One hour earlier.
On the opposite side of London, in a privately owned townhouse next to the Diogenes Club on Belm Street.
The shadow brain of the British government, Mycroft, removed his snow-covered black coat and casually handed it to the butler who had come to greet him.
Mycroft walked through the warm corridor and headed straight for the walnut double doors of the study on the second floor. The fire in the fireplace burned brightly, driving away the cold that filled the room. He went to his own desk, intending to light a cigar to calm his exhausted nerves.
But at that moment his gaze, tracing the mahogany panels lined up on the right side of the desk, stopped slightly. The fingers holding the cigar froze in mid-air, and a sharp light appeared deep in his ash-blue eyes.
He walked over to the mahogany panel, stretched out a hand, pressed down the carved edge decorated with acanthus leaves, and applied pressure in a certain rhythm. With a faint mechanical sound, the wooden panel slid open to the left and right, revealing the brass security device hidden inside the wall.
The keyhole was intact; there was no sign of forced entry.
Yet Mycroft's heart sank to the bottom in an instant.
The almost invisible wire he had inserted into the keyhole as an alarm signal had disappeared.
He quickly turned the keypad and opened the heavy brass door.
The composure that had remained calm even in the face of collapsing mountains finally crumbled.
"This time you've gone a little too far, thief."
…
On the top floor of the Savoy Hotel standing along the Thames, a luxurious suite.
Schumann's piano music played beautiful melodies from the phonograph, completely shutting out the raging blizzard outside the window and inviting one into another world.
Charles Morstan Milverton, wearing a bathrobe and holding a glass of amber liquor, lounged comfortably in a velvet armchair. Less than twenty-four hours remained until the deadline of the ultimatum he had issued.
He thoroughly enjoyed the sensation of having every important figure in London in the palm of his hand and watching them tremble with fear like ants on a hot iron plate. Especially the usually aloof head of the Morstan family—she was probably shedding secret tears right now in front of the northern snow clouds she knew nothing about.
"Click."
Against the background of the pleasant piano melody, a soft sound suddenly stood out.
Milverton frowned and turned his face unhappily toward the heavy carved oak door of the suite.
The door lock was easily pushed open.
There was no polite knock from a waiter, no announcement from a bodyguard.
A cold wind carrying the scent of snow immediately blew into the warm, comfortable suite; the phonograph vibrated faintly. A tall, thin black figure like a ghost that had appeared from the night wind slowly stepped onto the expensive carpet and entered the room. Russell closed the door, shutting out the wind, snow and cold once more.
Snowflakes that had not yet melted still clung to his dark-coloured coat; his leather boots left slightly damp traces on the thick carpet.
"Good evening, Mr Milverton."
Russell removed his snow-covered silk hat and casually hung it on the brass coat rack by the door. His voice was calm and composed, with an eerie politeness.
"The snow outside is terribly deep. London's cabmen these days won't even try to earn ten pence for a small errand. I walked the whole two blocks just to see you."
Milverton's relaxed expression vanished in an instant, replaced by one filled with excitement and expectation.
"Ah, Moriarty, my good friend—I never imagined you would actually come. When I received your letter, I still suspected you might be trying to deceive me. What a pity. I had truly been looking forward to receiving a present at Christmas."
"Never mind. I have other plans for Christmas. Spending it with an old man would be far too embarrassing."
Russell said this and then sat down opposite Milverton.
Milverton's gaze fixed on Russell's face.
"What is this strange mask?"
"One always needs appropriate clothing to accomplish things."
Russell shrugged, showing no intention of removing the mask.
"Or do you simply enjoy looking at my face?"
"I have no interest in your face."
Milverton shrugged and dropped his gaze to Russell's hand.
"But I am extremely interested in that. What exactly is it?"
Russell casually tapped the leather briefcase beside him twice with his black-gloved fingers.
"How should I know? I haven't looked. All I was responsible for was bringing it here."
