When Russell returned to Baker Street, Charlotte was still asleep on the sofa, showing no sign of waking. The mental strain of the past few days had clearly exhausted her physically as well.
That was actually a good thing.
Russell breathed a sigh of relief; he had no intention of telling Charlotte about the meeting with Milverton.
Instead of waking her at once, he sat for a while in front of the fireplace, letting the warmth of the fire completely melt away the cold of wind and snow.
After waiting about ten minutes, when he felt his body had warmed and grown a little hot, he stood up, went to the sleeping Charlotte, and gently shook her shoulder.
"Charlotte, wake up. You mustn't sleep here."
Russell called quietly.
The girl let out a muffled murmur from the sofa cushion. Charlotte's beautiful brows furrowed slightly, as though she were rather irritated by the noise that had interrupted her sleep. She did not open her eyes; instead she instinctively curled her body even tighter and sank deeper into the sofa like a cat shivering from the cold, trying to escape reality.
"Just five more minutes…"
The voice that came from under the blanket was heavy and nasal, completely different from the usual calm, arrogant detective.
Russell gave a somewhat troubled smile. He stretched out a hand, lifted the edge of the blanket that had covered Charlotte's face so she would not suffocate, and patiently soothed her while brushing aside with a fingertip the strands of hair that had fallen across her cheek.
"If you sleep here all night, your neck and spine will hurt fiercely tomorrow morning. Besides, the temperature has dropped sharply these past few days, and the fire in the living room will only burn until dawn."
Charlotte finally opened her eyes with a slight hesitation. Her ash-blue eyes were still moist; the gaze was somewhat vacant, as though her brain were being forced into a state of hibernation. She stared at Russell for two seconds and twitched her nose almost imperceptibly.
"You… carry the cold air of the outside world."
Even with her battery nearly drained, the famous Miss Holmes retained her astonishing intuition. She muttered indistinctly, "And then… a faint… flavour of cigars…?"
"I went down to the front porch to check the lock and brought in a little coal."
Russell stated a perfect reason without so much as blinking. He had sat in front of the fireplace for ten minutes; the main purpose had been to erase the cologne and cognac scents of the Savoy Hotel that clung to his coat. As for the faint cigar smell that still lingered, it would be entirely unproblematic to blame it on the cold air that had drifted in from the London streets.
"The wind and snow are very strong; the cold air has soaked right through to the marrow of the bones."
Charlotte's dull mind clearly lacked the capacity to support any further deductive reasoning. She accepted the explanation, closed her eyes again, and stretched both arms toward Russell.
"Walking is a bother…" She issued the order with full confidence, yet the tone revealed a dependence she showed only to a certain person.
Russell chuckled but obediently bent down, slid one hand under her back and the other under her knees, and slowly lifted her light, soft body. The moment Charlotte left the sofa she pressed her cheek against Russell's neck, searching for the most comfortable spot.
From the dim living room Russell lifted the bedroom door quietly with his toes and gently laid her on the soft bed. Charlotte pulled the quilt around her body, buried her face in the pillow, and suddenly murmured:
"Appled… it must be the post office… he must be receiving physical mail…"
Even in sleep that detestable dead end continued to torment her proud self-esteem.
"Don't worry about Appled, Charlotte."
Russell sat on the edge of the bed, gently stroked her smooth forehead with a warm palm, and gradually smoothed the crease between her brows with his thumb.
"Everything is fine. Rest well."
Feeling that reassuring temperature, the tightly knit crease between Charlotte's brows slowly relaxed, and her breathing once again became long and calm. Russell sat quietly by the bedside for a while until he was certain she had fallen into a deep sleep. Then he stood up, extinguished the gas lamp completely, and left the room in silence.
He returned to the living room. The fire in the fireplace was gradually weakening; only a few remaining embers still gave off faint heat. Russell walked to the window, gently lifted the edge of the heavy velvet curtain, and looked outside.
