The moment those words left his mouth, the black figure surrendered to gravity and, like a solitary bird with broken wings, fell backward without the slightest regret. In that complete moment of weightlessness, a sudden gust lifted the hem of his coat, and the blizzard swallowed the somewhat comical mask in the blink of an eye. There was no struggle—only elegant composure.
"Moriarty!"
A roar that seemed about to tear his throat apart burst from Lestrade, yet the sound was instantly drowned by the raging wind and snow outside the window.
The inspector roughly pushed aside the officers blocking his path and, caring nothing for his surroundings, charged toward the broken French windows.
At that moment the crowd's defensive line finally began to collapse as if by necessity.
Charlotte suddenly broke free from the officers' restraint, staggered to the edge of the window frame, and stepped over the blood-stained glass shards and paper scraps scattered on the floor.
The cutting wind carrying ice shards mercilessly scraped the girl's white face. She gripped the remaining window frame tightly and stared with her ash-blue eyes into the bottomless darkness below.
There was nothing.
No scream, no dull thud of a body rapidly falling and striking the ground. Only the ceaseless sound of the wind and the roar of the black waves of the Thames could be heard.
In a blizzard fierce enough to hide every evil and truth, the arrogant Moriarty vanished from people's sight in an instant.
Charlotte froze on the spot; an expression of disbelief appeared even in Lestrade's eyes. He thrust half his body forward but could not even grasp the mask; he could only watch it being blown farther and farther away by the night wind.
"Seal every riverside exit! Dispatch flat-bottomed boats to search the water surface at once! We must find them alive or dead!"
Lestrade recovered himself and shouted orders to the Scotland Yard officers behind him.
In contrast to the sheriff who had lost his composure and Charlotte who was stunned, Mycroft and Mary appeared relatively calm.
The girl had simply been shocked and moved by Russell's self-sacrifice; her reaction to his act of jumping from the building did not go beyond surprise. It was not as though she did not know Moriarty's character.
How many times had this man jumped from the second floor of the Morstan mansion?
Mycroft remained expressionless and calm throughout. He gently brushed aside a blood-stained photographic negative at his feet with the tip of his long-handled black umbrella and coldly watched the farce unfolding before him.
"Secure the crime scene. Collect every scrap of paper on the ground—leave not a single one. Furthermore, I want to tell our friends on Fleet Street that tomorrow morning's papers must not contain a single punctuation mark beyond what I allow."
When he finished speaking, Mycroft's gaze passed over the busily moving officers, stopped on his sister's slender figure standing by the window, and then turned to Mary standing quietly by the door.
"Charlotte and Miss Morstan, please return to Baker Street."
Mycroft raised his chin slightly.
"What happens next is beyond the capacity of ordinary people to handle."
This was both an order to leave and a protective charm. Mycroft exercised the authority of the government and clearly and resolutely severed the physical connection between them and the blood-stained suite.
The room emptied in the blink of an eye. Milverton's body was wrapped in cloth and carried out of the Savoy Hotel before everyone's eyes. Mycroft leaned on his umbrella and quietly gazed at the dim scene in the photograph he held.
"They truly put on a wonderful show."
He sighed quietly; the voice vanished into the wind and snow.
The return carriage was so quiet that one could hear a pin drop.
Charlotte leaned against the corner of the carriage, eyes lowered, staring at her slightly cold fingertips. Her mind raced uncontrollably, calculating and measuring the vertical distance from the top floor of the Savoy Hotel to the Thames, the wind speed, the resistance during the fall, and the water temperature of the river in December. After countless assumptions and calculations, she finally arrived at an unavoidable conclusion.
This was a sharp increase that reached a mortality rate of 99.9 %.
Yet for some reason, every time Charlotte recalled the apologetic yet arrogant expression he had shown just before falling, the heart that had been constricted up to her throat could not sink completely to the bottom.
Mary sat opposite her; her expression still retained the composure and calm unique to the aristocracy. She glanced at Charlotte, whose expression kept changing, thought for a moment, and finally broke the silence.
"He will be all right."
The girl gently comforted her.
Hearing this, Charlotte unconsciously looked up at the calm-looking girl sitting opposite.
"Reason?"
She asked.
"Because he is Moriarty."
