"That boy?"
Charlotte blinked, then followed Mrs. Hudson's gaze.
"Russell?"
"That's right," Mrs. Hudson nodded as if it were the most natural thing in the world, then paused, her eyes sweeping Charlotte up and down.
Then her gaze traveled past her, toward the door across the way, as though she were measuring something by sight alone.
"Hmm... he's got to be more than a head taller than you."
The old woman murmured to herself, raising a hand crisscrossed with fine wrinkles and holding it up above her own head.
"But those broad shoulders of his..."
She narrowed her eyes again, studying the line of Charlotte's shoulders with great care.
"He's thin, and you're not exactly plump either," Mrs. Hudson concluded at last.
"That gray wool sweater of his—the sleeves would definitely run too long on you, but the shoulders should hold up.
Or let me see if he's got some smaller, older clothes. He's been living here for years now, so he should have—though he might have mailed them back to the orphanage.
Every so often he seems to send a few pieces of clothing back there. No wonder he buys clothes so often."
"Wait, wouldn't this..."
"Don't you worry, that boy won't mind. Worst case, I'll just have a word with him.
You wait here, I'll go find you something."
As she spoke, Mrs. Hudson briskly pushed open the door to Russell's room and walked inside.
Before long, she came out again, thoroughly pleased, carrying a few garments that looked wonderfully warm.
"Here, Charlotte, try this on." She held the clothes out in front of Charlotte.
It was a dark gray turtleneck sweater and a thick black coat, both looking as though they'd keep the wind out well.
Charlotte looked at the two garments, so obviously carrying Russell's presence, and for a moment seemed hesitant.
"I found these—they look like the ones he bought last year. Just try them first," Mrs. Hudson said, pressing the clothes into Charlotte's hands. "If they don't fit, we'll swap them out."
Charlotte looked at the two garments, clearly far too big for her, then looked at Mrs. Hudson, and in the end she relented.
Otherwise she'd probably never get out that door.
She took off her trench coat and pulled on the gray turtleneck.
Sure enough, the sleeves ran far too long, spilling right over her fingertips, and the hem hung nearly to her knees.
"See," Mrs. Hudson said, nodding with satisfaction. "Isn't that just right?"
Charlotte lowered her head, looking at her own silhouette swallowed up like it was wrapped in a sack, and fell silent for a moment.
"...How is this just right?"
"How is it not?" Mrs. Hudson replied without a shred of doubt.
"Sleeves too long? Roll them up. Hem too long? Tuck it in.
What matters is it's thick, it's warm, it's pure wool—far better than that flimsy trench coat of yours."
As she spoke, she'd already begun helping Charlotte roll up the sleeves.
The old woman's movements were gentle and practiced, one fold at a time, tucking the overlong cuffs up neatly to reveal a slender, pale wrist.
"You, now," she chattered as she rolled, "stop always thinking you can tough it out.
Winter in London isn't like the countryside—the damp is heavy, and when the wind blows, the cold gets right into your bones.
I've lived here thirty years, and every winter I watch a few young ladies dress too thin for the sake of looking pretty, and then spend a week sick in bed."
She finished rolling the other sleeve, stepped back two paces, and squinted as she looked her over.
"Mm, that'll do."
Charlotte looked down at herself.
The sweater was very soft, carrying a faint, clean scent of soap.
Not the laundry-soap smell she was used to, but another kind—lighter, warmer, like bedding aired out in the sun on a winter afternoon.
She lifted her arm without thinking. The cuffs had been rolled up neatly, neither loose nor tight, revealing just the crook of her thumb.
The hem really was too long, but once tucked into the waistband of her skirt it lay surprisingly flat, wrapping that overly thin blouse snugly out of sight.
Next, she put on the black coat.
It was the one Russell often wore—Charlotte remembered.
Nothing costly in the fabric, plain in cut, its edges even bearing faint marks where it had brushed against whitewashed walls a few times.
It was very thick, pressing heavily on her shoulders, like draping half a winter quilt over herself.
She fastened the first button.
Mrs. Hudson circled around her, reaching out to tug at the shoulder line, then patting her back, muttering all the while.
"Mm, the shoulders fit just right—what did I tell you." She nodded, pleased.
"Thin as he is, he's got the frame for it.
You wear his clothes and it's just like they were tailored for you."
Charlotte looked down at herself.
The cuffs had been rolled up, but the elbows were still a bit loose, the fabric draping airily around her arms, swaying gently with her movements.
The collar was very soft, standing up slightly, half-hiding her chin.
She moved her neck, and her cheek brushed against that ring of soft wool—a little ticklish.
The girl's fingers lifted unconsciously, fingertips grazing the edge of the collar.
"...Does it look strange?" she asked.
Mrs. Hudson stopped fussing with the hem, looked up, gave her an earnest glance, and then smiled.
"Not strange at all," she said. "You look lovely."
Charlotte didn't answer.
She looked at herself in the mirror—gray turtleneck sweater, thick black coat, cuffs neatly rolled up twice.
Her hair was a little messy—mussed just now from pulling clothes on and off, a few loose strands standing stubbornly at her ears.
Her face was still the same face, expressionless, like a sheet of lake ice not yet thawed by the spring wind.
But somehow something seemed different.
She tilted her head.
The person in the mirror tilted her head along with her.
"Charlotte," came Mrs. Hudson's voice from behind her, carrying a teasing hint of laughter.
"What are you looking at?"
"...Nothing." She drew her gaze back.
