The class crawled toward its end through tedious theory and endless calculations.
The moment the bell rang—that sacred sound of liberation—Russell lifted his head at once. The sleepiness in his eyes vanished without a trace.
He briskly took the notebook Mary slid over to him and slung his satchel up onto his shoulder.
"Let's go," he said as he stood.
They walked side by side out of the tiered lecture hall. The sunset spilled across the open space in front of the building like a golden carpet.
They chatted idly and soon reached the fork in the path outside.
"Then I'll see you tomorrow," Russell said, stopping.
"Mm. Tomorrow," Mary replied, stopping as well. She looked at him; the dusk stretched her shadow long enough that it almost overlapped with his.
"Don't forget our Saturday arrangement," she added softly.
"Of course." Russell smiled and nodded. "Even if I forget the date of finals, I won't forget afternoon tea."
Only then did Mary seem satisfied. She turned and headed toward the dorms.
When Russell pushed open the door of Baker Street 221B, a thick mix of tobacco and coffee washed over him.
He followed the smell and found Charlotte standing at the information wall.
Coffee in one hand, a thin pointer in the other, she tapped and traced across the giant London map while muttering to herself. The fire in the hearth burned high, throwing shifting light across her focused profile.
"Any progress?" Russell walked up beside her, eyes flicking over the wall now tangled with strings and notes.
"Lestrade sent a pile of useless paper," Charlotte said, setting the pointer down and taking a sip of coffee, disdain undisguised. "But it's still better than nothing."
"He found Bilson?"
"No." Charlotte shook her head. "Just his last few lodgings—and from the landlords, a description of what Bilson looks like."
She tapped a sketch pinned to the wall: a stereotypical Eastern European face—high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and a shadowy, hostile stare.
"Warrants are out. Every cop in London is looking for him now."
"And Charles?" Russell asked.
"Still in the asylum, repeating the same nonsense." Charlotte clicked her tongue impatiently. "Lestrade's about to lose his mind."
"What's he done now?"
"Since this morning, Scotland Yard's phone hasn't stopped ringing." Charlotte's tone held open schadenfreude. "That Moriarty stunt has the aristocrats terrified. They're pressuring Lestrade nonstop—either drag Moriarty out into the light, or force the papers to stop hyping the 'performance.'"
"Does Lestrade really have reach like that?" Russell raised an eyebrow.
"Obviously not. Which is why he's panicking." Charlotte shrugged. "On one side, the Professor case can't go public—it would cause unnecessary panic. So in their eyes, the Lloyds incident is 'over.' The problem now is Moriarty."
She didn't finish, because Russell already understood.
Since noon, system notifications had been popping up in his head so incessantly that he'd gotten fed up and muted them. Even now, when he glanced at the backlog, he saw Lestrade had contributed a healthy amount of Malice all by himself.
"Yeah," Russell said mildly. "You can tell Lestrade probably hates Moriarty right about now."
"Half of London hates him," Charlotte replied. "Lestrade isn't special."
She tossed the pointer onto the table and turned back to the wall, eyes narrowing as if she meant to yank that ghost named "the Professor" out of the chaos by sheer will.
Russell didn't press. Once Charlotte entered this mode, she ran like a machine with fresh fuel—Mrs. Hudson could walk in and get ignored.
That was fine. It meant Charlotte had something to do—and wouldn't be watching him.
After a few more words, Russell returned to his room.
When night fully settled, he climbed out the window—and vanished into Baker Street's darkness, accompanied by the faint strains of a violin.
Compared to Kensington's stately, old-money grandeur, Mayfair looked markedly more modern.
This was London's highest-tier wealth district—the heart of the social season.
Russell stood atop a building and looked down over Mayfair.
As far as the eye could see: mansions, one after another—no room for anything plain or cheap.
There were visibly more patrol officers on the streets now—almost one every hundred meters—and some even had police dogs.
That "performance teaser" had clearly hit harder than expected.
"Good," Russell murmured, leaning on the railing as the night wind blew. There was no worry in his voice—only satisfaction.
This was exactly what he wanted.
The more nervous people were, the more weaknesses they exposed.
His gaze swept across rows of luxury homes—then landed on a building that looked more commercial than residential.
A club.
A private club.
In Mayfair, clubs like this weren't rare. Only those with the "right" qualifications were allowed in. Absolute privacy.
On the surface, the Romanti Club offered the usual: billiards, drinks, food, entertainment… Deals were struck between clinking glasses and balls dropping into pockets.
That was the first mask.
But beneath a mask, there wasn't always a face. Sometimes, there was another mask.
Russell dropped from the rooftop into the narrow gap between buildings.
When he emerged again, the gentleman thief's outfit was gone.
In its place: a yellow repairman's vest, an old tool bag slung over one shoulder, and a collapsible ladder in hand.
The highest-end infiltration often used the simplest method.
....
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