Mary stated a completely illogical reason. Yet it was precisely this reason that possessed a persuasiveness surpassing any number of pieces of evidence or hypotheses.
Charlotte stared at Mary for several seconds, then finally relaxed her tense shoulders a little. She hummed softly, turned her face away, and returned her gaze to the blurred night sky outside the carriage window.
"What kind of reason is that? There is not the slightest basis for deductive reasoning."
Charlotte muttered to herself, yet she no longer unconsciously intertwined her fingers from tension.
"At best he is a scoundrel with astonishing endurance, not a god who can break the law of universal gravitation. Falling into the Thames from such a height in December, the intensity of the impact and the coldness of the water alone would stop an adult man's heart in an instant."
"But he is not merely a scoundrel; he is also a fraudster who calculates every element."
Mary tucked her slightly chilly hands into her deep-green cloak, yet her posture still radiated a reassuring elegance. She gazed at Charlotte's profile, faintly visible in the dim light of the carriage, and a faint smile appeared on her lips. Almost blind trust resided in Mary's eyes.
"The gaze he directed at us at the end was not a final farewell."
Charlotte did not refute her. After her brain cooled, the events of the few seconds just before Russell fell were replayed in her mind. Before jumping from the window, that bastard had even had the composure to toss away an expensive handkerchief that had grazed the gun muzzle, and even the composure to remove his hat and salute Mycroft. That posture was more like a magician finishing a grand finale on stage and about to deliver a final greeting than a desperate fugitive.
The carriage glided smoothly along the snow-covered streets of London. The two girls who had just passed the scene of one of the most serious murder cases in the history of the British Empire were wrapped in a quiet yet expectant silence inside the narrow space.
When the carriage finally stopped in front of 221B Baker Street, the blizzard seemed to have subsided a little compared with the first half of the night.
Pushing open the familiar oak door and climbing the rather steep wooden stairs back to the second-floor living room, they found it in exactly the same state as when they had hurriedly left a few hours earlier. The overturned bone-china teacup still rested quietly on the table; the fireplace logs had burned down to deep-red ash, giving off a faint warmth.
An empty room always felt quieter.
Mary removed her cloak, walked skilfully to the fireplace, poked the remaining embers with the tongs, and added two more dry logs. With a faint crackling sound, bright yellow flames rose again and almost completely drove away the cold remaining in the living room.
Charlotte removed her heavy coat and returned to the soft sofa. Only when her back touched the familiar cushion, and she smelled the lingering fragrance of black tea and smoke in the air, did she finally realise that Milverton was truly dead.
Appled, which had once haunted the upper classes like a nightmare and almost robbed them of any escape, had now become a corpse with a severely damaged forehead and a mountain of paper scraps blown about by the wind and snow.
The two women sat close together on the same sofa, feeling the warmth rising from the fireplace. The hidden hostility born of shared possessiveness had completely disappeared under the woollen blanket in the snowy midnight.
"Milverton is dead."
Charlotte spoke quietly.
"Yes."
Mary nodded lightly. "He is dead."
The silence in the living room lasted only a short while. In the quiet room, the crackling of the fire could be heard clearly.
"Milverton is dead. From today there are no more chains."
Mary pulled the edge of the woollen blanket and neatly covered her slightly cold knees.
"Mr Moriarty fled before the eyes of Scotland Yard and Mycroft, but sooner or later he will return. I think he is right now thinking of any excuse so that you won't drive him out with the fire tongs."
Charlotte was a little taken aback by this teasing remark. A faint nasal sound escaped.
"He won't get away so easily."
The girl bit her lower lip; irritation at being teased coloured her voice.
"He took every danger upon himself, and we could only watch his reckless, performance-art-like display of personal heroism. If we don't teach that arrogant, self-centred attitude a lesson, next time he might jump from Big Ben."
"That's exactly what I mean."
Mary nodded in deep agreement. She turned slightly sideways; half her face was hidden in soft shadow, yet the emerald eyes reflected Charlotte's cheeks, which were gradually turning red from the warmth of the fireplace in the flickering light of the flames.
"That is why we must give him a profound lesson."
Mary deliberately lowered her voice, adding a seductive resonance like that used by young aristocratic women when confiding secrets in a corner of a ballroom.
A familiar scent that should not have been present at this time and place quietly drifted across the social distance between them.