Hearing this, Milverton raised one eyebrow, a look of joy appearing on his face. He did not even immediately open the briefcase to verify whether it was genuine. Instead, he held the glass of amber liquor, slowly walked out from behind the desk, and stopped in front of Russell.
He looked down at Russell, whose face was half-covered by the mask, a pathological satisfaction floating in his eyes.
"It is beautiful."
Milverton sighed quietly.
Russell raised his eyes.
"It's inside the box. You can't tell how beautiful it is just by looking at the leather."
"No, no, that isn't what I mean."
Milverton took a sip of his drink and smiled, shaking his head.
"Moriarty, I mean you. The sight of you having to lower your head and steal the British Empire's highest secrets just to protect a few birds… is far too beautiful."
He stared at Russell as if appraising a precious treasure, then casually pulled over a high-backed chair, crossed his legs, and sat opposite Russell, relaxing as though attending an afternoon tea party with an old friend.
"Look," Milverton said, drawing a circle in the air with the hand holding the wine glass.
"That is why I love this work. Everyone is a target. Whether a high-ranking aristocrat, a powerful minister, or a madman like you who can control the wind and rain of the slums—everyone has unresolved problems. Even if it is only an inconspicuous diary or a blurred negative, once you find the thread and gently pull, the seemingly invincible exterior immediately collapses, revealing the fragile hollowness inside."
He drew a deep breath, as though even the air in this suite had been wrapped in a fragrant aroma.
"This is even more intoxicating than the world's finest red wine."
Russell ignored his self-satisfied speech. He simply stared calmly at the blackmailer in front of him, who was wearing a bathrobe and believed he held everything in his grasp; his voice was completely flat.
"A promise is a promise. I have brought the goods. Now hand over every file, negative and letter concerning Mary Morstan and the Holmes family."
"Ah, of course—deal concluded."
Milverton put on an apologetic smile and spoke in a light, genial tone.
"You are a very capable young man. I like capable people. Since you revealed Mycroft's weakness to me and thereby demonstrated your sincerity, the problems concerning the head of the Morstan family and that adorable little detective can naturally be resolved."
"Then where are the goods?"
Russell asked.
"What goods?"
Milverton pretended to be surprised and raised one eyebrow.
"The original documents, receipts, photographs and suspicious letters that can be made public."
Russell stared at him coldly through the mask.
"And Appled as well."
"Ah, that."
Milverton suddenly burst out laughing. The laughter sounded especially grating in the warm suite. He stood up, walked over to the phonograph, gently toyed with the needle with his finger, and the piano music took on an even more beautiful melody.
"It's right here."
Milverton turned and nodded at Russell.
"Everyone is here."
"What do you mean?"
Russell frowned.
"Look—Appled, just as you see it."
Milverton laughed.
"Otherwise, what exactly do you think it is?"
Still laughing, Milverton returned the same question as though looking at a child who had not yet grown up. Holding the wine glass, he strolled leisurely across the Persian carpet; the hem of his silk robe swayed gently with his movements, creating a languid, comfortable atmosphere.
"In this day and age, if you walk down Fleet Street carrying a knife, the police will arrest you. If you pack a basement with gunpowder, Scotland Yard will hang you."
He walked to the window and gazed at the swirling snow outside. His arrogant, mocking expression was reflected in the glass.
"But memory… memory is innocent, Moriarty."
Milverton stretched out his index finger and lightly tapped his temple twice, producing two dull sounds.
"What do you think Appled is? A black underground fortress built on the edge of a cliff? A hidden bank vault with triple brass doors? Or a ghost warehouse full of safes hidden in the sewers?"
He turned and spread both arms as though declaring a great truth to the entire world.
"No, no—such physical existences are far too cumbersome and far too weak. Fortresses built by humans can be physically destroyed. No matter how deeply they are hidden, a monster like you will tear them apart with violence."
