Inside the carriage, Russell replayed the conversations he had held with Milverton over the past few days, seeking final confirmation.
He had mentioned Appled far too often.
It was as if he were deliberately flaunting the power of his Pandora's box, showing it off to others.
Fear often arises from the unknown. Before he understood what Appled was—or in the earliest days after learning of it—even Russell could not deny that the situation had felt troublesome.
Yet the more Milverton repeated and emphasised that it was both safe and dangerous at the same time… the less Russell feared it.
It even produced a lingering sense of unease that refused to fade.
A perfect and terrifying system—a Pandora's box that would drag the entire British Empire down with it the moment the empire's heart stopped beating.
It certainly sounded like a flawless masterpiece, the perfect work of an antisocial genius who dreamed of ruling the empire.
But that was precisely the problem.
It was too perfect.
In every confrontation, Milverton had relentlessly forced the concept upon them. It was exactly like a magician who, before performing a disappearance trick, insistently shows the audience how thick and opaque the black cloth in his hand is.
The more he stressed that the area was forbidden, the more certain Russell became that what lay hidden behind the black cloth was not a bomb capable of blowing the whole of Britain sky-high.
On the system's map panel, the red dots representing Milverton's black-market hiding places were densely clustered across the major industrial cities of the north—Birmingham, Manchester, Sheffield. Their number was astonishing; it easily exceeded a hundred.
An ordinary person seeing them at a glance would no doubt feel despair at the sheer scale.
Moriarty did not.
A thorough search might seem meaningless, yet it was effective.
Four hours later the train came to an abrupt stop at the platform of Birmingham Station.
This city, known as the "Workshop of the World," carried a far stronger atmosphere of iron and coal than the classical elegance of London. The falling snow completely covered the city's chimneys and, in the blink of an eye, turned them ash-black.
Russell pulled his hat low, took up his leather briefcase, and melted effortlessly into the crowd.
The first target was the underground vault of a historic private trust bank in the centre of Birmingham.
To Moriarty, this national bank that appeared so heavily guarded was in reality no different from an unprotected backyard; its security mechanisms still belonged to the previous century. He did not even need to wait until late at night to act.
Birmingham First Trust Bank stood on the west side of Victoria Square—a typical Edwardian building. Towering Roman-style columns and thick granite outer walls made it look like an impregnable fortress even in the wind and snow.
Its clients were mainly the coal kings and textile-mill owners of the northern industrial zone. They valued privacy and security far more than the London aristocrats who merely boasted of their lineage in salons.
Carrying the leather briefcase, Russell pushed open the bank's oak doors decorated with brass castings.
The lobby was filled with a familiar mixture of fireplace warmth, the scent of waxed floors, and expensive tobacco. It was two o'clock in the afternoon, the busiest hour of banking business. Well-dressed gentlemen conferred in low voices before the marble counters; several branch managers with pocket watches hurried back and forth.
Russell strolled through the lobby with an air of casual indifference. The well-tailored deep-black overcoat combined with a slightly arrogant, faintly disordered bearing made him look exactly like a wealthy young master who had come up from London to inspect the family business. Consequently, when he walked straight toward the spiral staircase that led to the underground vault, the two employees nearby simply stepped aside without asking a single question.
At the far end of the stairs leading to the basement stood an ornate black iron gate; beyond it, a guard armed with a truncheon was seated.
Russell walked confidently toward him.
"Halt! Unauthorised persons may not enter."
The guard stopped him at once.
Russell halted, glared at the man with open irritation at being obstructed, his eyes filled with the contempt and disdain a government official typically felt toward private enterprise. Then he drew a black notebook from his pocket and opened it in front of the other.
It was a document whose black cover bore the coat of arms of the British Empire in heavy gold foil. The leather edges of the cover showed just the right amount of wear, radiating unmistakable official authority.
"Senior Inspector, Home Office Special Investigation Bureau."
Russell's voice was as cold as the snow piled on Birmingham's streets, carrying the arrogance and impatience common to London bureaucrats.
"We have received information that this vault contains account books suspected of being a funding source for Fenian extremists. Call the manager. If I do not see him within two minutes, I will not hesitate to dispatch a Scotland Yard team and seal the premises."
The guards' faces instantly turned pale. In the present age, merely being labelled a traitor or extremist could destroy overnight the reputation of a bank with a hundred-year history.
The man did not even dare to verify the authenticity of the documents. Stammering a reply, he spun around and scrambled up the stairs toward the manager's office on the second floor.