Charlotte turned her face warily and realised that Mary had somehow come right up beside her. They were sharing the same woollen blanket; it was only natural that their knees lightly touched through the cloth.
"What are you planning to do next?"
Charlotte instinctively shrank about 1.2 centimetres toward the armrest of the sofa.
"I'm not doing anything," Mary blinked innocently. "I just happened to think of a way for us to cooperate in taking revenge on that man."
Mary stretched out a slender white finger and casually traced the golden hair hanging over her shoulder. Her eyes held a knowing light.
"Miss Holmes, what do you think about that special Christmas present?"
At that moment the temperature in the living room seemed to rise sharply. The redness that had just faded from Charlotte's cheeks surged back to her ears like a tidal wave. In the girl's heart, the conversation they had exchanged before parting was revived with unbearable vividness.
The skilful hands that had undone ribbons in the dark, the gentle moments that left no time to think, and the absurd, excessive invitation to fight the monster together.
"You… you are completely mad! How can you bring that up at a time like this?"
Charlotte's voice stammered unusually; she hastily averted her eyes from Mary's mischievous gaze and fixed them on the almost burned-out logs in the fireplace.
"Why not?"
Mary continued her insistence in a tone full of self-righteousness.
"Are you going to keep lamenting that scoundrel's lack of self-control after he returns from a winter swim, until he slips into your bed with irresistible temptation and leaves you without even the strength to refuse? Detective, the initiative is not always in his hands."
"Shut up!"
Furious, Charlotte grabbed the velvet cushion from earlier and placed it between them, trying to block the head of the Morstan family's piercing gaze. Yet this time she did not counter-attack with the cold, rebellious words of a few hours earlier.
The only sounds echoing in the living room were the faint crackling of the burning logs and the girl's breathing, which had become a little faster from emotional ups and downs.
Charlotte buried the lower half of her face in the soft edge of the cushion and fixed her ash-blue eyes on the blazing flames. After a while, just as Mary was about to withdraw into her shell again, an almost inaudible yet gritted murmur came from behind the pillow.
"If you're going to prepare it at Kensington Manor…" Charlotte choked on the words; even her long white neck took on a deep, ripe flush.
"…you'd better drive out all the servants beforehand. I don't want to hear footsteps outside the door at that time."
Hearing this additional condition that effectively meant complete surrender, Mary, sitting opposite, first widened her eyes a little, then let out an irrepressible cheerful laugh. A clear, pleasant laugh rang through the living room of 221B Baker Street, filled with the fragrance of black tea.
"Certainly."
She said with a smile.
"I'll arrange for everyone to take a proper holiday at that time."
As the night deepened, the blizzard that had raged all night finally lost its force before dawn and turned into small ice crystals weakly swirling under London's dim gas lamps.
…
Belville Street.
Mycroft Holmes handed his snow-covered long-handled black umbrella to the approaching butler, removed his coat, adjusted the slightly wrinkled collar of his waistcoat, stepped onto the soft carpet of the corridor, and pushed open the walnut double doors leading to the second-floor study.
After the chaotic, bloody, and absurd night at the Savoy Hotel, this invisible brain of the British Empire desperately needed a top-quality Cuban cigar and aged cognac without ice to calm his heavily burdened nerves. Furthermore, before dawn he had to carefully check in his mind every press release that Fleet Street was preparing to publish, ensuring that the official press release contained no flaws and left no room for political enemies to make a fuss.
Yet while walking toward the desk as usual to take the cigar box, he stopped three steps short of the walnut desk.
The deep-red embers of the fireplace gave off a faint warm light that barely illuminated the area behind the desk.
At that very moment, an uninvited guest was sitting in an affected manner in the high-backed leather chair with velvet cushions owned by the head of the British government.
His body was uninjured; not even a single snow crystal clung to him. The young man who should have been feeding fish at the bottom of the ice-cold Thames was now stretching out his long legs and casually resting both arms on the armrests of the leather chair. He had not even changed out of his deep-black cashmere coat, yet even under the dim light of the fireplace the fabric retained the dryness and drape unique to high-quality material. There was not the slightest trace of the chaos one would expect after falling from a high building into water. Not a drop of mud or water remained on his skin; even the edges of his handmade leather boots were perfectly clean.
