint curiosity appeared in Mycroft's eyes.
"Get to the point, Charlotte. If he is after the Morstan businesses, that is none of my concern."
"Last night a letter arrived at Baker Street. The addressee was Russell."
Only after she had said everything she wanted to say did the expression of relief finally leave Mycroft's face.
"A notorious blackmailer sent a letter to Baker Street addressed to our famous phantom thief?"
He looked at Charlotte.
"When a man tries to seize another's weakness, does he not remove his mask?"
"What do you think?"
Charlotte countered with a question.
"That man has an enormous information network, and…"
"I know, Charlotte. Of course I know everything."
Mycroft put down the newspaper. In his ash-blue eyes—so similar to Charlotte's yet somehow different—a faint boredom appeared.
He reached out, straightened his somewhat thick but perfectly tailored waistcoat, then leaned deeply into the wide leather chair.
"Shall I guess the contents of the letter?"
Mycroft crossed his fingers and rested them in front of his abdomen.
"'I know who you are. Good evening, Mr. Moriarty.' Or perhaps he even enclosed an invitation to a tea party at his hotel?"
No matter how skillfully the words were chosen, the core message he wished to convey was only one.
He was convinced—or rather, he held an extremely strong suspicion—that Russell Watson, who lived at 221B Baker Street, was none other than the phantom thief Moriarty who had overturned London high society.
Charlotte silently stared at her brother. She never denied Mycroft's overwhelming intellectual superiority.
"But that is a problem, Charlotte."
Mycroft spoke slowly.
"I am familiar with Milverton. In the past ten years, at least three high-ranking officials of the Home Office have resigned, and his influence is clearly visible in every one of those resignations. The path he took to seize power in Birmingham is a turbulent story of climbing over the feet of politicians and aristocrats. This man is a notorious blackmailer, yet strangely no one can do anything about him."
He paused and ran his gaze over the documents on the table.
"A media figure from Birmingham, with no solid physical evidence, exposes the identity of an unidentified thief whom even Scotland Yard cannot approach—what on earth is he thinking? And he chose precisely this moment, right after Arthur Morstan fell from power and the young woman had just solidified her position."
"Because he visited Arthur Morstan in the hospital."
Charlotte stated the deduction she and Russell had already reached.
He learned everything through that man's eyes.
"That is not all, my dear sister."
Mycroft lightly shook his head; a faint expression of mockery appeared on his lips.
"Arthur Morstan's reaction confirmed that Mary Morstan is a patricide and a poisonous moth. But this does not link Mary to the phantom thief, still less does it identify the phantom thief with Russell Watson. The reason he arrived at such a worrying conclusion is that Milverton was thinking according to the fundamental logic of a blackmailer."
Mycroft stood up, walked toward the fireplace, and stretched out both hands to feel the warmth of the burning flames.
In the unusually silent Diogenes Club, his voice was clear and carried complete composure.
"In Milverton's view, every human relationship in this world is built upon the exchange of interests, the exercise of influence, and fear. How could an orphan with no connections named Mary Morstan order Moriarty to bring down the South Bank arms dealers and steal Benson's ledgers? To ordinary people this might seem an unbelievable miracle, or perhaps the incomprehensible eccentricity of a phantom thief. But in Milverton's eyes it proved only one thing—Mary Morstan holds Moriarty's most fatal weakness. Or, conversely, Moriarty is bound by his own bargaining chips."
He turned and looked at Charlotte.
"Considering every element surrounding Mary Morstan, the only person who can perfectly connect her, Moriarty, and you—the most outstanding young detective in the British Empire—is that poor student of unknown origin, Russell Watson. Form a bold hypothesis, then carefully verify it. Milverton did not even need to confirm it. He only needed to send a letter and observe your reaction. If you panic or try to hide it, that becomes proof that he made the correct bet."
Charlotte frowned slightly.
Although she and Russell had reached a similar conclusion, she felt a certain dissatisfaction with the speed and sharp perspective of Mycroft's analysis.
"So what do you intend to do?"
Charlotte crossed her arms and stared fixedly at her brother.