Less than a minute later, a stout bank manager, forehead dripping with sweat, came half-running and appeared behind the iron gate. He wiped his face with a handkerchief, respectfully produced a key, and opened the heavy lock.
"Sir, I am Branch Manager Hopkins. There must be some mistake. All of our clients are respectable gentlemen…"
"Mr Hopkins, it is precisely the so-called 'respectable' people who most love to use shell companies to conceal their misdeeds."
Without so much as a blink, Russell arrogantly thrust the search warrant that the system had perfectly forged against the man's chest.
"District Two, Season Two, Safe-Deposit Box No. 2, under the name of Blackwood Trading Company. Show me the way. I am in a hurry."
Manager Hopkins was completely overawed by this self-righteous attitude and could only lead the way obediently.
The two of them walked along the cold, dry underground corridor and stopped in front of a wall lined with small brass doors.
"Shall I fetch the spare key registered by the client?"
The manager took out the bank's master key, inserted it into the lock, and turned to ask.
"No need for such trouble."
Russell answered casually.
Just as the manager turned his face, Russell slipped long fingers into his sleeve; an inconspicuous brass probe slid into his palm. The cylinder of the anti-theft lock, supposedly manufactured by one of London's finest locksmiths, opened with an almost inaudible click.
The entire sequence took only about three seconds and was completed smoothly and without effort. The incident convinced Hopkins that the man before him was no ordinary person.
Russell opened the small iron door and took out a black rigid file box. When he lifted the lid, he found neither advanced bomb fuses nor telegraph wires requiring time-limited password input.
There were only two thick bundles of letters and several black-and-white photographs.
Russell casually flipped open the topmost letter. It was an explicit love letter written by a highly respected Member of Parliament for Birmingham to a certain society lady. Before slipping the letter into his pocket, he allowed a momentary expression of contempt to cross his face.
"Excuse me… what was the result?"
Seeing Russell pocket the letter, the manager felt his chest tighten.
"This operation is top-secret," Russell glanced at him and said in a flat tone. "Your bank was merely used as a hideout for the destruction of evidence. From now on you would do well to keep your distance from it."
"Yes, yes, of course—we—"
"Let me finish what I was saying."
Russell frowned and irritably cut off the man who was trying to prove his innocence.
"As I just told you, this is a top-secret operation. Do you understand? What if the culprit hears something and escapes before we can catch him…?"
"Please rest assured! On my life and the honour of this bank I swear that this afternoon no one entered this safe-deposit box, and I have not seen you at all. I know nothing of what happened in this vault!"
Ignoring the trembling manager, Russell nodded in satisfaction. He tucked the folder containing the blackmail materials under his arm, turned, and descended the same staircase by which he had come, leaving the vault with composed steps.
Outside, Birmingham's cold wind carried fine snowflakes against his face; carriages laboured along the snow-covered streets. Russell walked to a quiet alley at the corner and casually searched through the black file box. Inside were several letters whose explicit contents could ruin the reputation of that popular upper-house member, together with a few secretly taken photographs. Apart from the black-and-white pictures, there was nothing else.
No complex mechanical gears, no hidden telegraph wires connected to the post office, no ejection device that would activate automatically if the security code were lost.
They were merely dusty bundles of paper lying quietly in the dark.
Everything was exactly as he had expected.
A castle in the air was, after all, only a castle in the air.
"First one."
The young man slipped it into the lining of his coat and, turning, vanished into Birmingham's crowded ash-black throng.
The blizzard in Birmingham showed no sign of abating even as evening approached; as night fell it grew still fiercer. Russell wrapped his black coat tightly around himself and walked north along streets covered in ash and grey snow.
On the system map, the red dots appeared at first glance to be scattered throughout the city without any pattern, yet every one of them carefully avoided the sight of official institutions. This matched perfectly the intelligence Milverton claimed for himself; in reality the man was both miserly and obsessive.
The second target was an old-fashioned contract agency situated at the end of Jewel Corner. These institutions usually served newly rich clients who preferred not to make their assets public or who dealt in shady mortgage contracts.
When Russell pushed open the rather draughty wooden door, the only light inside was a dim kerosene lamp. In the corner, a coal stove held only a few remaining embers. An elderly clerk with a wrinkled face and arm-sleeves was bent over the desk, carefully checking account books.
Even when he heard the door open, the old man did not raise his head; he merely glanced over the top of the spectacles that had slipped to the tip of his nose.
"We are closed for the day. If you need land-title formalities or probate, please come tomorrow morning at eight."