On Mycroft's sculpture-like, expressionless face there finally appeared a human trace of helpless fatigue. He neither pressed the alarm bell under the table nor called the butler outside the door. On the contrary, as though he did not care in the least that his chair had been taken, he continued the rest of the routine he had planned.
He took the mahogany cigar box, skilfully cut a Cuban cigar, lit it, then turned to the liquor cabinet and poured two glasses of aged cognac without ice.
"I suspect you reserved in advance, under some false name, a luxurious suite with an outward-facing terrace directly below the top floor of the Savoy Hotel."
With the cigar in his mouth, Mycroft smoothly pushed one of the crystal glasses toward the young man sitting on the other side of the desk.
Russell calmly accepted the glass; the amber liquid sparkled elegantly in the air. He did not explain how he had escaped death. Explaining such things was difficult to begin with.
"The charm of magic lies in light and shadow, and in the blind spots of perspective."
Russell took a sip of the rich cognac and smiled casually.
"In a blizzard with visibility of less than three metres, combined with skilful emotional manipulation, the sheriff could easily have linked the falling shadow with an illusion on the water surface."
A brief silence fell over the study, broken only by the occasional crackling of the fireplace logs.
Holding the wine glass, Mycroft walked around the desk and stopped a little to Russell's side, slightly in front.
"Tonight you quietly breached the British government's defence network twice. The first time was to obtain a ticket to see Milverton—what about the second time?"
Russell gently placed the empty wine glass on the walnut table, slid his long fingers into his coat pocket, and pressed a pure-white card against Mycroft's eyes. The word written in black ink on it was "Appled."
"Of course the second time was to pay the bill."
Russell raised his eyes and stared straight at the man who held half the fate of the British Empire in his hands. There was not the slightest hint of fear in his tone.
"Concerning the death of Milverton and that empire that no longer exists. I believe I have removed a troublesome disease that Whitehall had found incurable for many years."
"Now that Milverton is dead, if you wish, you can easily become the next Milverton."
Russell said meaningfully.
"That suitcase contains the fortune his family accumulated over more than ten years."
Mycroft lowered his gaze and looked at the card.
"Is it not enough that Moriarty, with his own hands and under his own name, exposed Milverton—the largest and most notorious blackmailer in the history of British crime?"
"Is death unavoidable?"
"If you die you die as a martyr. If you survive, you become a fugitive murderer. The choice is yours."
"Still, I would like a good reputation."
Russell shrugged.
Mycroft averted his gaze.
"So where did you collect those items?"
"Birmingham, Sheffield, Manchester… I've been almost all over London."
Russell took another sip of wine.
Hearing this, Mycroft finally revealed an unconcealable surprise.
"More than your astonishing speed, what interests me is where you obtained that information network."
He could not help asking.
"Don't pry too much into the affairs of the dead."
Russell smiled.
"If you're that curious, why not try deducing it yourself?"
Hearing this, Mycroft's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Do you really want me to deduce this?"
"If you can't understand, you'd better give up."
Russell said.
Hearing this, Mycroft stopped speaking and even set aside the cigar and wine. He leaned forward a little and quietly stared at Russell as though trying to extract some key word.
"Within seventy-two hours you accurately identified and eliminated more than a dozen hidden locations scattered across northern Britain that Milverton used as backup data storage sites. The information network required exceeds the capacity of ordinary criminal organisations. You not only accurately located Milverton's vaults in various places of the blind sea, but without reporting to the local police or triggering gang conflicts, you used the secrets cultivated over more than ten years to easily seize the hard-earned assets from the underground banks of Birmingham, the abandoned warehouses of Sheffield, and the gang strongholds of Manchester."
He stopped and stared at Russell with cold ash-blue eyes.
"There is no record of Morstan family funds being used, no large-scale personnel tracking records, no vehicle rental certificates at all."
Mycroft took a puff of the cigar and slowly exhaled the smoke.
"According to the most basic deductive reasoning, in order to complete a precise operation spanning half the country in three days without government support, one premise must be satisfied. You control a private information network larger in scale than MI6 and more efficient than Scotland Yard—an underground empire that penetrates every place."
At this point, Mycroft fell silent for 0.5 seconds.
"Yet this logic contains a fatal contradiction."
Russell sank deeply into the chair, slowly turning the crystal glass in his hand while filling in the blanks in his mind.