Russell sat in the velvet armchair, hands folded on his knees, and stared steadily at Milverton's frenzied monologue through the half-mask. There was neither surprise nor anger. He was like a spectator who had bought a front-row seat and was calmly waiting for the end of an ordinary comedy.
"Is that your trump card? Your brain?"
Russell's voice was flat, without a trace of emotion.
"Then what about the original items? The letters and photographs?"
"What basis do you have for believing that the editor of The Times will accept that tomorrow morning's front-page headline is not baseless slander?"
"You still don't understand, young man."
A look of condescending mockery appeared in Milverton's eyes. He returned to the table, set down the wine glass, placed both hands on the table, leaned forward and drew closer to Russell.
"When you have turned the entire upper class into puppets, the problem is not whether the strings actually exist. As long as they believe the strings exist, that is enough."
Milverton lowered his voice as though confiding a wonderful secret.
"Do you remember who I am? Not the King of Blackmail. Someone cleaner, more transparent."
"Chairman and CEO of the Birmingham Daily Mail, the Birmingham Daily Express and the Sunday Courier."
Milverton nodded with satisfaction.
"Since I am the owner of the newspapers, I have no need to slam a pile of mouldy manuscripts onto an editor's desk the way a third-rate gossip reporter would. I don't even need to set foot in that printing factory filled with the smell of ink and cheap cigars."
He slowly circled halfway around the high-backed chair where Russell sat. His leather slippers made almost no sound on the thick carpet.
"My editors—those pitiful fellows who receive my salary and depend on me for their livelihood—need neither evidence nor photographs nor even signatures. All I need is a name, a description, or a hint. Tomorrow morning, newspapers throughout the British Empire will completely destroy that unfortunate man's reputation as if an imperial edict had been printed overnight. And that is the fundamental principle on which Appled's business operates."
Milverton stopped beside Russell, bent down, and spoke in an almost whispering voice.
"That is the truth, Moriarty. There is no vault filled with secret documents, no central hub of a Dead Hand system spanning the entire north. Appled is nothing more than a phantom created to threaten clever people like you. The true weapons are the intellect in my brain and the newspaper empire in my hands."
He straightened and spread both arms.
"Whoever I declare guilty is guilty."
Milverton gazed with satisfaction at Russell, who remained motionless in his seat; his smile grew even brighter.
"Under that mask you must be feeling considerable frustration, no? You probably thought Appled was a place like a heavily insured vault, but in reality it was only a castle in the air."
He returned to the low table, picked up the half-finished wine glass, and raised it from afar in a toast to Russell.
"But do not be discouraged, young man. At least you completed the transaction and helped me obtain something that can make the shadow of the British government kneel before me. In exchange, I will completely erase from my perfect mind every memory concerning Miss Morstan and that little detective. After all, this is a civilised age. The violence I now possess is far more effective than your fights and killings."
"But you still need solid evidence, don't you?"
Russell asked.
"Otherwise, if a tough opponent confronts your accusation, not only denies it but sues you for libel—what will you do then?"
Hearing Russell's question, Milverton paused for about 0.5 seconds and then let out a small laugh. He had to stretch out one hand and lightly support himself on the edge of the desk so as not to spill the wine in his glass.
"Libel? Bluffing?"
He walked slowly toward Russell with the wine glass, casually pulled over a chair, and sat down.
"In this world built on reputation and vanity, the truth is actually of no importance at all. What matters is what the public is willing to believe."
Milverton crossed his legs and spoke in a light tone.
"Suppose that tomorrow morning the front page of the Birmingham Daily Express carries a detailed article claiming that a respected cabinet minister is sheltering a young actress in a remote townhouse. There are no photographs, no original love letters—only vivid, detailed descriptions. What do you think will happen? Will he immediately take a lawyer to Scotland Yard and sue me for libel?"
Before Russell could answer, Milverton snapped his fingers as if directing a performance.