"Now Britain's greatest information network of a blackmailer has not only set his sights on that girl, but is also trying to extend his hand to Baker Street. If he discovers Moriarty's whereabouts or exposes this matter—"
"He will not, Charlotte."
Mycroft returned to his chair and interrupted her worries.
"Milverton is not a madman; he is a businessman. The ultimate form of blackmail is not to make secrets public, but to keep them perpetually on the verge of exposure and continuously extract profit. Even if he actually exposed Moriarty's identity, all he would obtain would be a corpse, or a madman capable of throwing all of London into chaos. What he desires now is to sit at the negotiation table between that girl and the phantom thief and take over this attractive prey—the Morstan family—without shedding a single drop of blood."
"But as a prerequisite, he must first be qualified to sit at the negotiation table."
Charlotte gave a cold laugh.
"Russell is not a man who takes orders from others."
"That is precisely what I wish to discuss next."
Mycroft's expression finally turned serious.
"If you or that phantom thief intend to treat him like an ordinary criminal—for example, by sneaking into his hotel on a dark and stormy night and shooting him with a single bullet—then you had better abandon that idea immediately."
"Hm?"
"The reason Charles Morstan Milverton has been able to live so peacefully under the eyes of the British Empire is not merely because he is cunning. Even more fatal is the fact that he not only holds numerous scandalous secrets of aristocrats and politicians, but has also established an underground archive known as Pandora's Box, which he named 'Appled.'"
"Appled?"
Charlotte repeated the somewhat hard-to-catch word under her breath and frowned slightly.
"Among the fortunate few who know of its existence, they prefer to call it 'the Pandora's Box of the British Empire.'"
Mycroft said.
"How much bargaining power does a blackmailer who rose from the countryside of Birmingham actually possess?"
Charlotte retorted coldly.
"More than you can imagine, Charlotte."
Mycroft's gaze slowly returned to his sister's face. In his ash-blue eyes—strikingly similar to Charlotte's—appeared a solemn expression rarely seen. It was remarkably like the look in Charlotte's own eyes.
"Explicit letters exchanged between a countess and her bridegroom, account books showing a Member of Parliament embezzling disaster-relief funds, even evidence that multiple members of the royal bloodline have fathered illegitimate children overseas."
With every word he spoke, the air in the reception room seemed to grow heavier.
"Any one of these, if thrown onto the pages of The Times, would be enough to collapse a hundred-year-old noble family or trigger a political earthquake in Whitehall. And Milverton holds hundreds—perhaps thousands—of such documents."
Charlotte's expression finally changed.
She knew perfectly well that blackmail is usually a one-time transaction, because after being blackmailed the victim either destroys the evidence or fights to the death. Yet for someone to hold the lifelines of hundreds or thousands of powerful people and still survive is nothing short of a miracle that overturns the common sense of criminology.
"Is Scotland Yard blind? What about MI6?"
Charlotte asked in disbelief.
"If you know such a large cancer exists, why does the Home Office not send someone to root out the entire organization?"
"Who said I haven't?"
Mycroft let out a short, sharp laugh mixed with self-mockery and coldness.
"If I had found Pandora's Box, do you think Milverton would still be alive?"
Mycroft crossed his arms, rested his elbows on the armrests, and his tone carried a faint note of admiration, but was mostly filled with powerlessness.
"That is impossible."
Charlotte blurted out without thinking.
"Matter is conserved. There is enough material—copies of confidential documents, letters, photographs—to fill several large studies. Even if he burned them, mountains of ash would remain. As long as a physical entity exists, the process of transporting, storing, and protecting it inevitably leaves traces of logistics records and human intervention."
"That is precisely what makes Appled so terrifying, and at the same time Milverton's greatest fortress—absolute secrecy."
Mycroft said.
"We have tracked every messenger he has contacted and intercepted every telegram, yet the so-called decisive evidence has left no trace of its flow, like a drop of water dissolving into the Thames. Yet when he sits at the negotiation table he can explain everything he needs, word for word, without even looking at notes, without missing a single punctuation mark or spelling error. I suspect Appled is not even in Britain—perhaps hidden in a Swiss bank—but the problem is that there is no means of confirming that possibility. There is not enough evidence to believe it."