"That's correct."
Mycroft stared at him with cold eyes.
"If a giant creature capable of avoiding every visual and auditory sense were truly lurking underground in London or the whole of England, I should not miss even a single echo. No matter how deeply it is hidden, as long as it is operating there must be friction, yet I have seen no trace of it at all."
"Everything that exists leaves a trace."
Russell chuckled and drained the last drop of cognac remaining in the glass.
"Then, Mr Holmes, now that you have excluded the most logical conclusion, what conclusion remains?"
A brief silence fell over the study, broken only by the faint crackling of the fireplace embers.
Mycroft leaned back a little; in the eyes of a man accustomed to measuring the world by materialism and logic, there appeared a deep colour of absurdity and confusion. He recalled that this young man had always broken through seemingly impossible situations with irrational and unconventional methods.
"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."
Mycroft's voice carried a rare note of self-mockery and a sigh.
"If that huge, invisible criminal organisation does not exist, then even if it completely contradicts Newton's laws and modern science, the only remaining explanation is one I must reluctantly accept."
He stared into Russell's unfathomable eyes and slowly yet clearly spoke the conclusion he himself found ridiculous.
"Moriarty may be a code name, but the one who accomplished all of this is you alone."
"Hm?"
"You can easily read the memory of that outrageous monster, and you can ignore obstacles such as wind, snow, and space to move like a ghost to every corner of this country."
Mycroft gently traced the edge of the cigar with his fingertip.
"In other words, you possess some special ability—a supernatural talent that exists only in third-rate popular novels or Gypsy fortune-telling tents."
Hearing a person who could be called the incarnation of absolute rationality solemnly state this conclusion, Russell's smile finally widened.
"Is this your final conclusion?"
He sought confirmation from Mycroft like the host of a quiz show.
"I hate groundless speculation games."
Mycroft slowly exhaled smoke; there was not the slightest sign of agreement in those ash-blue eyes.
"Yet after excluding every physical possibility, this answer—however counter-intuitive it may sound—is the only one that can completely explain the entire sequence of events."
Hearing this serious assertion, Russell could not help laughing out loud. He assumed a more comfortable posture in the high-backed leather chair and casually toyed with the half-empty crystal wine glass.
"Truly worthy of the Holmes family brain. If those old-fashioned cabinet ministers knew you were seriously discussing the paranormal in your study, they would surely send you to the mental hospital on the other side of the Thames overnight."
Russell neither affirmed nor denied it.
Mycroft did not seem to mind this somewhat sarcastic evasion. He was more focused on how to resolve the series of criminal acts than on investigating what unnatural means the young man had used to empty the northern vaults.
"In other words, you left that box of luggage on the carpet of the Savoy Hotel and forced me to clean up afterwards."
Mycroft's gaze rested on the pure-white card placed on the desk.
"Do you think I will inherit Milverton's legacy and continue to blackmail cabinet ministers with those mouldy negatives?"
Russell shrugged indifferently.
"If you had really wanted to do that, you would not have let me jump."
He stared at Mycroft's restrained, cold expression.
"You are precisely the symbol of the British Empire. Trying to maintain order with vulgar nude photographs and old banknotes is thoroughly shameful."
Mycroft vaguely lowered his eyes and flicked the ash from the cigar with his fingertip.
"From today, whether openly or secretly, the name Moriarty has completely sunk to the bottom of the river together with tonight's blizzard. There will be no more bounties or pursuits. Mary Morstan's identity information will be stored under the highest level of encryption, and Charlotte will continue to operate as a law-abiding consulting detective. Everyone gets what they need—a perfect closed loop. Whitehall has overcome a mental cancer, and Russell has discarded a nominal life to obtain absolute peace on Baker Street and at Kensington Manor."
Russell nodded with satisfaction. He drained the last drop of amber cognac remaining in the glass, gently placed the crystal glass on the walnut table with a clear click, stood up, and casually adjusted the hem of his cashmere coat.
"Now that the obituary has been written, I will no longer interfere with the other rulers of England."
Russell turned and walked toward the window.
Just then Mycroft's voice came again from behind.
"Now that Moriarty is dead, what identity do you intend to use to stay in London?"
Russell stopped walking for a moment. He did not turn around; he merely turned his face slightly, a relaxed smile floating at the corners of his mouth.
