Alice's cause of death: suspicious.
Those three words spun in Lucian's head all night.
The next morning, he showed up to class with dark circles under his eyes—and discovered Charlotte had moved even faster.
The whiteboard was already plastered with clippings, photographs, and red string. How she'd obtained the files didn't matter. When a Holmes wants an archive, it's probably about as difficult as a normal person buying scones from a bakery.
Three names were circled at the top:
Herbert Marsh — lawyer — deceased.
Walter Pierce — merchant — deceased.
August Flynn — banker — alive.
Beneath the three names, a red line tied them to the same node:
Berrie Trading Company — partnership formed in 1879.
From that node, a black line ran down to a blurred photograph at the bottom of the board.
A young girl. Seventeen or eighteen. Light hair. A shy smile. An ill-fitting old dress. The edges of the photo had yellowed and curled with age.
Under it, someone had written:
Alice Redding.
Charlotte stood with her back to the doorway. The lollipop was green apple.
"Two years ago," she said, "Noah Redding's sister, Alice, accused the three men of assault at a private dinner."
Lucian stood at the doorframe and opened his notebook. "How was it handled?"
"Buried." Charlotte lifted a yellowed legal document. "Marsh got the case dismissed on a procedural defect. Pierce paid off the only witness. Flynn sealed every newspaper's mouth."
She tossed the paper back onto the desk.
"Three men who looked respectable," she said, flatly, "joined hands and turned a poor girl with no family into wastepaper."
"And then?" Lucian asked.
"And then Alice killed herself three months after the case was withdrawn."
The office went quiet for a few seconds.
Students passed in the corridor, talking about cricket. Someone laughed—just once—thin and bright through the crack under the door, and that laugh collided with the shy smile in the faded photograph on the board.
Lucian lowered his head and wrote a line in his notebook. His hand had to keep moving, or he couldn't trust his face to stay calm.
"Three men. Three glasses. Three honeycombs." Charlotte turned, pulling the lollipop from her mouth. "A checklist revenge. Flynn is the last one. Two years of fermentation—long enough."
…
That afternoon, Lucian accompanied Charlotte to the gentlemen's club for a second round of questions.
The waiter offered more detail this time:
The friendly young "wine merchant" always tilted his head slightly when listening. When pouring, he filled the other man's glass first, then poured his own. When he smiled, there was a faint crease at the corner of his eye.
It was too specific.
These were the sorts of details you noticed only after repeated contact.
After they left the club, the two split up. Charlotte returned to school to整理 her notes. Lucian went to the tavern by the gate to buy black bread.
The moment he pushed the door open, the intuition baked into the Moriarty performance card surged up his spine.
Behind the bar stood a young man—twenty-five or twenty-six—with brown curls, polishing a glass.
A regular leaned on the counter complaining about the weather. The bartender turned his head to listen, neck angled just so, mouth shaped into the kind of smile that made you feel interesting, important, sincerely heard.
Lucian stared at the man's profile. Maybe it was because he'd been playing at Moriarty, but he could see the acting for what it was.
The tilt of the head.
Where the smile-crease sat.
The order of the pour.
Three details, like three keys.
Click. Click. Click.
Inserted into the same lock.
Then he noticed the sign above the doorframe.
THE GOLDEN BEE.
Lucian bought his bread. His expression didn't change. He paid and walked out.
Normal pace. Normal breathing. Normal eyes.
A goldfish buying bread—nothing more.
Back at the library, he sat down within fourteen meters of Charlotte and tore off a slip of paper, placing it beside her book.
[The owner of the Golden Bee tavern by the school gate matches the club waiter's description of the friendly young man. Same behavioral pattern. Name: Oliver Vance.]
Charlotte read the note for three seconds, looked at Lucian once, took her coat—and left.
…
They stood across the street, watching the Golden Bee's peeling lacquer sign sway slightly in the damp air.
"Golden Bee. Honeycomb. He didn't even change the name," Charlotte said. "Either he's unbelievably confident… or he's waiting to be found."
