"Beer?" Mary frowned. "Why beer?"
The girl swiftly ran through it in her mind, yet she couldn't come up with any connection between that fellow and beer.
It was the sort of feeling where you'd learned the answer, but when you wanted to know the process, you found the process consisted of a single word: 'omitted.'
Was this some kind of code between Billson and Hannigan?
"Who knows." Russell spread his hands. "That's just what it said in the ledger, anyway."
He paused, then added, "Maybe Hannigan has a little clique, and in private they all refer to each other by types of liquor?"
"...?"
Mary tilted her head, her eyes brimming with confusion.
"Does an organization like that really exist?"
"No idea, just tossing it out there." Russell yawned. "In any case, Charlotte's confident she can dig out the culprit before the day is over. Just trust her."
"Mm. Sounds like you really do trust her," Mary said, propping up her chin, her tone laden with implication.
"Because she's Charlotte Holmes," Russell said with a laugh.
"That means nothing…" The girl rolled her eyes. "By that logic, I could say I'm Mary Morstan, and you'd still be Russell Watson."
At those words, Russell went slightly blank.
"..."
"Why'd you go quiet?" Mary tilted her head, looking at the suddenly mute Russell. "Did I say something wrong?"
"Ah… it's nothing." The smile returned to Russell's face. "I just thought of a few things."
"…What things?" Mary shot him an odd glance.
"On Sunday I have to make another trip to the sanatorium with Charlotte," Russell said. "Charles Brown seems to be gradually pulling himself together—we can go question him again."
"I see." Mary nodded. "It'd be nice if we could get something out of him this time."
"Yeah." Russell remained noncommittal.
The lunch break slipped away in the blink of an eye, and before the bell rang, the two of them had returned to the classroom.
The afternoon lessons were as dull and sleep-inducing as ever.
Russell sprawled across his desk, snoozing away with a perfectly clear conscience, while Mary sat beside him, her thoughts unsettled.
It had been two full days since she'd sent off her letter.
Even now, she hadn't received any response.
It seemed that Billson fellow had truly taken his own initiative to the very extreme.
Billson, Charles—it made no difference.
One refused to stay hidden like he should, the other refused to honestly play the madman.
"Always doing so many superfluous things," Mary said in a voice only she could hear, her tone cold, as though at absolute zero.
Though she didn't believe Charlotte Holmes could pin the target down onto Billson within a single day—
still, whatever the case, the necessary vigilance could not be spared.
Since the chess piece had developed ideas of its own, and even wished to slip free of control—
then a timely cleanup was in order.
Thinking this, a trace of resolve crept into Mary's eyes.
Supporting characters who liked to write themselves extra scenes were better wrapped up sooner rather than later.
The stage had no spare room for them to make a racket upon it.
That afternoon, at dismissal time.
After bidding Russell farewell as usual, Mary climbed into her family's carriage.
"Don't head back to the Kensington District just yet," Mary instructed the coachman through the partition.
"Then where to, Miss?" the coachman asked.
"To Fleet Street," Mary's voice was calm. "The Guardian's offices."
"Very well, Miss."
The coachman answered, deftly turned the horse around, and set off smoothly in the direction of Fleet Street.
About a quarter of an hour later, the carriage came to a stop before The Guardian's rather modern-looking gray building.
"Wait for me here—I'll be back soon."
With that, Mary pushed open the carriage door and stepped down, lifting the hem of her skirt as she walked into the building.
"Good afternoon, madam," the receptionist at the front desk said, immediately rising to her feet upon seeing that lovely face, a professional smile fixed in place. "How may I help you?"
"I'm here to see Editor-in-Chief Edgar," Mary's voice was gentle, yet carried a nobility that brooked no dispute. "Tell him the daughter of Duke Arthur Morstan is here to see him."
"Of course, please wait a moment."
The receptionist dared not be negligent and immediately snatched up the telephone to relay the message upstairs.
Before long, a middle-aged man in an impeccably tailored suit and gold-rimmed spectacles came hurrying down the stairs.
"Good afternoon, Miss Morstan." Edgar's face bore a warm smile.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Edgar," Mary replied with a smile.
"I never expected you'd come in person," Edgar said, leading Mary to his office on the second floor. "If there's anything you need, you need only send someone to notify me—I can call on you at any time."
"That would be far too much trouble," Mary said, seating herself gracefully in the chair opposite him. "It's only a small matter—there's no need to trouble so many people."
"A small matter?" Edgar arched an eyebrow, gesturing for the assistant at his side to pour Mary a cup of black tea.
"I wonder what small matter it might be, that requires The Guardian's help?"
"It concerns Moriarty," Mary came straight to the point.
Hearing that name, Edgar's eyes lit up in an instant.
He waved his hand, dismissing the secretary, until only the two of them remained in the office.
"Don't tell me—you've received a letter from Mr. Moriarty?"
He lowered his voice, a hint of anticipation in his tone.
"No, nothing like that," Mary shook her head. "I merely want The Guardian to write an article about him."
"An article?" Edgar was taken aback. "About what?"
"A clarification." Mary was concise and to the point. "Moriarty didn't kill anyone—he was framed."
At these words, a flicker of understanding passed through Edgar's shrewd eyes.
"As it happens, we've discussed this internally as well." He leaned back against his chair, fingers interlaced.
"Mr. Moriarty is the lucky star of all Fleet Street. No one would be willing to offend him for the sake of some momentary gain, let alone smear him.
What's more, judging by his past conduct, he doesn't seem the sort to do such a thing.
I won't hide it from you—that woman actually approached both Henry Scott and me at the time, but we both refused.
Yet who'd have thought someone would still let themselves be blinded by the profit right before their eyes—truly the sorrow of the newspaperman."
As he spoke, his face took on an expression of deep, heartfelt grief.
Mary regarded him coolly, not a trace of extraneous emotion on her face.
"And so, if his name can be cleared, The Guardian would be more than happy to be the first to speak up on Moriarty's behalf."
Edgar's performance flowed effortlessly, and he once again put on that mercenary smile.
"Only, some things can't be proven by mere words alone, as you well understand."
He paused, a note of probing in his tone.
"So, how is it that you've determined Mr. Moriarty was framed? As far as I know, Scotland Yard hasn't yet reached any definite conclusion on the matter."
At this, Mary gave him a faint glance, then said offhandedly:
"I have inside information."
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