Baker Street was still covered in heavy, damp snow; the gas lamps swayed gracefully in the wind and snow, as though freezing this vast imperial capital into a long, quiet winter night. The moment his gaze turned to the window, every trace of gentleness vanished completely from those eyes. In its place was a cold, sharp sensation that could freeze the whole of Scotland Yard.
Five days left until Christmas.
Thanks to current transportation technology and a few excellent tools, five days was enough time for him to travel between the three cities. Whether everything went smoothly or not, he was certain he could return to London before the final day. In other words, this was equivalent to possessing three full days of free time.
Russell released his hand and let the curtain fall, completely shutting out the wind and snow outside.
"Appled..."
The whispered voice vanished into the raging wind and snow.
Now that the non-selectable magic box had taken physical form, the next thing to do was extremely simple.
Destroy it.
Milverton's confidence in it stemmed not only from his outstanding intellect but also from the fact that he actually possessed evidence sufficient to make people submit. Yet if the latter were completely annihilated, the former would, with only a little structuring, transform into groundless madness. Even if he were a media bigwig, once several aristocrats accused him and he could produce no evidence, his position as a media bigwig would be finished. Besides, such an opportunity would never come to him in the first place.
The moment he completed all preparations, Milverton's death would be imminent.
The main reason he had not killed Milverton in the hotel was his own position. If Milverton had died there, he himself—the sole invited guest—would naturally have been suspected of involvement in the incident. Until he obtained the necessary information he had decided to keep the man alive a little longer.
Russell turned and entered the room. The girl who had buried herself in the bed sensed the approach of something warm. At first she frowned a little, yet then, drawn by the familiar scent, she instinctively drew closer. And so she slept soundly through the night.
…
Morning on Baker Street.
The living room was filled with the fragrance of black tea and the scorched smell of toast. Mrs Hudson had lit the fireplace early and arranged a luxurious English breakfast on the table.
When Charlotte emerged from the bedroom with slightly disordered long hair, Russell was already fully prepared. He had changed into a thick deep-black overcoat; a small leather briefcase stood beside him. He was slowly spreading orange marmalade on a buttered slice of toast.
"Going out?"
Charlotte stopped. Her ash-blue eyes were still a little sleepy, yet a detective's instinct instantly sensed the unusual atmosphere drifting through the room. She lightly tugged the cashmere shawl over her shoulders and sat down opposite him at the table.
"To be precise, I will be leaving London for several days."
Russell placed the jam-spread toast on a plate, then took the delicate white porcelain teapot and poured steaming black tea for Charlotte.
"Where are you going?"
Charlotte took the teacup and warmed her frozen fingertips with the rising steam.
"Birmingham, Manchester, and possibly Sheffield."
Russell picked up a cup of black coffee and spoke in a calm tone, as though the journey about to begin were merely a winter holiday.
"Milverton's account books in London are as blank as a clean sheet of paper, so Appled must be an organisation that possesses physical storage locations. Therefore the northern industrial cities where he made his fortune are the most likely hiding places. Underground black markets, abandoned textile factories, or even unregulated private vaults are far more suitable for storing such shady secrets than the Savoy Hotel in London."
While Russell spoke, Charlotte frowned slightly; various thoughts raced through her mind.
"That is certainly a logical inference, yet the scope is far too broad."
She shook her head.
"With fewer than five days left until Christmas, even if one takes the fastest steam locomotive to tour these cities… moreover, delays caused by heavy snow and bad weather will consume most of the time."
"I know."
Russell set down the coffee cup; a faint composure resided in those deep black eyes.
"From a rational standpoint this may be meaningless and monotonous work. Yet London is now at a dead end, and we cannot simply sit in this living room waiting for the British Empire to hold its final, catastrophic celebration on Christmas morning."
He looked at Charlotte; a gentle smile floated at the corners of his mouth.
"Besides, do not forget former profession. In those cities there may be undercover agents the authorities could not find, yet who can be located through Moriarty's routes. When the maze before one's eyes is far too complex, sometimes the most effective method is to smash the wall with a hammer."
