Hearing Charlotte's words, Russell froze for a moment, then couldn't help laughing.
"And here I thought you were going to make me foot the bill, or have Mrs. Hudson reimburse it."
"I have my own money," Charlotte shot him a look. "Don't treat me like some kind of parasite."
"My apologies," Russell smiled. "In that case, we'll do it your way."
He paused, then added, "Why not copy down your reasoning right now, while you're at it?"
"Why?" Charlotte asked, puzzled. "Can't I just dictate it?"
"Some things are always better with a written record," Russell said.
"I can't be bothered to write it. If you want it written, write it yourself." Charlotte picked up her coffee cup.
"I can dictate it to you."
"Mm... that works." Russell shrugged, noncommittal.
After all, this was exactly the sort of thing Watson did in the original stories.
He grabbed a blank notebook off the table and picked up a pen with his other hand, looking for all the world like a student getting ready to take dictation.
"Go ahead and start," Russell said. "Just don't talk too fast."
"Where should I begin?" Charlotte asked, sitting down beside Russell.
"Mm..." Russell thought for a moment. "Start from the part where you got the call from Lestrade. I'll write it in first person."
"Understood." She set down her coffee cup, cleared her throat, and then began to speak, unhurried and eloquent.
The young woman's voice rose in the quiet room.
Russell's pen tip flew across the paper, recording every word she said without missing a single one.
He wrote quickly and diligently, not even lifting his head to glance at the young woman beside him.
Charlotte spared Russell a look, then slowed her cadence a little, sounding almost like she was narrating a novel.
She laid out the entire reasoning process of the case—from the survey of the scene, to Lestrade's reactions, to the subsequent hunt for clues and how they connected, and finally to pinning down the killer—all of it clear and impeccably ordered.
The whole thing was like a finely crafted academic paper, beginning with a hypothesis and ending with concrete examples.
"...So, the answer is already quite obvious."
As Charlotte spoke the final word, she picked up the coffee at her side and took a sip, soothing her somewhat parched throat.
"The one who killed Hannigan was Pilsen."
"There. Done."
At the same moment, Russell set down his pen and rubbed his wrist.
He picked up those densely written pages, blew them dry, and checked them over carefully. Only after confirming there were no typos did he nod in satisfaction.
"Truly worthy of a great detective—clear logic, well-ordered reasoning." He sighed the compliment from the bottom of his heart.
"I feel like if we save up enough of these, we could publish a whole volume of The Adventures of Holmes."
"I'm not that idle," Charlotte said, pursing her lips.
Russell folded the pages neatly and then slipped them into an envelope.
"Then I'll head to Fleet Street now." He stood up. "Anything else you want me to pass along?"
"Remember to have The Times and The Guardian settle the payment as two separate shares."
"Two shares?" Russell raised an eyebrow.
"If you don't want the money, you can have them give your share to me," Charlotte said without even looking up.
"On second thought, never mind." Russell smiled and walked toward the door.
"I'm off, then. Let Mrs. Hudson know she doesn't need to wait dinner for me."
"Mm."
Charlotte gave a careless reply, her attention already returning to that stack of files.
Russell turned and left the room.
Fleet Street was as noisy as ever.
Even though night had already fallen, the place remained ablaze with light.
Russell threaded through the crowd with practiced ease and walked straight into the offices of The Times.
"Good evening."
He smiled at the receptionist, whose face had grown somewhat familiar. "I'm here to see Mr. Henry Scott."
"One moment, please, Mr. Watson." The receptionist clearly remembered Russell too. "I'll announce you right away."
It wasn't long before Henry came down the stairs, a warm smile on his face.
"Good evening, Mr. Watson," he offered his hand first. "I'm delighted to see you—is it a letter from Moriarty?"
"No, it's from Charlotte Holmes." Russell shook his hand and then held out the envelope from inside his coat.
"Charlotte has already found the killer."
"Really?"
Henry took the envelope in disbelief, muttering to himself.
It had only been a single day—it was truly astonishing.
When he saw those densely written, crystal-clear pages of reasoning, his hands couldn't help but begin to tremble faintly.
"This... this is wonderful!" he said excitedly. "This is absolutely going to be tomorrow's biggest headline!"
"Of course," Russell nodded.
"However, I hope you understand—this headline doesn't belong to you alone."
"What do you mean?" Henry blinked.
"Miss Charlotte asked me to deliver a copy of this manuscript to The Guardian as well," Russell explained.
At those words, the smile on Henry's face froze instantly.
"The Guardian? Why?" he asked, bewildered. "Didn't we agree—"
"I'm only the messenger, Mr. Scott," Russell cut him off. "As for the reason, I think you'll have to ask Miss Holmes herself."
Henry's expression shifted again and again, until at last he let out a helpless sigh. "Fine, I understand."
He carefully put away the manuscript that was sure to stir up a fresh storm of public opinion.
"So, about the payment—"
"Settle it as two shares—one mine, one Charlotte's," Russell said.
"Certainly, no problem." Henry nodded readily.
"And the interview—what does Miss Holmes say?"
"Next week. We'll notify you of the exact time," Russell finished, then made to turn and leave.
"Then I'll await your good news."
Russell said nothing more, only waved a hand at him, his figure quickly vanishing into the crowd.
Without pause, he hurried on to the offices of The Guardian.
Edgar's reaction upon hearing the news was cut from the same cloth as Henry's—first wild elation, then shock and reluctance upon learning that The Times had a copy as well.
But in the end, he too could only accept the fact with resignation, and then honestly paid up.
He even made a great show of asking how much The Times had paid, and then handed over ten pounds more.
Not bad—everybody's grinding to outdo each other.
Russell tucked the money into his pocket, thoroughly pleased.
With everything settled, Russell walked out of Fleet Street in high spirits, carrying the two rather generous sums of payment.
By the time he returned to 221B Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson had already gone to bed.
There was still a sandwich left out for him on the table.
Russell picked up the sandwich and held it in his mouth, then hurried upstairs and pushed open the door to Charlotte's room.
"You're back?" Charlotte looked over at Russell.
"Mm," Russell nodded, then handed one of the envelopes to Charlotte. "Your share."
Charlotte reached out and took it—and without even counting it, tossed it right back to Russell.
"?"
Russell fumbled to catch the envelope, looking at Charlotte in confusion.
Are you just throwing money around?
"You keep it," Charlotte said.
"Keep it for you?" Russell looked at the two envelopes in his hands, not immediately catching on.
"Do you think my room has any place to put these?" Charlotte gave him a sidelong glance, her tone matter-of-fact.
At that, Russell fell silent for a moment, then let out a helpless sigh.
"Fine, I'll hold onto it for you." He stuffed both envelopes into his own pocket.
"In that case, would you mind shifting over a little?" Russell said.
"Hm?"
"I'm going to keep the accounts," Russell said as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"I'd rather not have the two of us end up quarreling someday over who this money belongs to."
At that, Charlotte first froze for a moment, then pursed her lips and rose from her chair.
"Always doing such unnecessary things."
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