This time, what Mary had drawn was the scene from the last time she and Russell had studied together at the Phedon Tea Room.
But this time, the brushwork was no longer as simple as before; instead, it carried a kind of semi-realistic style.
The perspective of the picture was Mary's first-person view. On the small round table sat several plates of desserts and two notebooks.
Directly across from her was that familiar figure.
He held a pen, one hand propping up his cheek, wearing the look of someone whose mind had wandered off.
The version of him in the picture wasn't reading, nor was he looking at the person across from him. He merely tilted his head slightly, his gaze cast out the window.
The corner of Charlotte's mouth twitched involuntarily the instant she saw the drawing.
That suppressed, damnable competitive streak, once again like a lit fuse, began to sizzle and crackle at the bottom of her heart.
"What a boring fellow," she muttered scornfully, in a voice only she could hear.
Doesn't pay attention in lessons, just draws all sorts of pointless nonsense.
And even if you're going to draw, why are you competing over the art style?
Fine. You like to compete? Then I'll compete too!
Charlotte picked up her own pen, and after a brief moment of thought, drew a horizontal line across the blank lower half of the page.
The line divided the picture above from the blank space to follow, and then Charlotte began her own creation on that large expanse of emptiness.
First came the outline of the kitchen, then the stove, the sink, and that window through which the morning light spilled in.
Her drawing skills were clearly not as refined as Mary's; her lines were simple and casual, yet they precisely captured the atmosphere of that fleeting moment.
The scene from that morning was faithfully reproduced upon the notebook.
Having finished all of this, Charlotte finally closed the notebook with satisfaction and slipped it back into Russell's backpack, as though nothing had happened at all.
On the other side, Russell had already grown weary from the tedious, repetitive labor.
Jett Rogers, 45 years old, member of the House of Commons, married.
Adrian Knox, sixty-two years old, honorary professor at the Royal Academy of Music, married.
Russell yawned, rubbed his slightly aching eyes, and then continued copying out the next file.
"Arthur Morstan, fifty-two years old, founder of the Morstan Group, board director of the Royal Charitable Foundation, widowed—"
Russell's pen tip paused.
Had he just misread that?
He rubbed his eyes and once again let his gaze fall upon the file.
He hadn't misread.
Arthur Morstan's marital status was, indeed, widowed.
Which meant—Mary's mother had already passed away?
This sudden discovery caught him somewhat off guard.
Mary had never once mentioned anything about her mother in front of him.
In his impression, the girl's world seemed to contain only that stern father of hers, and herself.
He thought for a moment, then turned to the next page, to the family relations section.
Written upon it were only two names: [Arthur Morstan] and [Mary Morstan].
The column for the mother was blank.
Russell set down the file in his hand, rose to his feet, and walked over to the tea table, refilling his own emptied cup with warm black tea.
"What's the matter?"
Charlotte's voice sounded from beside him. She set down the ledger in her hands, her gaze settling upon Russell.
"It's nothing," Russell shook his head, lifting the teacup and taking a sip. "I just discovered that Mary's mother has already passed away."
"Passed away?" Charlotte raised an eyebrow, then withdrew her gaze, the expression on her face showing little fluctuation.
After a moment of silence, she finally spoke: "There's a record in the file of when she died, right?"
"No," Russell shook his head. He paused, and then, as though he had realized Charlotte's intent, said:
"This isn't appropriate, Charlotte."
"I haven't said anything yet."
"I know what you're going to do." Russell looked at her.
"You're thinking that perhaps the combination to Arthur Morstan's safe is the anniversary of his wife's death, aren't you?"
Charlotte offered no rebuttal.
"I'm not going to ask Mary about something like that," Russell said.
"It would be far too disrespectful, and besides, we haven't yet been able to confirm that Arthur Morstan truly has any connection to The Professor.
Even if we really do need to ask, we should at least wait until after we've pried that safe combination out of Charles Brown's mouth."
"I know, I know," Charlotte said impatiently. "Is that the kind of person I am in your eyes?"
"If this were back when we'd just met—" Russell shrugged.
The latter half of his words went unspoken, because he was glared back into silence.
"Enough," Charlotte snapped the ledger shut and tossed it aside.
She stretched, revealing the slender curve of her waist beneath that grey turtleneck sweater.
"Let's call it a day. I'm tired."
"This early?" Russell glanced out the window; the sky had only just begun to darken.
"Using one's brain at high intensity for hours on end is very draining, Watson," Charlotte said matter-of-factly.
"Besides, back when I used to stay up late, you were always complaining. Now that I've finally decided to turn in early for once, you've got something to say about that too."
"I'm simply curious, that's all," Russell said. "This isn't like you."
"I've already narrowed down the general range," Charlotte yawned. "The rest of the work can wait until later tonight—or even tomorrow. There's no rush."
"That fast?" Russell was a little surprised.
"There are a lot of transaction records in the ledger, but most of them are perfectly normal business dealings," Charlotte explained.
"Hold on," Russell interrupted her. "What do you mean, normal business dealings?"
"Is there some problem?"
"There's a huge problem. Isn't that thing a smuggling ledger?" Russell said.
"Is there a single legitimate entry in the whole thing?"
"As far as I'm concerned, any entry that doesn't warrant suspicion is normal. Is that not allowed?" Charlotte tilted her head and asked in return.
"Fine, fine, you're the boss," Russell gave up arguing with her, his gaze falling once more upon the ledger.
"So, which entries are the abnormal ones?"
"Not many. About seven or eight," Charlotte stretched, sinking her whole body languidly into the soft armchair.
"The main thing is that the goods and the amounts are a bit strange. If the flow of funds is genuine, then the corresponding goods must be fabricated.
And any transaction that had to be deliberately masked with fake goods even in a coded ledger like this one must certainly have something wrong with it."
Hearing this, Russell picked up the ledger and flipped through it casually.
Charlotte had used her pen to mark every one of the transactions she deemed problematic.
"These entries share one thing in common: none of them note who the counterparty of the transaction was."
Charlotte's voice sounded from beside him, providing Russell with her explanation.
"And that means one thing—"
She drew out the last syllable, looking at Russell, as though waiting for him to speak the answer she wanted to hear.
At her words, Russell pondered for a moment, then said:
"Hannigan knew—was even very familiar with—this person."
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