Charlotte drew in a sharp breath.
"Furthermore, secrecy is merely a shield. The real reason the gentlemen of Whitehall hesitate to take action against Appled is its unpredictable and insane activation mechanism."
Mycroft leaned deeply into his chair.
"The Dead Hand system: the classic yet never-failing dead-man's switch."
He stared at Charlotte with an expression of absolute warning.
"He encrypted and divided those incriminating materials and handed them over for safekeeping to multiple independent—or even hostile—lower-level gangs across Europe, or to overseas law firms on the verge of bankruptcy. Those custodians have no idea what they are holding. If Milverton's heart stops, or if he fails to send a security code to these terminals for more than the set seventy-two hours, then those scandals sufficient to shame the British Empire will appear on the front pages of major newspapers across Europe at the same dawn."
Charlotte's pupils contracted slightly.
"Malicious mutual destruction."
Mycroft concluded coldly.
"Untraceable, untouchable, uncontrollable—that is why, even though I know he is a vampire, I can only endure while he continues to suck blood."
He looked at his silent sister sitting opposite him and issued his final ultimatum.
"I do not know what he is plotting. He may be trying to take over the vast business empire of the Morstans, or he may be plotting something even more outrageous. In short, if Russell Watson still intends to use the individualistic and violent methods that have proven effective these past few months…"
Mycroft shook his head and said no more.
The reception room fell silent once again.
"Therefore this is a dead end. We cannot take action, because if something happens to Milverton or he disappears, the exploded bomb will shatter the current equilibrium. This is a fact that cannot be ignored, because he currently holds the lives of Mary and Russell in his hands, and the trump card he possesses is more than enough to force them at any time to hand over control of the Morstan Group."
"You show no intention of yielding even a single step, my dear sister."
Mycroft picked up The Times he had set down earlier, opened it, and began reading again, as though he had lost interest in the conversation.
"What I want you to remember is that as long as it does not threaten the fundamental stability of the Crown and the nation, I will not intervene in internal strife among businessmen. If you insist on dancing in this minefield… you had better take care not to fall."
"Mycroft, I do not need you to teach me how to do things."
Charlotte gave a rude snort, turned, and hurried out of the stifling reception room.
The heavy wooden door slammed shut with a loud noise, and the Diogenes Club was once again enveloped in graveyard-like silence.
Charlotte stood in the cold wind on Palmer Street. London's evening fog was thicker than before, and the air she inhaled was chilly.
An enemy that cannot be dealt with by violence.
A mysterious, immeasurable treasury of knowledge from which not a single physical trace can be found.
A highly refined, lethal system.
"Always causing trouble for others…"
Charlotte muttered in dissatisfaction and signaled for a carriage.
"To the Morstan Estate in the Kensington district."
Charlotte instructed the driver outside.
Now that trouble had arisen, she could not allow those two culprits to enjoy the flowers in the greenhouse while sending her out for a drive in the cold wind.
…
Kensington Manor, glass greenhouse.
In contrast to the freezing fog outside, the Victorian glass greenhouse was filled with pleasant warmth.
Hot water circulating through brass pipes humidified the air and kept it comfortable. The enormous transparent glass dome was covered with a layer of fine water droplets that protected it from the severe cold outside.
Mary wore a pale moon-white silk blouse and held a small silver pruning shears in her hand.
She stood on tiptoe and carefully cut the most delicate bud from a pure-white camellia in full bloom.
White camellias symbolize purity and pure ideal love.
The girl turned and walked toward Russell with a smile.
She tilted her head slightly and gently pinned the camellia still sparkling with tiny water droplets onto a hidden button on the lapel of Russell's dark-gray coat.
Her fingertips lightly brushed the man's chest; the warmth of affection faintly drifted.
"This doesn't really suit Mr. Morstan's style."
Russell lowered his eyes, looked at the delicate white flower on his chest, then looked at the girl in front of him and gave a mischievous smile.
"That depends on who the other party is."
Mary raised her chin with a confident expression, naturally wrapped her arms around Russell's waist, and pressed her cheek against his chest.
"To those who try to devour me, I am precisely a thicket of thorns. But toward the phantom thief…" Her voice softened and took on a sweet, nasal tone. "I will forever remain a white camellia that knows nothing."