"Of course the one who was born is Russell. Who else could it be?"
"If the other party is Russell Watson, there are a few questions I would like to ask."
Mycroft's lips curved slightly, as though he had finally managed to return the conversation to his field of expertise.
"Oh? I would like to hear more details."
Russell turned and leaned against the wall.
"It is only natural that the British government is interested in Moriarty. But for an ordinary Imperial College student like you, what on earth could be of interest?"
"Of course."
Mycroft said and set down the cigar.
"And it is a very important matter."
"What is it?"
"Charlotte and Mary Morstan."
Mycroft stared steadily at Russell.
"Bigamy is illegal, Mr Russell."
Hearing this unexpected accusation, Russell's previously calm attitude stiffened for a moment. He stared at Mycroft sitting behind the desk with a somewhat startled look, could not help putting a hand to his forehead, and let out a slightly comical sound—a faint laugh that hinted at impending doom.
Bigamy?
Russell could not help shaking his head.
"Only a few minutes ago the rulers of the British Empire helped the leader of an underground organisation cover up a murder and even personally finalised a plan to destroy half the evidence of crimes committed by the upper class. And only a few minutes later you say you want to discuss with me, a parent, the strictness of Edwardian marriage law?"
Mycroft was unmoved even by this level of mockery. He sank deeply into the leather chair, folded both hands on his abdomen; there was not the slightest room for joking on his expression.
"Dismissing Mr Milverton benefits the country and also solves the Cabinet's problems. Involving Charlotte and that self-important Morstan heir crosses my personal boundary."
The dominant older brother calmly regarded him.
"The British Empire may not care about Moriarty's life or death, but the Holmes family requires a clear explanation."
The cold, severe atmosphere created by political manoeuvring in the study had almost disappeared; instead, a somewhat subtle atmosphere of family conflict drifted through the room.
Russell sighed. He straightened his posture a little, discarded the scoundrel-like attitude he had previously shown toward government officials, and gradually softened his gaze.
"First of all, to commit the crime of bigamy one must at least go to church twice or sign the city hall register twice."
Russell put both hands into his coat pockets; his tone was relaxed yet sincere.
"Now that Moriarty has already vanished with the wind, the remaining Russell Watson is nothing more than an ordinary student. It is far too early for a student who has not yet finished his studies to talk about marriage. Furthermore, even if I emptied my entire pocket, I would not be able to afford two engagement rings befitting their status. I am a thief, yet I have never stolen a single penny. All the money I earned by selling headlines went to paying rent, tuition, and remittances to the orphanage."
When Russell began a self-deprecating complaint while lamenting poverty, Mycroft did not so much as raise an eyebrow.
"Do not try to use an empty wallet as a shield."
He placed the Cuban cigar he was holding on the edge of the crystal ashtray; a faint, unconcealable sarcasm floated in those ash-blue eyes.
"My sister, who is abnormally obsessed with deduction, could never keep up with the enormous amount of information accumulated in her head. If she wished, she could treat a brass pendulum as a priceless treasure. Meanwhile, the shrewd Miss Morstan has just obtained a vast underground empire and immeasurable wealth. If you agreed, she would probably happily order two of Cartier's finest rings and then casually purchase an overseas island where bigamy is not prohibited."
Russell was taken aback. The words he had prepared stuck in his throat and would not come out.
"So it's not a matter of money, is it?"
Mycroft looked at him.
"This is a matter of attitude."
His body leaned forward slightly; the dignity of a leader of the British Empire and the strictness of an older brother perfectly fused in that moment.
"Charlotte is said to be a genius who appears only once in a hundred years, but I do not think so. The way she handles emotions is like a child who has just learned to walk and is about to run toward a cliff. Miss Morstan is intelligent, yet she harbours a madness that runs counter to worldly constraints. If you intend only to enjoy the benefits these two unconventional girls bring and then permanently escape responsibility by pretending it was youthful folly…"
Mycroft's voice broke off.
"I can do nothing about the Moriarty matter, but erasing Russell Watson from society is no different from signing an ordinary deportation order."
Faced with this open threat, Russell desperately suppressed the smile that rose to his lips.
"I have never looked down on any of them, Mr Holmes."
Russell's voice was soft yet carried weight.
