The second body appeared at the exact time Lucian least wanted it to.
He was crouched behind a shelf in the Library's East Wing, using the stub of a pencil to calculate this week's passive income.
Monday through Thursday: three hours a day.
Twelve points total.
Plus the three extra points from last night—following Charlotte to the scene.
Fifteen points.
At this pace, he'd have to sit in the library until the end of time to afford his next skill exchange.
When Lestrade's men burst in, Lucian honestly thought it was a librarian coming to throw him out.
"Miss Holmes!" The constable's hat was crooked. "Another one's dead!"
Fourteen meters away, Charlotte set down her papers.
The lollipop shifted from the left side of her mouth to the right.
"Same method?" she asked.
"Same whiskey, same two glasses, same—" the constable gestured at his palm, "that pattern."
Charlotte stood, grabbed her coat, and passed Lucian without slowing.
Lucian shut his notebook, stood, and followed.
At the library door Charlotte halted without turning.
"Why are you following?"
"Reference material," Lucian said.
"Get lost."
"Okay."
She resumed walking as if she'd never acknowledged the man behind her.
…
A gentleman's club and that last shabby hotel were two entirely different species.
Redwood paneling. Antler chandeliers. Air that smelled of cigar smoke and old money left to ferment.
To die in a place like this meant at least one thing: the victim had done well while alive.
Walter Pierce, sixty-two, retired merchant—heavy-bellied—reclined in a leather armchair, face peaceful, as if he'd just closed a deal he approved of.
Two crystal tumblers on the table.
One empty.
One half full, amber liquid catching the light.
On the victim's right palm: a honeycomb brand.
When Charlotte crouched by the table, she'd switched flavors—strawberry to green apple.
Lucian had already noted the pattern on page six of his notebook:
Strawberry was normal mode.
Green apple was work mode.
(If he ever wrote that down in the biography, he'd be called a pervert again.)
"The press time is longer than the first victim's," Charlotte said, turning the dead man's hand and pointing at the burn. "More even pressure, too. He's improving. The first time, he hesitated. The second time, he's starting to enjoy it."
Lestrade flipped through his notebook. "A waiter says the victim met someone that night—a 'wine merchant.' Introduced by a friend."
"What did he look like?"
"Young. Friendly. Charming smile."
Charlotte repeated it. "Young, friendly, charming—three traits that are easiest to fake. Like a résumé that says 'cheerful' and 'team player.' It means nothing."
She stood and walked to the window.
"Two corpses. Same pattern. The killer lets the victims choose their drink, drink it themselves. No restraint. No ropes. No struggle."
She turned back.
"This isn't poisoning, Lestrade. It's sentencing. The honeycomb is the verdict—and only a judge signs verdicts."
"A link between the victims?"
"They once co-owned a trading company. Check what they did two years ago—"
"Two years ago again?" Lestrade looked like he'd been told to rewrite an exam he'd already submitted.
"Because you didn't check last time."
"I did!"
"You read three pages and gave up. Your attention span is shorter than the lifespan of the candy in my mouth."
…
On the carriage ride back, Charlotte kept her eyes closed, green-apple lollipop rotating slowly.
"Goldfish."
"Yes?"
"Lab results: a synthesized toxin built on a melittin base. It only activates cardiac toxicity when combined with lysozyme in saliva."
Lucian thought for a moment. "So… only if they drink it?"
"Skin contact and inhalation do nothing. The killer can sit opposite, holding his own glass, and drink with them."
Charlotte opened her eyes.
"Share a drink. What a tender way to kill."
When the carriage stopped at the school gate, a streak of gold stood beneath the lamplight.
Mary held a volume thick enough to serve as a bludgeon. The distribution of mud on her shoe tips suggested she'd paced there for at least twenty minutes.
"Miss Holmes. Mr. Grey." She dipped her head slightly. "I heard about the second case."
Charlotte looked her over. "News travels fast."
"The medical school has its channels." Mary opened the book and offered it. "That synthetic melittin compound appears only once in public literature: an extracurricular report from a theology auditor who withdrew from London University two years ago. Signed: N.R."
Charlotte scanned it at a speed roughly equivalent to a normal person blinking.
"Cross-indexed?"
"Melittin synthesis is niche. Under twenty entries in all European literature databases. Filtered through the London University catalogue, only this remained."