"No, he will not. If he did, it would develop into a long legal process. My colleagues on Fleet Street would swarm around him like sharks that have smelled blood and dig up every detail of his family history and private life in search of explosive statements. A judge might rule against me in two or three years and order me to pay a few hundred or a few thousand pounds—but so what?"
Milverton spread both hands in a contemptuous, indifferent gesture.
"By then his political enemies will already have used the scandal to bring him down, his wife will have left him with a large trust fund, and the exclusive aristocratic clubs will have indefinitely revoked his membership. Even if he ultimately wins the lawsuit, in this society he is already as good as dead."
He leaned comfortably against the soft cushion of the high-backed chair, took a sip of wine, and began speaking with absolute arrogance and confidence.
"In this age, reputation is more fragile than thin ice. No decisive evidence is needed in court. The person does not even need to have actually committed a crime. As long as I have enough material in my head to spin a logically perfect story, they will have no choice but to obediently hand me money and buy a peaceful life that will never be made public."
Hearing this eloquent speech, Russell remained silent for a while. Through the half-mask, his expression could not be seen; only his calm voice floated in the warm air.
"But you still have to keep the letters and photographs."
After all, if one walks dark roads too often, one is bound to encounter one or two truly fearless fools.
"Ah, of course."
Milverton nodded in agreement and casually repeated the opinion.
"It cannot be denied that in this world there are always one or two fools who only shed tears when they see the coffin. For such people one must always give satisfaction. Have them bring out one or two old promissory notes or bedroom photographs from some dilapidated warehouse in the north and slam them onto the desk to open their eyes."
When he finished speaking, Milverton casually waved his hand as if brushing away a troublesome flying insect that did not exist.
"But that is only a minor means of confirmation. It is only the dessert, not the main dish. True power does not lie in those piles of old paper that burn to ash and grow mouldy and damp with fire."
He stretched out his free hand and lightly tapped the table twice with his index finger. His gaze passed over Russell and stopped on the leather briefcase quietly placed at the side. The pretence of leisure finally thinned a little; impatient greed began to spread instead. The tone of his voice also became as if a customer were urging a waiter to bring the food more quickly.
"All right, young man. As an elder, I have answered your questions and satisfied your curiosity about the so-called Appled. Now let us return to the main subject and complete this mutually beneficial transaction."
Milverton raised his chin a little and smiled as he stared at the suitcase.
"What is the combination for that box? I am dying to know what fatal weakness the famous detective Sherlock Holmes so readily taught you."
"1895."
Russell said in a calm tone.
Milverton paused.
"Moriarty, what an unpleasant and twisted sense of humour."
"Shouldn't a password contain some emotional value?"
His voice was completely flat.
"Of course, of course. As long as this Pandora's box full of secrets can be opened, I don't care whether it is my mother's death anniversary or your birthday."
Milverton shrugged and once again put on an arrogant smile. He bent down and placed his slender fingers on the brass dial lock of the leather briefcase; the movement was as elegant as plucking the strings of a cello.
1, 8, 9, 5.
Two sharp mechanical clicks rang through the quiet suite.
Milverton's smile reached its peak at that moment, filled with the fervent desire to grasp the fate of the British Empire. Without hesitation, he opened the heavy lid of the suitcase.
Yet the red velvet file folder bearing the top-secret emblem of Whitehall that he had imagined was not there.
There were no top-secret government documents that could trigger a cabinet reshuffle.
The moment the suitcase lid popped open, the extremely compressed contents burst out with a "whoosh" like a mass of swollen entrails.
Several yellowed letters, crumpled black-and-white negatives, rolled-up club promissory notes, and a few thin account books stained with unidentified dirt.
They spilled indecently from the box and scattered across the floor.
The suitcase was packed tightly with a large quantity of old paper that had been roughly crumpled and carelessly stuffed in.
Milverton's smile vanished in an instant. He awkwardly lowered his head; the light fell on a sheet of paper lying on the carpet.