"Otherwise, would I have needed to shoot Milverton? Do you really think I am a traitor burning with a sense of justice? As long as he lived, even if he were in prison, I could never have lived in peace. My reputation means nothing, but if their futures were even slightly stained by Milverton's filthy deeds, I would feel it was a blasphemy against them. Now that the most dangerous hyena has been executed, Moriarty has also become a person of the past."
He paused for a moment and put both hands back into his coat pockets.
"Then leave the rest to us. Let young people's emotional problems be solved in the way young people solve them."
Mycroft quietly watched him.
"In other words, you still have not resolved that problem."
He stated, "I understand your attitude and sincerity, but the fundamental problem remains unresolved."
Mycroft repeated it.
"Bigamy is illegal, Russell."
"What can I do?"
Russell shrugged in a troubled manner.
"Do you expect a university student to amend legal statutes? Even Moriarty could not have done that."
"Considering the problems you solved for Whitehall tonight, I might consider casually submitting a supplementary bill to Parliament next week. Or I could grant the three of you unlimited exemptions."
"Goodbye, Mr Holmes."
Russell waved his hands repeatedly as though he had heard a terrifying curse.
"The privileges of the British government are not to be treated lightly. Once you take them, you will probably be tied to a Whitehall desk for life and forced into unpaid labour."
He erased the nonchalant smile and assumed a slightly serious expression.
"Actually, both Charlotte and Mary are not ordinary girls who would be imprisoned by a marriage certificate full of Latin. We all know that well."
Russell gazed at the fireplace fire, gradually weakening, and began speaking in a calm, sincere voice.
"Can you imagine Charlotte wearing a wedding dress, exchanging vows before an officiant, and then exchanging rings?"
"…A little difficult."
"See? Exactly."
They both laughed at the same time.
"Besides, your worries are completely unnecessary."
Russell continued.
"If you are worried about Fleet Street gossip, the Morstan family will carefully teach them how to write press releases. If Charlotte is worried about being laughed at by others… setting aside whether she cares or not, who would have the courage to openly laugh at her? Holmes and Morstan—when these two surnames are combined, I cannot imagine who would be so bold as to cause trouble."
Russell said.
"If there is no other way, as you said, have Mary find an uninhabited island, invite relatives and friends, set up a few tables, and go through the formalities… in any case, this is not something that can be shown to just anyone."
At that moment the air in the study felt strangely relaxed. The invisible brain of the British Empire finally let out a helpless sigh.
"Mr Watson, you always possess a dangerous talent."
He placed the wine glass on the walnut table with a dull sound.
"Using perfect logic, you can make even actions that run counter to common sense appear completely justified."
"I am merely stating facts."
Mycroft did not refute him; he simply stared at him.
The British government does not need scandals, and the Holmes family has no need whatsoever to announce a ridiculous marriage to the world. As long as they close the door and live their own lives, who has the leisure to go and check how many people are sleeping beside the bed?
Seeing Russell's confident, fearless attitude, Mycroft slowly took a cold silver pocket watch from the pocket of his waistcoat and gently opened the lid.
It was already two o'clock in the morning.
He gazed at the second hand of the clock face ticking and returned to his usual distant, indifferent tone, yet there was not the slightest hint of sharp hostility.
"The blizzard has stopped. In a few hours the newspaper boys will stuff the papers reporting Moriarty's death into every gentleman's letterbox."
Mycroft closed the pocket watch and glanced at Russell with his ash-blue eyes.
"If you do not want to step into 221B Baker Street and have two pistols of different calibres pointed at your head at the same time, I recommend you return at once and practise some lines that can save your life in a desperate situation. I have no desire to be dragged into a bloody incident arising from personal relationship complications after solving the greatest problem."
Hearing this cold order to leave, Russell smiled meaningfully. He straightened his back, smoothed the wrinkles in the hem of his coat, then lightly bowed across the desk to the man who ruled half the country, displaying a perfect junior's greeting.
"Thank you for your understanding, Mr Holmes."
"Russell Watson, return to university life."
With a faint rustle of clothing, the carved double doors of the study quietly opened and closed. The young man who radiated an eerie, dangerous atmosphere vanished without a trace beyond the heavy walnut doors.
The long, exhausting, stimulating winter night had finally ended.
From this night onward, a brand-new golden dawn would arrive.