"I have come to collect a file I deposited here several years ago."
Russell did not stop; he walked straight toward the desk whose leather was beginning to peel. He placed a five-pound note he had prepared in advance on the table and tapped it lightly with his index finger.
"Metal cabinet number six on the first floor—the one with the brass key."
The old agent's gaze lingered on the brand-new banknote for two seconds; then he slowly opened a drawer and took out a rusty bunch of keys.
"That used to be Mr Charles's cupboard. There was a note saying it could be taken away only if a specific half-crown was presented."
The old man was greedy, yet within the basic principles of professional ethics he still played a reasonably large role.
"I am in a hurry and do not want to miss the train, so I only need to check quickly whether the documents have become damp or mouldy. There is no need to take them with me. I have my own key."
Russell said this while pushing the five-pound note farther forward.
The old man looked at him suspiciously, then at the note on the table. In this city swirling with industrial dust, five pounds equalled three months' wages for him.
After a moment's hesitation, the old clerk quickly stuffed the banknote into his pocket and turned back to feed coal into the stove.
"You may look only once, sir."
"Of course."
Russell walked around the desk and stood in front of the dusty metal cabinet. His palm blocked the old investigator's line of sight; with a few rapid movements of his fingers, the probe slid silently into the keyhole. A slight tremor of the wrist, a faint metallic crack, were completely drowned by the sound of the wind raging outside the door.
When the cupboard door opened, a strong smell of insect repellent drifted out. There were neither complex anti-theft devices nor traps, not even a tin can for moisture-proofing. Inside lay only a cheap kraft-paper bag, roughly sealed twice with cotton thread.
Russell tore the cotton thread with his bare hands and took out the contents: two copies of franchise-transfer documents bearing the royal crest, and a huge IOU signed by a cabinet minister in an underground casino. Every sheet looked worn and yellowish, as though it had never seen sunlight for years. They lay quietly among the dust in this ruined office.
Russell quietly put the items away, then casually directed the old man's attention elsewhere.
"Knock-knock."
A ghostly hand lightly tapped the front desk, drawing the old man's notice. The moment he turned, Russell had already completed the switch.
"It seems to be in good condition. Please give Mr Charles my regards."
"Just a moment—I need to check…"
The old man approached, glanced into the cupboard, confirmed that the contents were still there, and only then breathed a sigh of relief.
Russell turned and left the office.
All night the wind and snow raged, tearing the light of the gas lamps to pieces. The scraps of paper in that agency were only a single drop compared with Milverton's vast smuggling network.
As the red dots were eliminated one by one, Russell gained a very direct understanding of the so-called Appled.
This was no sophisticated Dead Hand system; it was merely an over-packaged, primitive and disordered physical distribution matrix.
There were no secret lines from the telegraph office, no security codes updated every day.
Milverton had scattered those letters, photographs and account books into inconspicuous corners of the British Empire the way a squirrel hides nuts, then locked them away.
Bank vaults, agency strong-rooms, and—
Russell stopped in front of a ruined textile factory in a remote location.
This was the position of the third red dot.
The rusted iron gate was tightly shut, yet through the gap one could see petrol drums filled with firewood burning in the courtyard. In the depths of midwinter, two sturdy gang thugs in thick coats were rubbing their hands for warmth beside the fire.
Stationing night watchmen at such a deserted, abandoned factory was a classic case of protesting too much.
Russell made no attempt to climb the wall and force an entry. He stood in the shadows dozens of metres away and let various thoughts turn over in his mind.
Private-chat function activated.
After gathering the necessary information, Russell immediately changed his tone to the rough, hoarse voice of a man who had worked the docks for years and was half-choked by cheap tobacco. The volume was adjusted so that it could be clearly heard even through the wind and snow, and the direction of the sound was aimed precisely at the ear of the thug who was feeding the fire on the left.
"Hey, Herman said to come to the back alley—he's got a couple of bottles of gin for us."
The voice was short and clear, as though it had come from right behind the man's head.
The thug feeding the fire gave a violent start and spun around, but behind him stretched only a pitch-black brick wall and swirling snow. He scratched his head suspiciously, then glanced at his companion, who was absorbed in warming himself by the fire and showed no reaction at all.
Wondering whether the wind was playing tricks on his hearing or whether the boss was really waiting in the back alley, he cursed, turned, picked up a bottle, and walked slowly toward the rear of the factory.
Only one man remained by the fire.
Russell smiled calmly and stepped out of the shadows.