Three seconds of silence—the fixed interval Charlotte used to evaluate credibility.
"Useful. Thank you."
Mary smiled, walked two steps, then turned back.
"Oh—Mr. Grey. Last night I waited until six. You never came to the library."
Five o'clock.
Mary had promised she'd meet Lucian at five.
Then Jekyll had burst in with the autopsy note, then the scene, then Mycroft's carriage.
Lucian had forgotten the appointment so thoroughly it was almost impressive.
"I'm sorry, Miss Morstan. Last night something came up—"
"It's fine." Mary shook her head, smile gentle. "You must have been busy with something important."
She waved. The golden side braid swayed once, and she disappeared into the fog.
Lucian turned—
"Goldfish." Charlotte's gaze stayed on the direction Mary had gone. "Your Miss Morstan happened to have read a niche paper from two years ago?"
Lucian's throat tightened.
"She might just be widely read—"
"Goldfish," Charlotte cut in. "You defend her three times faster than you defend yourself. I've logged that data, too."
Lucian shut his mouth.
"She may be innocent," Charlotte said, voice flat, "but 'innocent' isn't a permanent resident in my vocabulary."
The night wind slid through the colonnade; her silver hair moved faintly.
Charlotte turned toward the academic building, walking quickly.
Lucian followed.
"We're going to—"
"Archives. We're looking up N.R."
"Now? It's eleven."
No answer.
Her footsteps receded down the empty corridor.
Lucian jogged to catch up.
"Miss Holmes, I think I'm coming down with a cold, can we do it tomorrow—"
The footsteps didn't slow at all.
"…Forget I said anything."
…
The archive room's gaslamp had only a final bead of flame left.
Lucian spent forty minutes digging through withdrawal records, fingertips coated in dust and mold.
Charlotte stood by the window with her back to him, eating lollipops.
Probably her sixth one tonight.
"Found it."
Noah Redding. Theology auditor. Withdrew two years ago.
Supervisor note: Brilliant, but mentally unstable.
Charlotte walked over—
and stopped.
In the footnote field, at the very bottom, in smaller handwriting than everything else:
"His sister, Alice Redding, committed suicide the same year. Cause of death: suspicious."
The gas flame trembled, shrinking to a pea.
"Cause of death: suspicious," Charlotte murmured. "A person dies, and the record gives them four words. Then her brother drops out and starts studying bee venom."
She raised a hand, fingertip hovering over the line.
"Two years."
"A two-year fermentation period," Lucian said, picking up the thread from what she'd said two nights ago.
Charlotte looked at him once.
"Write that down."
"Already did."
"Not the case." She turned for the door, paused at the frame without looking back. "That line—put it in your notebook. It's ten thousand times more useful than your notes on the angle at which I eat candy."
"You really have strong opinions about the candy—"
"Would you like to test them right here?"
"Noted, noted," Lucian said quickly.
He lowered his head and wrote on a fresh page:
"Two-year fermentation period."
Then, in handwriting so small only ants could appreciate it, he added beneath:
"(Candy notes later, secretly.)"
…
Late night.
By the fireplace, Moran polished a silver cocktail shaker.
"Why are you helping Holmes solve the case?" he asked.
"Helping?" Mary removed a hairpin. "Moran, a spider doesn't help a fly find its way. A spider weaves its web across the route the fly must take."
"And what do you gain?"
"A thorn." Mary tilted her head. "A thorn stuck in Holmes's mind she can't pull out. A niche paper fewer than twenty people in Europe have read—and I just happen to have read it. She'll suspect me. But she'll never find proof."
"Thorough," Moran said after a beat. "But there's another variable."
"The corgi isn't a variable. He's a free gift." Mary sipped her tea. "He'll write this into the biography: 'Miss Morstan provided a crucial lead at a key moment.' Then all of London will remember a kind, learned, flawless young lady who steps forward in crisis."
Her lips brushed the teacup again.
"The more Holmes suspects me, the more the corgi rushes to defend me. A genius's instinct and a corgi's trust will fight. Guess who wins?"
Moran considered. "The corgi."
"Of course." Mary smiled. "Because geniuses argue evidence, and corgis argue feelings. Evidence can be destroyed. Feelings can be manufactured."
.....
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