Edgar's breath seemed to halt the very instant Mary's words fell silent.
He gazed at this young woman before him—beautiful, yet so keenly versed in the human heart, a girl whose every word seemed capable of stirring up storms.
That heart of his, long since hardened by years of scrambling and clawing along Fleet Street, began to pound violently, beyond his control.
Did he fail to grasp the subtext of Mary's words?
Of course he understood.
And it was precisely because he understood that he reacted this way.
Fleet Street today was split in two, The Guardian and The Times, two kings standing in rivalry.
But who could ever be content with merely that?
Now, having at last dealt The Times a savage blow with the Lloyds Bank report—
This was the very moment when the enemy was at its lowest. Was he really going to watch such a golden opportunity slip through his fingers?
What was more, this report even came with just cause—the timing, the terrain, and the will of the people, all three were on his side.
Edgar had to consider whether this might be the one and only chance of his life.
Damn it, let's do it!
Eight hundred men, so be it—eight hundred it is!
"I understand."
After a long moment, Edgar drew a deep breath, pressing down every one of those surging emotions.
He lifted his head, and behind those gold-rimmed spectacles, his eyes seemed to harbor a lion.
"Miss Morstan, I give you my word."
He rose to his feet, looked at Mary, and solemnly declared:
"The Guardian will be the first to pick up the napkin."
At this, Mary too rose, offering a faint smile.
"Then, I shall look forward to tomorrow's paper."
"Of course." Edgar nodded with a smile.
"Tomorrow morning, on the front page of The Guardian, you will see exactly what you wish to see."
As he spoke, he strode swiftly to the office door and pulled it open for Mary.
"Allow me to see you down."
The carriage rolled slowly away from Fleet Street.
Mary leaned back against the soft cushions, watching the scenery rush backward beyond the window, her eyes calm as still water.
Like the surface of the sea before the storm arrives.
She raised her hand, gazing at those pale, slender fingers of hers.
It was this very hand that, just moments ago, had with a gentle push sent a storm of public opinion sweeping across all of London hurtling toward another, unforeseeable direction.
The Guardian would beat The Times to it and clear Moriarty's name.
And when Sherlock Holmes truly uncovered the killer and handed the evidence to The Times, the weight of that report would, without a doubt, be greatly diminished.
For that proud detective girl, the one who loved to be first in everything, this was, without question, a silent provocation.
She couldn't care less who called the shots on Fleet Street.
All she wanted was, in any matter concerning him, anything tied to him, to beat that detective by a head—nothing more.
A war without gun smoke had already quietly begun.
And that slow-witted fellow caught in the middle of it remained, to this day, entirely oblivious.
Just thinking about it, she found it delightful.
The corners of the girl's lips curled into a smile, as if she'd just pulled off a mischievous prank.
Of course, that pleasure did not last long.
The carriage rode smoothly along the streets of the Kensington District, and the scenery outside the window gradually shifted from the bustling commercial quarter into the quiet, opulent domain of the wealthy.
As she drew closer and closer to home, the smile on Mary's face faded, bit by bit.
In its place came the decorum and elegance belonging to [Mary Morstan], along with the rationality and detachment belonging to [The Professor].
Beneath the mask, another mask still lay hidden.
221B Baker Street.
Charlotte stood before the information wall, staring at the details she had laid out across it, lost in thought.
She could be one hundred percent certain that, in Hannigan's ledger, the nameless fellow was without doubt the killer.
And likewise, she was certain that, so long as she deciphered the meaning behind [beer], she would be able to track that person down.
Hannigan's home, the dock warehouses—every place where he stored his smuggled goods had already been thoroughly searched.
There was no beer whatsoever.
There were, however, plenty of assorted vintage wines, grape wines, cigars, and cigarettes.
Enough to make Lestrade's eyes go wide and glazed.
Had he possessed even slightly less professional ethics, or had no one been watching beside him, he'd have loved nothing more than to tuck a couple of bottles under his arm and carry them home.
And it was for this very reason that Charlotte was so convinced this beer had to be pointing to the killer.
The girl's gaze fell upon those few lines of accounts.
The goods were uniformly beer, and the point of shipment was Czech.
Beer, beer... a homophone, bill? Bill?
Then what about Czech? What was the significance of that place name? Could it be merely written on a whim, just to make the entry look more authentic?
Charlotte furrowed her brow.
She picked up the ledger and examined it carefully once more.
On every entry, apart from the transactions with this killer, each and every other entry clearly stated the goods, the point of shipment, and the amount.
In other words, this Czech was perhaps not something Hannigan had jotted down on a whim.
Just as Charlotte was deep in thought, Russell, back from school, had at some point come to stand beside her without her noticing.
"Still studying the beer business?" The moment he spoke, he gave the intently focused Charlotte a start.
"How do you walk without making a single sound?" Charlotte frowned, casting him a displeased look.
"You were just too absorbed," Russell shrugged. "I even said hello to Mrs. Hudson on my way in."
The two of them didn't dwell on that topic, instead steering the conversation back on track.
"Right now there are only two clues—one is Czech, the other is beer," Charlotte said.
"I've considered whether it might be a homophone, but that doesn't seem very practical."
Hearing this, Russell walked to her side, his gaze settling on those few circled keywords.
"Czech, beer..." He stroked his chin, pondering for a moment.
"Maybe this really is just plain beer?"
"If that were truly the case, why go to the trouble of using Czech beer specifically as a reference?"
Charlotte knitted her brow.
"Does Czech beer carry some special meaning?"
"That I wouldn't know," Russell shrugged. "I'm an upstanding young man who neither smokes nor drinks."
Charlotte paid him no mind. Instead, after a spell of thought, she walked over to the telephone and picked up the receiver.
"Connect me to Scotland Yard, I'm looking for Lestrade," she told the operator.
The call went through quickly, and on the other end, Lestrade's voice, tinged with a hint of weariness, came through clearly.
"Charlotte? Is something the matter?"
"Czech beer." Charlotte came straight to the point. "What do you know about it?"
"What in the world?" Lestrade was taken aback for a moment, thinking he'd misheard.
"Beer? You're in the mood to care about that right now? Is this thing important?"
"Very important. It concerns the killer who murdered Hannigan."
At this, Lestrade fell silent for a moment before finally saying:
"Give me five minutes, let me think. Don't hang up."
As his words fell, Charlotte heard the sound of the receiver being set down on the desk.
She waited patiently, until a flurry of hurried footsteps and Lestrade's hollow-sounding voice rang out by her ear.
"I remembered, I remembered it!"
Lestrade's voice grew from hollow to clear.
"I remembered, Charlotte—there is, there is such a beer!"
"Speak." Charlotte's voice was terse and to the point.
"That stuff is a specialty of the Bohemia region of Czech. A few years back it was fashionable for a while among London's high society, but it was quickly replaced by other, more expensive liquors."
"Nowadays, there are probably scarcely a handful of bars left in London still selling it—at most it's kept for collection."
"I've no interest in its history," Charlotte urged. "Tell me the name."
"Pilsen!" Lestrade said.
"Pilsen beer!"
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