He was less than ten paces from the iron gate when the remaining thug seemed to hear footsteps on the snow and raised his head in alertness.
[Fog Generation]
Ash-black smoke deeper than the darkness of night and thinner than snow exploded without warning at Russell's feet, instantly enveloping his figure completely.
The ruffian instinctively reached for the weapon at his waist. Yet moments later the grey fog vanished without a trace on the cold wind, and outside the iron gate everything was empty—as though the figure a moment earlier had been nothing more than a midwinter night's illusion.
By then Russell had already appeared soundlessly in the shadow of the ruined platform ten metres inside the iron gate. He landed without making a sound; even the soft crunch of boots sinking into snow was absent.
Beneath the platform lay the former office of the factory manager. A heavy brass padlock hung on the wooden door.
Russell did not descend; he remained standing on the platform, fixed his gaze on the padlock, and used [Ghost Hand].
An invisible force field spread through the air as swiftly as his own fingers. He drew the probe from his coat pocket; the probe floated in mid-air and flew silently toward the padlock. With a faint "click," the padlock opened. Then an unseen hand pushed open the wooden door, seized the tin box that had been placed under the desk, and smoothly passed it into Russell's hand.
He opened the metal box.
Again it contained records of improper transactions by the upper classes. The document that attracted the most attention was the original account book showing that a senior superintendent of Scotland Yard had accepted bribes from East End gangs.
"With this, Lestrade might actually get a promotion."
Russell sneered, removed every document, replaced them with several old newspapers he had picked up by the roadside, locked the metal box again and returned it to its original place.
When the thug who had gone to the back alley returned, cursing, nothing in the courtyard had changed except the still-burning fire.
At that very moment Russell, briefcase in hand, had already boarded the late-night train bound for Manchester—the steam locomotive.
…
"What happened to Russell?"
Seeing Charlotte arrive alone at Kensington, Mary could not help glancing toward the door. She found the familiar figure missing, and only then slowly shifted her gaze to Charlotte's face.
"He didn't come with you?"
"No."
Charlotte shook her head.
"He may be in Manchester by now, or perhaps Sheffield."
Hearing this, Mary frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"Exactly what I said."
Charlotte took the teacup and gently blew on it.
"Yesterday he left alone with a suitcase for Euston Station."
Charlotte held the cup of Darjeeling; a faint irritation she herself had not noticed seeped into her tone.
The living room of Kensington Manor was warmed by under-floor heating and felt like an entirely different season from the snowscape outside the window. Mary sat on the single sofa opposite, holding a newly compiled summary of West District real-estate information.
The moment she heard the news, her emerald-green eyes narrowed instantly.
"Russel went north alone?"
Mary gently placed the property pamphlet she was holding on the mahogany round table in front of her. When the paper touched the table surface, it made a faint sound. Understanding flickered for an instant in the girl's emerald eyes, then was replaced by anxiety she could not completely hide and a faint sense of helplessness.
"If the goal is to locate physical storage sites for Appled, at the present stage looking toward the heavy-industrial cities of the north is the most reasonable choice."
Mary picked up the specially blended Ceylon tea before her and pressed the warm bone-china cup against her palm. She raised her eyes and smiled at the female detective sitting opposite.
"Yet the renowned Miss Holmes merely stood by and watched him risk his life alone, without even slipping into his briefcase in advance to follow him?"
Faced with this slightly mocking question, Charlotte's expression clearly darkened. She set the half-finished teacup down hard into its saucer; the porcelain cups clinked sharply against each other.
Mary sighed softly and looked out at the endless snow that continued to fall, as though it might cover the entire world.
"If he had taken you with him, once you arrived you would certainly have tried to pursue clues in a stricter, more logical, or more detective-like manner. That would have been too slow. There are only five days left until Christmas. The fact that he chose to go north alone means he intends to completely discard the usual mask of the gentle university student."
Mary turned her face and met Charlotte's gaze. Her emerald eyes held the same clear, cold sharpness as Charlotte's.
"In places like Birmingham or Manchester, rules and laws are useless. Only Moriarty's brute-force, thorough methods can suppress everything there."
"Do you think I don't know what he is planning?"
Charlotte bit her lower lip; irritation at being dominated by emotion coloured her voice.
"Let him do as he likes. The fact that he had the courage to head north alone means he possesses absolute confidence in those shady underground channels."
Mary sank deeply into the soft velvet chair; the composure and calm befitting the head of the Morstan family returned to her expression.
"Nevertheless," the girl's lips curved slightly upward,
"when he returns, we will have to settle accounts properly."