Russell reached out and brushed the petals, feeling the faint coolness and moisture against his fingertips.
Judging by the dampness of the soil and the rate of evaporation, it hadn't been long since they were last watered.
Probably less than half an hour.
"How truly thoughtful,"
he said to the empty air, then turned and entered the bedroom.
The books on the shelf had been jumbled again, though this was the work of Holly Davey during her breakdown yesterday.
As for right now, Russell wasn't sure if the contents had actually changed.
His gaze landed on the desk.
There was nothing particularly special on the desk, only one of Holly Davey's inspiration notebooks and a fountain pen.
Russell picked up the notebook and flipped through it; the contents were basically keywords whose meanings only Holly Davey herself could understand.
He had no interest in this and simply flipped all the way to the newest blank page.
Then, Russell's brows furrowed slightly.
There were traces of writing on the latest page.
Or rather, someone had written something on the previous page, and the impression of the handwriting had indented onto the next page.
Although the handwriting was somewhat blurry and intermittent, thanks to his enhanced abilities, Russell could still make out that it was roughly a paragraph of text.
Or rather, a letter.
Russell held the notebook, turning it this way and that, trying to distinguish what was actually written on it.
Regrettably, it was too difficult.
But that didn't matter.
This was the moment for his magical wonder tool to make its entrance.
Russell put down the notebook and opened the System Shop.
[Trace Impression Powder: With just a light wipe, those invisible secrets will be revealed completely.
Single-use item. Price: 50 Malice Points.]
[Confirm Purchase.]
Russell didn't hesitate for a second.
[Item purchased successfully.]
[Current Balance: 1400]
The subsequent Malice Points from the Roy family were still trickling in one after another, replenishing his wallet that had fallen to three digits.
Clearly, Mycroft was starting to exert his influence.
As the notification sound rang out, Russell reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, silky pouch that had appeared out of thin air.
He took out the pouch and opened it; inside lay black powder as fine as graphite.
After sprinkling this powder onto the blank page and smoothing it out with his finger, the originally blank paper changed.
In the next moment, lines of elegant handwriting slowly emerged, like a ghost being awakened.
Just as he had predicted, it was indeed a letter.
But what exceeded Russell's expectations was that this wasn't written by the ghost to Holly Davey.
Instead... it was written by Holly Davey to the ghost?
Russell's frown deepened.
He picked up the notebook in disbelief, looking at the lines of sentences filled with solicitous greetings and ambiguous phrasing. The confusion in his heart reached its peak.
[The temperature dropped again at night. Did you close the windows properly?]
[I encountered something very interesting at the studio today. I want to tell you about it...]
[I put away the coffee cup you left last time for you.
I know you like that brand. Next time I go out, I'll bring some more back for you.]
[Don't worry. What I said to Miss Holmes was the truth. I really do feel like you are like a ghost, but that isn't a derogatory term.]
[I'm going to stay at a friend's house for a few days starting tomorrow. You don't need to worry about me.
I'll leave the flowers at home in your care. Also, there's milk I bought yesterday in the refrigerator. Remember to drink it.]
Russell read it word by word, his expression gradually shifting from initial confusion to incomprehensible absurdity.
Is this right?
Was Holly Davey tortured into Stockholm Syndrome?
Or is it that Charlotte and I are just part of the 'play' between these two?
Are there just a few too many perverts in London?
Refusing to believe in such nonsense, Russell tore the letter out and compared it against Holly Davey's essays from the earlier pages.
Very quickly, he discovered the problem.
"I knew it. London still has normal people." Russell breathed a sigh of relief.
Although the handwriting was almost identical, under the scrutiny of [Investigation C++], Russell still discovered some subtle differences between the two.
Holly Davey's handwriting carried a casual and fluid artistic sense, just like her profession.
But the handwriting on this letter was clearly deliberately imitating Holly Davey's style.
Although at first glance it seemed to be the real deal, if one identified it carefully, one would find that the start, transition, and conclusion of every stroke appeared overly neat and deliberate.
It was like standing in the street on a rainy day abroad, performing some incomprehensible dance, all while proclaiming how 'chill' and relaxed one is.
To summarize—this letter was written by that ghost to himself.
He imitated Holly Davey's handwriting, wrote a letter to himself, and treated it as a letter written to him by Holly Davey herself.
"Self-deception."
Russell placed the letter in his hand back onto the desk.
"It's one thing to lie to others, but don't go lying to yourself too."
A voice filled with disdain and mockery echoed in the small room. It was unclear if he was talking to himself or speaking to that non-existent ghost.
Russell walked over to the bookshelf.
He gestured at the bookshelf, confirming its size.
This size was more than sufficient for a person to pass through.
Next came the practical part.
Practice is the sole criterion for testing truth.
Russell rolled up his sleeves, then walked to the bookshelf and attempted to move it, or push it left and right.
But the bookshelf was heavier than he imagined. At the very least, it was impossible for Russell to move it alone.
Likewise, whether pushing left or pulling right, the bookshelf didn't budge an inch.
"Is it not the bookshelf?"
Russell frowned. "Or do I have to trigger some mechanism before it can be moved?"
He gave up on using brute force. He took two steps back, stood in front of the bookshelf, and observed the arrangement of the books before him.
According to what Mary said: bold hypothesis, careful verification.
Could it be triggered through a specific arrangement of certain books?
Thinking of this, Russell pulled over a chair and sat right in front of the bookshelf, like a student selecting their favorite reading material in a library.
He began to observe.
The varieties of books on the shelf were numerous, ranging from design theory to classical poetry collections, and then to popular mass-market novels; it had everything.
Most of the books were arranged neatly according to publisher and size, following Holly Davey's habit. It looked pleasing to the eye.
But there were a few books that had been abruptly slotted into positions where they didn't belong.
A heavy copy of Shakespeare's Poetry Collection had been forcibly stuffed into a row of small-format popular novels, standing out like a sore thumb.
Another book, Stray Birds, was placed all alone on the topmost shelf, completely out of place with a row of massive design albums.
There were a few others where Russell didn't even recognize the authors, but judging by the degree of wear on the covers, they seemed to be browsed frequently.
"The order has been scrambled..."
He stood up and walked to the bookshelf again. He reached out and pulled out that obtrusive Shakespeare's Poetry Collection.
Then he placed it back where it was supposed to be—lined up with a row of classical literature of the same size.
Next, he stepped onto the chair, took down Stray Birds, and returned it to the poetry section.
Just like that, one by one, he returned those books with scrambled positions to their places according to his own understanding.
Although he wasn't sure if doing this was actually correct, at least in terms of categorization, there was nothing wrong with arranging them this way.
When he pushed the last misplaced book into the shelf, aligning its spine perfectly with the books beside it—
Nothing happened.
"Alright, looks like that wasn't right."
Russell shrugged self-mockingly.
"Since that's the case, then I can only go with Plan B."
As everyone knows, a detective and an assistant are two parts of a whole.
One is responsible for mental labor, the other for physical labor.
Although Russell wasn't willing to admit he was Charlotte's assistant, but...
Who told him to have [Watson] in his name?
Russell stood up, walked out of the bedroom, and went to the landline in the living room.
Then—
"Hello, may I ask if this is Ms. Charlotte Holmes, who lives at 221B Baker Street and studies at Imperial College?"
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