Hearing what Charlotte said, Russell fell silent for a moment.
Letting them sell the firsthand material to The Times—that was exactly the sort of thing Henry Scott would do.
As for the invitation that followed, to do an interview segment, honestly, he wasn't all that surprised either.
Being able to land the great detective Holmes as a guest would send that newspaper's sales climbing.
What's more, The Guardian next door had a new headline set to break in a couple of days. If his own side had nothing to show, wouldn't he just be forced to watch someone else rake in the money?
As the old saying goes, if you go out and fail to pick up money, that counts as losing some.
And this was watching his rival make money, no less.
So, when it came to a request like this, Russell wasn't surprised. If anything, he had a sense that it was to be expected.
What truly caught him off guard was Charlotte's attitude.
By rights, this was the kind of thing only he ever got to say to Charlotte.
Judging by Charlotte's temperament, if Henry Scott had said something like this to her, the words wouldn't even have reached his ears—she'd have shot them down first.
Even if the other party was offering the ledger as an exchange, it wasn't as if there were no ways to maneuver around it.
Just dropping the name Scotland Yard would have been enough. Simply say the thing is evidence—I'm demanding it from you, so are you going to hand it over or not?
Russell's gaze lingered on Charlotte for a moment, a probing glint in his eyes.
Under the effect of [Investigation B], he keenly noticed the girl's feigned composure in profile, and those eyes that pretended to be fixed on the ledger while their peripheral attention had been secretly observing his reaction the whole time.
"What are you staring at me for?" Charlotte, feeling a little guilty under his gaze, couldn't help but speak up.
"Nothing, it's nothing." Russell withdrew his gaze, a smile appearing on his face.
"Since it's a deal, there's no welching on it," he said. "After all, a person has to keep their word."
After that, he saw Charlotte let out an almost imperceptible sigh of relief.
"Y-yeah." Charlotte gave a noncommittal answer. "Besides, it's not like The Times won't pay us when the time comes."
"So, when are we going?" Russell asked again.
"What?"
"The interview—when are we going?" Russell asked.
"We don't seem to have any free time this week. At least I definitely can't spare any.
Setting classes aside, Saturday I have to keep Mary company, and Sunday I have to keep you company—unless you plan to postpone the visit to see Charles Brown, otherwise there's probably no time."
He counted off on his fingers as he spoke.
Hearing this, Charlotte fell silent for a while.
She turned a page in the ledger in her hand, her gaze sweeping over the densely packed numbers and names, seeming to genuinely consider the question.
"Then let's make it next week."
After a long moment, she finally spoke, unhurried.
"Henry Scott said so himself anyway—the timing is up to us to decide."
"Next week, huh," Russell nodded. "I've got no objections."
"Then it's settled." Charlotte breathed a sigh of relief.
Pausing, she glanced again at Russell, who was still standing there.
"Anything else?"
"Mm... doesn't seem like it." Russell shook his head.
"If you've got nothing to do, go sort through that Lloyds Bank customer file," Charlotte said.
"But didn't you say you weren't going to let me touch that thing?" Russell said with his mouth, even as his body walked over toward that stack of files and picked one up.
"What is there to sort out with this stuff?"
"Names, ages, background identities, and anything that strikes you as noteworthy."
"What do you mean by... noteworthy?"
"Ask yourself," Charlotte waved a hand. "Whatever you feel is noteworthy, write it down. As for whether it's useful, I can sort that out myself when the time comes."
"Fine." Russell nodded, not refusing.
He was idle anyway, so he might as well find himself something to do.
And while he was at it, he could see whether there were any promising new candidates worth targeting in that file.
He casually pulled over a chair, sat down before the mountain of files, then picked up the topmost one and flipped to the first page.
The room fell quiet for a while.
Russell's gaze swept over the dull personal details—name, age, address, occupation... all far too routine, without a single highlight.
Charlotte had been fixated all along on the idea that there existed some commonality between Moriarty and the Professor, but the problem was...
I really did just swipe this thing on a whim—how would I know what's inside it?
For a moment, Russell felt rather conflicted.
It was like an author spotting his own work on an exam paper and being forced to write a reading comprehension analysis of it.
Why is the kettle hung upside down?
Because it'd be blocked by the belly band, that's why—what else?
Russell's thoughts gradually wandered off, and then he hastily reeled them back in.
So that Charlotte wouldn't notice he hadn't done a lick of real work, he picked up his pen and rewrote the file's contents, translating the English into English all over again.
If you can't solve the problem, copying out the question ought to still earn some points, right?
Time slipped by unnoticed. At one point, Charlotte lifted her gaze from the ledger and looked over at Russell, who was bent over his writing and frowning now and then.
Seeing him looking so diligent and earnest, Charlotte raised an eyebrow in mild surprise.
"Quite the hard worker."
She murmured under her breath, and then the corner of her eye drifted to the sofa.
Russell's backpack was sitting right there.
Charlotte's gaze lingered on that canvas backpack for less than half a second before she casually withdrew it, refocusing on the ledger in her hands.
Yet for some reason, those gray-blue eyes, which should have been concentrating on the accounts and names, began to grow a little unfocused.
Her gaze kept unconsciously drifting away from those rows of cold numbers, quietly settling on that backpack tossed carelessly onto the sofa.
Curiosity, like a restless little claw, scratched gently at the tip of her heart.
She wanted to know what new content had been added today to that notebook belonging to Mary.
A silent war had already begun, and as one of the principal combatants, she had a duty to stay abreast of the enemy's latest movements at all times.
This wasn't out of some childish competitiveness, but a desire to master intelligence—yes, that was it.
Charlotte found a grand, high-sounding justification for her unspeakable, itching little impulse.
So, she set down the ledger in her hand, stretched, and said in as natural a tone as she could manage:
"Watson, lend me your notebook for a bit—I want to jot something down."
"Oh, it's in my bag. Grab it yourself."
Russell said without lifting his head.
Having gotten permission, Charlotte stood up, walked over to the sofa, and, feigning nonchalance, pulled open the backpack's zipper and took out that familiar notebook.
Back at her seat, she didn't open it right away. Instead, she first observed Russell's reaction.
The latter was still buried in that seemingly never-ending stack of files, writing away furiously, apparently not noticing her little maneuver at all.
Good.
The corner of Charlotte's mouth lifted slightly, and only then did she unhurriedly open the notebook.
With practiced ease, she skipped past all the dull notes at the front and flipped straight to the last page.
The silhouette she'd drawn last time still lay there quietly, without any new doodles beside it.
Charlotte raised an eyebrow, in a good mood. Clearly, in that clash, she had held the upper hand.
Then, she turned to a new page.
A new doodle leapt out across the paper.
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