It was a handwritten love letter from a high-ranking naval officer to a society lady. On the back of the letter, an organising number that only he could understand was written in red ink.
These were the spare desserts he kept in the safe-deposit box of an underground bank in South Birmingham.
He raised a trembling gaze toward the mountain of paper scraps inside the box.
The scandalous photographs of aristocrats kept by the Manchester gang boss, the account books and stubs hidden in the abandoned warehouse in Sheffield… They were the sketches and frameworks he had scattered throughout the northern industrial cities and used as the physical body of the phantom monster Appled.
At this moment they were stuffed without any dignity into a not particularly large leather trunk, giving off the smell of old, mouldy paper.
Milverton's face darkened.
"I thought we had finally reached an agreement on several matters."
He kicked the box.
"In the end you still want to play the hero, don't you?"
Milverton looked at Russell with a dark expression.
"Even if you obtain all of this, what then? What changes?"
His chest heaved violently; for the first time, an ominous light appeared in the eyes that were usually filled with arrogance and mockery.
Yet the anger at being deceived disappeared as quickly as if extinguished by a deeper poison. Instead of flying into a rage, after staring at the pile of paper scraps for several seconds, he suddenly let out a low, cold laugh.
"You bravely pushed through the blizzard for three days, crossed half of Britain, and carried this mouldy garbage onto the carpet of the Savoy Hotel? Do you think that by burning these relics or violently throwing them in my face you can declare your heroic deeds and bankrupt Appled?"
Still laughing, Milverton took a silk handkerchief from the pocket of his bathrobe and slowly wiped the fingers that had just touched the lock of the leather trunk.
"You still don't understand, Moriarty. I told you before—it's useless."
He casually threw the handkerchief onto the scattered letters as if discarding a dirty rag.
Milverton returned to the high-backed chair, placed his hands on the backrest, and looked down at the young man sitting in the chair.
"What do you think this changes? To prove your laughably clumsy execution? Or to show off your meaningless heroics?"
Milverton adjusted the silk collar of his robe and put on a compassionate expression.
"I will be frank. The moment I received your letter and learned that you intended to provide me with top-secret information of the British government in exchange, I immediately sent someone to deliver a message to that person in the British government."
He stared at Russell's mask, hoping to see panic appear in those eyes.
"I sent a message to Mycroft Holmes, telling the head of the shadow cabinet that a dangerous madman was trying to sell me secrets capable of overthrowing the country on the top floor of the Savoy Hotel."
Milverton was satisfied that the sound of the wind and snow outside the window seemed more melancholy the moment those words were spoken.
"Considering the timing, Mr Mycroft should already have realised that his impregnable study is completely empty. Meanwhile, the Scotland Yard carriages have probably already completely sealed off the street below the hotel. Betraying the nation's information security is an act of treason. You do not even have the right to set foot in that ridiculous courtroom. Mycroft will sink you into the thick fog of the Thames. And your pitiful heroic tale will sink into complete darkness together with you."
Milverton's refined manner instantly turned into fierce fanaticism as he brought his face close to Russell's ear and whispered with malicious expectation.
"When you die, Fleet Street tomorrow morning will fall into complete chaos. I intend to publish every single word of Mary Morstan's secret—that she is the professor of that underground empire, and her dirty history of posing as an aristocratic heir—on the front page of every newspaper! And what about that self-important Charlotte Holmes? The scandal of her sheltering criminals and conspiring with gangs will become the most ridiculous joke in all of London society. You three will be nailed forever to the pillar of shame and spat upon down to the bone!"
He straightened and looked down coldly at Russell, who remained sitting upright, delivering the final judgement.
"And I am still a good citizen who escaped this storm unharmed. I can even use Charlotte's fate to force Mycroft to compromise. Do you think you are saving them? No—you are merely robbing them of their last chance to live. From beginning to end, the truly self-centred one was you."