The old woman came over and stood at her side, the two of them looking together at the two figures in the mirror—one tall and one short, one old and one young.
She reached out and, as naturally as anything, tucked that stray strand at Charlotte's ear back into place.
"There, that's not half bad now." Mrs. Hudson clapped her hands, satisfied.
When Charlotte raised her head again, the figure in the mirror was no longer that great detective who kept everyone at arm's length, but looked more like an ordinary university student getting ready to head out to a classmates' gathering.
"Not bad," she offered at last as a fair verdict, no emotion detectable in her voice.
But the faint upward curve at the corner of her mouth betrayed what she was really thinking.
"That boy Russell does have an eye for clothes. Have him take you shopping for a couple of pieces sometime," Mrs. Hudson said.
"All right, off you go now. Finish your business and come back early."
"Mm." Charlotte nodded and turned to walk out of the room.
With a soft sound at the doorway, that figure in the black coat vanished from sight.
Charlotte walked along the street. The weather outside was colder than she'd imagined.
Perhaps Mrs. Hudson had been right.
In conditions like these, if she had actually gone out in that trench coat just now, she really might have caught a cold.
At the thought, she instinctively pulled the clothes tighter around herself, drawing in more of their warmth.
The coat and sweater carried Russell's presence, and it made Charlotte pause without meaning to.
A familiar, faint scent of soap lingered at the tip of her nose.
Not the kind she was used to, but the scent belonging to another person, mingled with some indescribable trace she couldn't quite name.
It felt a little strange to her—but she didn't dislike it.
She shrank her cheek down into that soft, warm collar, quickened her pace, and headed toward Fleet Street.
The headquarters of The Times.
When Charlotte pushed open that familiar glass door, the receptionist dozing at the front desk was instantly startled awake.
He stood up reflexively, and just as he was about to launch into the welcome speech he knew by heart, his movements stuttered slightly when he made out who had come in.
"May I ask... who are you here to see?" he asked, a little uncertainly.
The slender youth before him, dressed in a black coat, was someone he'd never seen before.
"Henry Scott," Charlotte said tersely.
Hearing the name, the receptionist grew even more bewildered.
"Do you... do you have an appointment?"
"No," Charlotte said, "but you only need to tell him that Charlotte Holmes of Baker Street is here to see him, and he'll see me."
Charlotte Holmes?
The receptionist froze, sizing up in disbelief this figure before him who, by any measure, looked like a delicate young man.
"You... you're Miss Holmes?" he stammered.
"If you keep asking these pointless questions, I'll turn around right now and take myself to The Guardian," Charlotte said impatiently.
"S-sorry! I'll notify him at once!"
The receptionist scrambled to grab the phone and, all but shouting, relayed the message upstairs.
In less than a minute, Henry Scott's familiar figure came hurrying down the stairs.
"Miss Holmes," Henry said warmly, stepping forward, "what wind blows you our way?"
"I've come to ask you something," Charlotte said, getting straight to the point.
"It concerns Moriarty."
At that, Henry started, then quickly nodded.
"Of course, of course, please, come with me."
He led Charlotte to an office on the second floor, then personally brewed her a cup of excellent black tea.
"I truly never expected this, Miss Holmes," he said, rubbing his hands together, his face full of anticipation. "Could it be that you, too, are one of Moriarty's messengers?"
"Me? A messenger?" Charlotte looked at him with disdain. "Don't make me laugh."
"Then you..."
"I've come about that murder," Charlotte said. "The Hannigan case."
At those words, the smile on Henry's face froze at once, then turned complicated.
He looked at Charlotte, then lowered his head again, as if hesitating over something.
After a good while, Henry finally spoke:
"What is it you want to ask?"
"Why, out of all of Fleet Street, was there only one newspaper that ran the report of Moriarty's killing?"
Charlotte asked.
"The Times, The Guardian, and several other papers all chose to keep their mouths shut?"
Faced with Charlotte's challenge, Henry lifted his teacup, but didn't drink—he only watched the wisps of steam rising from it and fell silent for a moment.
"Miss Holmes," he said slowly, his voice dropping a notch. "You're a clever person. Some things, I imagine, you understand better than I do."
"I didn't come here today to trade riddles with you."
"Very well," Henry sighed, setting down the teacup in his hand.
"The reason is simple, Miss Holmes—because we cannot do it."
"Cannot?"
"Of course we cannot." Henry gave a slight smile.
"Moriarty—that name—do you know what it means on Fleet Street now?"
He didn't wait for Charlotte's answer, but went on of his own accord.
"He means sales. He means the headline. He means the eyes of all London.
He is the one who feeds and clothes us all, Miss Holmes.
He's brought us countless exclusives, driving newspaper sales across all of Fleet Street to unprecedented heights.
We can, to catch the public's eye, exaggerate his exploits and paint him as some god who soars through the sky and vanishes into the earth.
We can also, to cater to certain people's sentiments, condemn his contempt for the law.
But the one thing we will never do is push him completely into the abyss, turn him into a real, universally reviled murderer.
Because that would be cutting off our own livelihood."
Henry spoke with obvious implication, then gave a scornful snort.
"Smashing your own rice bowl—no sane person would do something so foolish."
He paused, then continued:
"What's more, who knows what that madman might do once he's provoked?
He could make the Chancellor of the Exchequer's dirty secrets public. Who's to guarantee he doesn't have something on us papers as well?"
Charlotte said nothing, only listened quietly.
It was only after Henry had finished that she spoke:
"So then—about the murder, you knew from the very beginning?"
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