"Of course." Henry nodded.
"The Times may have run into a bit of trouble recently, but our standing remains unshakable.
If someone were holding an earth-shattering headline, their first choice would always be us, or The Guardian.
That's simply a matter of course."
"But The Times didn't buy this particular headline, did it?" Charlotte pressed on.
"We're businessmen, Miss Holmes," Henry said, leaning back in his chair, fingers interlaced and resting against his stomach.
"Businessmen chase profit, but they also know which money can be earned and which cannot.
This headline was tempting—enough to double any newspaper's circulation in a short span, perhaps even more.
But its risks were equally enormous, so great that we were unwilling to bear them.
The Guardian understood this too, which is why we both refused."
"And then this piece of information was sold to a small newspaper."
"We did warn them," Henry shrugged.
"We told them about the risks that might lie behind this matter, and what it would mean to cross Moriarty—but they didn't seem to care.
To be honest, it's not really that hard to understand.
If this thing were true, then that report would be their first step to a meteoric rise.
But if the report were false, then it would be their last supper."
As Henry spoke, he then looked toward Charlotte, his tone and gaze carrying a hint of inquiry, seeking confirmation.
"So, Miss Holmes—that matter, is it true or false?"
"Who was the person that provided the information?" Charlotte didn't answer, instead turning the question back on him.
"It was a woman."
Henry didn't seem in any hurry to get his answer—or rather, he was confident he would obtain what he wanted once this meeting concluded.
"Be more specific," Charlotte said, then stood up and casually tore off a slip of paper.
"I didn't get a clear look at her exact features. She was wearing a hat and a scarf at the time, with the brim pulled down low."
Henry shook his head, straining to recall the details of that moment.
"But what I can be certain of is that she was very young, with a lovely voice—like a girl from a church choir."
At his words, the tip of Charlotte's pen paused slightly against the slip of paper. She lifted her head and looked at Henry.
"And?"
"And..." Henry furrowed his brow, thinking for another moment.
"She was very polite."
"Polite?" Charlotte raised an eyebrow.
"That's right, polite," Henry nodded.
"But this politeness wasn't something that came from her nature—do you understand what I mean?
The feeling she gave me was as though she were..."
Henry frowned, seeming to search for a fitting word.
Hearing this, Charlotte pondered for a moment, then said:
"A servant?"
"Yes, a servant." Henry nodded.
"There was a well-trained rigor and humility about her, the kind that belongs to service staff."
"Besides that, was there anything else?" The tip of the pen in Charlotte's hand swept swiftly across the paper, recording these key words.
"No." Henry shook his head.
"At the time she simply stated her purpose, then named a price. After I refused, she didn't press the matter further—she left right away."
"The price?"
"Fifty pounds."
"An exclusive headline enough to send an earthquake through Fleet Street, and she only asked fifty pounds?"
Charlotte raised an eyebrow, her tone carrying a note of surprise.
"Yes, fifty pounds." Henry nodded. "That was one of the things I found rather odd at the time.
The price was too low—so low that it didn't seem like a transaction at all, more like she was trying to get rid of a hot potato."
After hearing Henry's description, Charlotte wrote down one last word on the slip of paper, then set down her pen.
She had a rough idea of who it was now—or rather, the range had already been narrowed considerably.
"It was one of the Hannigan family's servants," Charlotte said.
"I see... then that's not strange at all." Realization dawned on Henry.
"From my point of view, if I saw my own superior lying in a pool of blood, with a Moriarty calling card beside them,
I would find that a rather shocking piece of headline news too."
"The ledger that Moriarty sent over—is it still with you?" Charlotte continued.
"The ledger?" Henry was taken aback, then nodded.
"It is, yes. We were just about to hand it over to Scotland Yard—the thing's useless to us anyway."
"Let me see it first," Charlotte said.
"No problem, but that's only half of it. The other half is with The Guardian."
As Henry spoke, he walked behind his desk, pulled open a drawer, and handed that half of the ledger to Charlotte.
"I'll give it straight to you. If it's convenient, please help us pass it on to Scotland Yard."
"No problem," Charlotte nodded.
"So, about the question I asked earlier—"
"Moriarty was framed," Charlotte said, flipping open the ledger without lifting her head.
Hearing this answer, Henry finally let out a breath of relief.
"Then, what about the killer?"
"Take a guess why I came to you for the ledger," Charlotte said, glancing at him.
"Fair enough. Then, I wish you a swift capture of that murderer."
He paused, then added, "And when that time comes, if possible, please make us your first choice."
"Take that up with my assistant."
"Your assistant?"
"Russell Watson."
"Ah, him." Henry was somewhat surprised.
"He's delivered plenty of letters to us. I never imagined he had this sort of connection with you.
If you don't mind, might I arrange an interview with the two of you? About the famous detective and her assistant... I imagine a great many people would be interested."
At his words, Charlotte's hand paused slightly as she turned the ledger's pages, her delicate brows knitting.
She didn't much care for this sort of attention-drawing feeling.
But then again—if she caught the killer, and then attended an interview together with Russell...
Would that count as a kind of declaration of victory?
After mulling it over for a moment, Charlotte closed the ledger in her hands and gave a noncommittal reply.
"Go ask him. If he has no objection, then neither do I."
"Understood, I see." Henry nodded knowingly.
"If there's nothing else, then I'll be off," Charlotte said, standing up and casually tucking that half of the ledger under her arm.
"Of course, of course," Henry hurriedly rose to see her off. "Let me walk you downstairs."
The two of them walked out of the office, one behind the other.
Charlotte left The Times building, then made her way toward The Guardian's office building.
Ten minutes later, she walked back out, another new ledger in hand.
Now nothing was missing.
Charlotte drew in a deep breath, then wrapped that black coat a little more tightly around herself.
That faint scent lingering at the tip of her nose gave her a trace of reassuring warmth amid the frigid air.
"Time to head back to Baker Street."
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