Just then Russell suddenly noticed a sound from outside the door.
The thick cashmere carpet in the corridor had excellent sound-absorbing properties, yet it still could not completely shut out the rapid, noisy footsteps.
Immediately afterwards, the oak suite door was pounded violently from outside.
"Scotland Yard! People inside, open the door at once!"
It was Lestrade's roar, mixed with shortness of breath.
Even through the thick door, Mycroft's cold, stern voice could be faintly heard. He was calmly ordering that every entrance and exit of the hotel be completely sealed.
Hearing the commotion outside the door, Milverton's smile became even more filled with joy. He slowly rolled up the sleeve of his bathrobe that was about to slip, casually picked up the half-finished wine glass, and raised his chin a little. The posture was as elegant as that of a concertmaster about to deliver a final greeting.
"Do you hear it? The song of execution has begun."
Milverton gazed leisurely at Russell as if appreciating a beast trapped in a cage with no escape.
"Once the elite agents of the British Empire force that door open, you will be pinned down on this beautiful carpet. I will stand by as a good citizen cooperating with the government, assist in the recovery of the top-secret documents, and watch you and your insignificant clients fall together into the abyss."
Even in the face of this seemingly insurmountable predicament, Russell did not raise his face. He sat quietly in the high-backed velvet armchair and calmly read Milverton's declaration of complete victory.
From outside the door came the dull sound of preparations—someone seemed to be trying to break down the door—when Russell suddenly straightened his back and leaned forward a little.
"In order to prevent the British government from focusing only on the wrong things, there is one thing I must confirm before they arrive."
Russell's voice came through the mask; there was neither panic at impending doom nor the mad desperation of a last gamble.
"What is it?"
Milverton gently swirled the glass and put on a calm, refined smile.
"As a sign of the winner's generosity, I will allow you to speak your last words."
"Appled."
Russell's eyes, hidden by the mask, were fixed on Milverton's pupils.
"There are no offshore bank accounts overseas, no telegraph hubs in Europe. The original relics that make Whitehall bow—'all of them are inside that box.'"
He raised a gloved finger and pointed at Milverton's forehead in mid-air.
"The so-called ultimate black material—the terrifying system that will destroy the whole of London if your heart stops—actually exists only inside your brain? It is a lie you fabricated, a lie maintained solely by your own memory?"
Hearing this persistent, relentless confirmation, Milverton first raised his eyebrows in surprise and then could not help chuckling.
"Are you still hung up on this?"
He shook his head. His eyes were filled with the pity and mockery unique to those in high positions.
"Yes, Moriarty. Apart from the scraps of paper you foolishly stuffed into the suitcase, the Appled you fear exists only here."
Milverton lightly tapped his temple with the hand holding the wine glass in an elegant gesture.
"This is the safest vault in the British Empire. There are no spare keys, no copies—only one in the entire world."
Outside the door, a heavy battering ram was already being pressed against the oak door panel, producing a teeth-grinding creaking sound.
Yet the moment Russell heard Milverton's clear answer, he breathed a sigh of relief.
It was as if the rock that had weighed heavily on Charlotte, Mary and himself for three days had finally shattered in that instant.
"Then I can rest easy."
The complex mechanical gears disappeared; the virtual network spanning the whole of Europe vanished. Since every wall of the maze was an invisible phantom, the simplest and most effective method was, of course, to smash the solid core with a hammer.
Under Milverton's somewhat suspicious gaze, Russell reached into the inner pocket of his black coat.
When he stretched out his hand again, what he held was a Webley revolver that gleamed with a cold metallic lustre.
Under the lighting of the warm suite, the dark muzzle was aimed precisely at the perfect brain of Milverton, which held every secret of the British elite.
Milverton's hand holding the wine glass stopped dead in mid-air.
The last thing Appled captured was the flash of the gunshot.
It was the Christmas fireworks launched for him.
"Merry Christmas, Mr Milverton."