Charlotte fell silent. She stared at the black tea before her; the tea-leaf stains remaining at the bottom of the cup rippled faintly in the water. As an outstanding detective who firmly believed in logic and deduction, she instinctively rejected this brute-force, thorough investigation method that lacked precise targeting. Yet as a partner fighting alongside the phantom thief, she knew that unconventional methods sometimes produced astonishing results.
"I'm coming with you."
The girl suddenly raised her face and spoke in a resolute tone.
"If you are the one responsible for utilising the channels to search for those properties, I can help you analyse and screen them more quickly on site. Two people are always more efficient than one."
"No."
Russell refused firmly.
"Why?"
Charlotte's eyes instantly sharpened; her tone carried a note of doubt. "Do you think I will hold you back?"
"No—exactly the opposite. Your brain is an extremely precious thing."
Russell stretched out a hand across the table, gently took Charlotte's hand that rested on the edge, and lightly stroked her slightly cold skin with his fingertips.
"Because of the heavy snow outside, the railway lines heading north have frozen considerably, so for the next few days I will be working without rest in the slums and underground black markets of those cities. Places like that do not suit you. Besides, several days of arduous travel will completely exhaust the body."
He paused; the smile vanished and his expression grew serious.
"Moreover, someone must remain in London. That cunning Milverton is still living at ease in the top-floor suite of the Savoy Hotel. If Appled is truly a Dead Hand system, it is absolutely impossible for it to sever all physical connections with the outside world completely. Whether Mary continues to monitor the financial situation of the financial district or you try to find loopholes in the postal network, someone who can grasp the overall picture is needed to supervise here. If our external actions make him wary, we cannot allow the rear forces in London to fall into chaos."
Charlotte stared fixedly into Russell's eyes, trying to find any trace of falsehood in his perfect testimony. The logic was sound, the reasons sufficient, perfectly blending a sense of security and trust. Yet a detective's detestable intuition faintly pulsed in her heart, sensing that something more dangerous lurked behind this calm decision.
"You had better just keep digging through the basements of those cities. Do not go scheming some foolish thing I know nothing about and end up on the gallows."
In the end Charlotte yielded. She gripped Russell's hand in return and applied light pressure with her fingertips, as though it were some silent warning.
"Don't worry. I want to return early for Mrs Hudson's Christmas dinner."
Russell gripped her hand in return, firmly feeling that warmth in his palm. He stood up, walked to the suitcase, and picked it up.
"While I am away, please make sure to eat on time. If you really cannot figure something out, why not go for a walk or enjoy afternoon tea with Mary at Kensington Palace? Stop shutting yourself in the room and staying up all night."
"It's useless teaching me how to do things."
Charlotte snorted, yet she still stood up, walked to the entrance hall, took the coat from him and handed it over.
Russell put on the coat, placed a silk hat on his head, and pushed open the first-floor door. From the corridor the faint sound of Mrs Hudson washing dishes in the kitchen could be heard.
"Wait a moment."
Just as Russell was about to descend the stairs, Charlotte suddenly called out to him.
Russell stopped and turned around.
The girl advanced with a faint rustle of clothing, rose on tiptoe in the dim light at the top of the stairs, and bit the lower edge of his lip as a punishment. The force was not particularly strong, yet it was sufficient to leave a clear tactile impression.
"You must return before Christmas."
From Charlotte's ash-blue eyes the usual arrogance had vanished; only an unshakable stubbornness remained.
Russell touched the moisture on his lower lip and gave a small smile.
"As you command, Miss Holmes."
The front-door bell rang eight times.
When the door closed with a dull sound, Russell stepped into the swirling snow. Beneath the shallow-brimmed hat the gentleness and nonchalance that had resided in the young man's eyes vanished in an instant.
Russell hailed a carriage, gave the address of London's Euston Station, and climbed in.