She told Lestrade to dig into Vance's background, then returned to school.
The result arrived the next morning—along with a diary pulled from the police evidence room.
Alice Redding's personal effects.
The diary was only twenty-some pages. Most of it was fragmented, everyday things:
Washed three baskets of clothes today; fingers got pruney.
A new bakery opened on the corner; the Danish pastries look amazing but cost too much.
Brother stayed at church late again.
Charlotte flipped quickly—until she stopped on the third-to-last page.
The handwriting wasn't Alice's careful, restrained script.
It was big, crooked letters, like a child learning to write.
Today I taught the neighbor boy, Tommy, how to write his name. He wrote it seventeen times before he got it right, but every time he made a mistake he giggled. I asked why he was laughing, and he said it was because Alice姐姐 smiled.
Below the writing was a little drawing: a stick figure with a round head and short legs, and beside it, wobbly lettering:
"Tommy's drawing of Alice."
Charlotte's fingertip hovered above the drawing.
Lucian leaned in and glanced at it.
It was ugly.
But the round head wore a grin stretched ear to ear.
"She made children laugh," Lucian murmured.
Charlotte didn't answer. She turned to the final page.
There was only one sentence.
The handwriting slanted. Ink had bled into a few strokes. The paper was slightly wrinkled.
Whoever wrote it had been crying.
Only Oliver believed what I said. But what use is belief?
Charlotte closed the diary—more gently than she'd opened it.
"He was Alice's friend," she said. "Maybe the only one."
Lucian stayed by the door, watching her.
"A popular tavern owner," he said. "Why would he help someone murder people?"
"Guilt." Charlotte shut her eyes and tapped the desk twice. "He believed her—but only believed. He didn't testify. Didn't go to the papers. Didn't do anything extra. And then she died."
She opened her eyes.
"Two years later, he walks into their lives with those relaxing eyes and that warm smile. He makes them drop their guard. He makes them raise a glass with him. Redding provides the poison and the list. Vance does the execution."
"One judges in the dark," she said, "and one carries out the sentence in the light."
"A perfect partnership," Lucian said.
…
That same afternoon, Lucian ran into Jekyll at the apartment stairs.
"It's bad, Lucian! Bad!" The honest man wailed, pale with panic. "August Flynn is my patient at St. Bartholomew's! Monthly cardiac checks—last week I signed his file. If something happens, I'm the last contact again—"
"Breathe," Lucian said.
"My diaphragm is spasming!"
"Then breathe shallow."
Jekyll shallow-breathed for thirty seconds, finally stopped shaking. Lucian handed him half a cup of coffee that had gone cold.
"When is Flynn's next check?"
"Next Tuesday… no, wait—he cancelled everything yesterday. Said he's attending some merchants' banquet."
Lucian looked out the window.
The clouds at the horizon had been dyed amber by sunset.
Flynn cancelled his hospital appointment to attend a banquet.
And Oliver Vance hadn't been arrested.
…
Lucian went to find Charlotte.
Her office door was half open. She was on the telephone with Lestrade.
"—Let Flynn attend Thursday's banquet as scheduled," she was saying. "Plainclothes inside and outside the dining hall. Place men in the kitchen and corridors. The moment Vance appears, intercept on-site."
Lucian stood outside listening.
Clean plan. Tight net. Use the prey as bait, wait for the hunter to show his face, then close the trap.
Exactly the sort of thing Charlotte would do.
But Lucian noticed one detail.
After she hung up, Charlotte sat alone in her chair, staring at the board for a long time.
Her gaze rested on a sketch of two glasses.
One poisoned. One safe.
The victim chooses.
The victim drinks.
There was a light in Charlotte's eyes.
Lucian had seen it before.
In that hotel corridor, when she spoke of mutual destruction—an eerie, dark resonance flickering in her gaze.
Now it was brighter.
She was looking forward to it.
.....
patreon.com/RuneA
If there's a particular novel you're enjoying on Patron, please give it a 'like' so I know to focus on it