The second option was also Russell's favorite.
Late at night, he would wander the streets of London and pick a passerby at random—someone who looked reasonably presentable and, more importantly, like they could use the money.
Then he'd hand them an envelope stuffed with the real goods, along with a slip of paper bearing the contact information for a certain editor at The Times.
The note would also make it clear: deliver the envelope to the designated person, and you'd receive a very generous courier fee.
Most of the time, the "courier" would complete the job half in doubt, half in hope—and the editor, understanding perfectly well what this meant, would pay out a sum far beyond what the errand was actually worth.
The reason was simple. Besides doing the occasional good deed, Russell could also borrow the "messenger" identity when he needed to make some extra cash himself.
As the saying went: give someone a rose, and your hands keep the fragrance.
All of it was groundwork for his later "self-produced, self-distributed" operations.
After all, rent didn't pay itself.
And now that he was in university, there was tuition every term on top of that.
Which meant he needed money even more.
Mrs. Hudson was kind, certainly—but he had no intention of overdrawing that kindness.
For the newspapers on Fleet Street, a "messenger of Moriarty" had long since stopped being a novelty.
In the beginning, they'd been curious. They'd tried to pry at the messenger's identity, hoping to squeeze out a clue or two.
But before long, reporters learned the truth: the Phantom Thief Moriarty chose completely at random.
Sometimes it was a drunk vagrant. Sometimes a maid just off the night shift. Once, it was even a single mother in tears, saying she couldn't afford medicine for her child.
They knew nothing about Moriarty.
They'd simply encountered a masked, generous ghost on a night when despair had them by the throat.
Over time, Fleet Street grew accustomed to the pattern.
Every new messenger who appeared was like a long-awaited Father Christmas finally knocking on the door.
Because they knew what was inside that envelope: a scorching headline—hot enough to make all of London tremble.
•
Russell walked along Fleet Street with an envelope pinched between his fingers.
The buildings on both sides were still lit—proof the newsrooms hadn't closed for the night.
He weighed his options, considering which paper to approach.
In the end, he chose The Times.
No special reason.
The Times paid the fastest, and paid the cleanest.
And rent was due before long.
With that decision made, Russell pushed open the glass door of The Times building.
The reception desk lamp was on. The clerk in charge looked half-asleep, barely hanging on.
"Good evening, sir."
Russell walked up and rapped his knuckles lightly against the counter.
The drowsy receptionist lifted his head, squinting as if his eyes refused to focus, and mumbled, "Can I… help you…"
"I'm here to submit something," Russell said.
Then, without a flicker of hesitation, he added, "Moriarty sent me."
"Moriarty?"
At the name, the receptionist's bleary gaze snapped instantly awake.
His eyes swept over Russell in a flash—an ordinary black suit, slightly messy dark hair, and those eyes that seemed a little too bright under the lights.
He didn't look like a phantom thief.
He looked more like a university student who'd just left a formal event and hadn't had time to change.
"Sir… you…"
The receptionist's voice trembled, just slightly.
"Obviously," Russell said, "I'm tonight's lucky winner."
He placed the unsealed manila envelope on the counter and slid it across.
The receptionist nearly stopped breathing.
He stared at that open envelope, then up at the young man standing there as if this were the most normal errand in the world.
Anyone who worked Fleet Street for more than a week knew what a "messenger of Moriarty" meant.
It meant headlines. Sales. Bonuses.
It meant the entire paper celebrating like it was New Year's Eve.
"P-please wait!" the receptionist blurted.
He practically launched himself out of his chair, grabbed the desk phone, and fumbled the handset with hands made clumsy by excitement.
"H-hello?! It's me—yes, me! Is the editor in? Yes! Immediately—tell him to come down right now! Dear God, he's here! He brought a gift!"
On the other end, someone seemed to complain about his theatrics—
until the receptionist forced the name Moriarty through clenched, barely contained joy.
Then the line went dead silent.
A moment later came a crash—an overturned chair—and a flurry of hurried footsteps.
Russell leaned comfortably against the counter, with enough leisure to study the award-winning photographs hanging in the lobby.
In less than a minute, a middle-aged man in suspenders—hair wild as a nest, a half-smoked cigar clenched between his teeth—came barreling down the stairs as if gravity had personally offended him.
Behind him trailed several reporters in similarly disheveled states, their eyes bright and hungry as wolves.
"Where is it?! The letter?!" the man demanded.
Henry Scott, editor-in-chief of The Times, stormed to the front desk. His gaze locked instantly onto the envelope.
He scooped it up in both hands as reverently as if it were not paper, but the Holy Grail.
Only then did he look Russell up and down.
"You're the messenger?"
"As you can see." Russell gave a small shrug.
Henry narrowed his eyes and carefully poured the contents out onto the desk.
A stack of photographs.
A thick bundle of documents.
And when he saw the face captured in the photos, his pupils tightened sharply.
Ethan Roy.
A Cabinet minister.
Mycroft Holmes's number-one political enemy.
Almost by reflex, Henry shoved the documents and photos back into the envelope and covered it with his body, scanning the lobby with sudden vigilance as if the walls themselves might have ears.
"Come with me," he said in a low voice.
Russell followed him into the editor's office.
The reporters behind them were shut out without ceremony, left outside like starving fledglings—pacing, peering, and twitching with impatience.
The office door locked. The curtains were drawn tight.
Only then did Henry let out a long breath. He pulled a silver flask from inside his coat, took a hard swig, and finally spread the contents across the desk again—checking each page and photo with painstaking care.
The photographs were explicit. The records were worse.
Corrupt deals. Abuse of authority. Trading power for money. Selling positions.
Every line was enough to bury Ethan Roy in public disgrace and end his political life with no possibility of return.
"God…" Henry whispered, fingers trembling with excitement.
He knew Moriarty's every strike came with heavy ammunition.
But he hadn't expected this.
This wasn't a mere headline.
This was a political earthquake—one that could shake the entire Cabinet.
"This… this is all real?" Henry lifted his head and stared at Russell.
"Don't ask me," Russell said, spreading his hands. "How would I know?"
"Right. Yes. Of course." Henry nodded, then abruptly thought of something else. "You didn't tell anyone else, did you?"
"I've only ever read two newspapers in London," Russell said. "The Guardian and The Times."
"And you're closer, so…"
"I'll take everything," Henry cut in immediately. "All of it. The photos, the records—everything."
"The people at The Guardian won't get a scrap of this. Name your price."
"Hmm…" Russell said, testing the water. "Five hundred pounds?"
Henry's brow furrowed. Some of the feverish gleam drained from his face.
Five hundred pounds wasn't pocket change.
He fell silent for a moment and studied Russell more carefully.
Calm, composed, clear-eyed…
He didn't look like someone desperate.
Maybe… the price could be negotiated down.
"Five hundred pounds…" Henry paused.
"Young man, do you know what five hundred pounds means to an ordinary household?"
"That's a full year's income."
"I won't pretend this isn't priceless. But this is a gift from the Phantom Thief Moriarty to our paper."
"You're just the messenger."
Henry relit the cigar that was close to dying, inhaled deeply, and exhaled a cloud that shrouded his calculating face.
"Two hundred pounds. That's the highest we can offer."
"A generous courier fee—far above market."
"And once it's done, we can even mention, in a small corner of the paper, the courageous deed of a certain brave citizen."
He leaned back slightly.
"Well?"
-------
My : pat*eon*com/RuneA
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