Crash!
The heavy carved glass door of the greenhouse was pushed open from the outside.
A biting wind carrying the scent of ice and snow instantly blew in, washing away most of the hazy, moist air inside the greenhouse.
Charlotte entered with her usual cold dignity and slammed the glass door shut.
She casually brushed the frost from the shoulders of her coat, directed a cold gaze at the embracing pair, and let out a cold snort that ruined the atmosphere.
"It seems I have not only arrived at the worst possible timing, but have also disturbed people who were enjoying botany."
The detective's voice clearly carried bitterness; contempt floated in her ash-blue eyes.
"Charlotte, you didn't return to Baker Street?"
Mary showed not the slightest embarrassment at being caught. Still holding Russell's arm, she slowly took half a step back and looked at the returning detective with a smile.
"Or did you suddenly realize midway that my Wellington steak is far more appealing than Mrs. Hudson's apple pie?"
"If I could help it, I would never set foot in your money-grubbing mansion for the rest of my life."
Charlotte walked to the round table in the cast-iron greenhouse, pulled out a rattan chair, and sat down.
"I have just returned from the Diogenes Club after meeting my boring brother. Regarding the sender of your mysterious letter—Charles Morstan Milverton—a new, or rather a worrying, development has occurred."
Russell and Mary exchanged glances; the previous languor vanished. They walked to the round table and took their seats.
"What did Mycroft say?"
Russell asked.
"He said, 'This fellow is a madman. You absolutely must not lay a hand on him.'"
Charlotte crossed her arms on the table and, without the slightest hesitation, related everything Mycroft had said about Appled and the Dead Hand system.
"That is why he openly appeared in London and even sent a provocative letter."
Charlotte stared at Russell and spoke in a warning tone.
"Appled is not a safe that can be emptied overnight. It is a gigantic blueprint made by connecting countless physical nodes—like a magic box. Some of them may be hidden in the unremarkable basements of ordinary households, or in remote villages in France, or inside post-office safes. Unless every physical node can be removed simultaneously with perfect precision… if anything happens to him, or if he notices your actions, scandals capable of overturning the British Empire will be triggered instantly."
"I see…"
Russell leaned deeply into the rattan chair, narrowed his eyes slightly, and showed signs of realization and understanding.
This matched the information he had obtained from the system.
Milverton had dispersed his entire fortune across three cities and constructed a system that would reveal everything if he ever got into trouble. That was why he could act with such arrogance.
"It seems the conventional physical-elimination plan will have to be put on hold for the time being."
Russell took the collage letter bearing the message "I Know U" from his coat pocket, placed it on the table, and lightly tapped the envelope with his fingertip.
"Then what on earth is the purpose of going to all this trouble just to send me a letter?"
"A stepping stone."
Mary and Charlotte spoke the words almost simultaneously.
The two girls looked at each other; Charlotte raised her chin slightly, prompting Mary to explain.
Mary did not refuse. She rested both hands under her chin and spoke quietly.
"Adrian has admitted defeat. I have only just taken over the South Shore, and the Morstan family is about to complete its final integration. At this stage, even if he came directly to me, I could use the family's financial power and connections with Scotland Yard to drive him away. But the moment he revealed that he knows the phantom thief's identity, the situation completely changed."
Mary gave a cold smile.
"If this is a gambling game, then he is an uninvited guest who holds both the King and the Queen, boldly walks into the casino, and demands to sit at VIP Table Number One."
"But it is not as simple as merely wanting to sit."
Charlotte added.
"A blackmailer who terrorized Birmingham suddenly abandoned his base and came to London. He not only desires the wealth of the Morstan family, but also a power market ten times larger—and ten times more dangerous—than Birmingham. If he wants to establish a foothold in London, he needs a sufficiently important means as a stepping stone to power. The Morstan family, and that notorious phantom thief… there could be no more perfect stepping stone."
"If he wants to use the Morstan family and Moriarty as stepping stones to climb to the seat of power, then let him. But he had better be careful not to sprain his ankle."
Mary said in a cold voice.
"In London there is not only one Moriarty."