The next day, early morning.
As the sunlight pierced through the first thin veil of mist and lit up the streets of London, the entire city was roused awake by a familiar clamor.
"Extra, extra! The Times exposes the truth—the killer in the Hannigan murder is someone else entirely!"
"Front page headline of The Guardian! Phantom Thief Moriarty didn't kill anyone!"
The newsboys waved the papers in their hands, shouting at the top of their lungs, proclaiming this earth-shattering reversal to every passerby.
As if by prior agreement, the two newspapers had simultaneously turned their spears toward the real culprit who had pinned every crime on Moriarty.
From the faint traces at the scene, to the unspeakable relationship between the killer and the victim, to that meticulously orchestrated frame-up—
every link was tightly interlocked, the logic crystal clear, enough to make one slap the table in admiration.
As for that little rag of a paper that had published the "Moriarty is a murderer" report—it became the target jointly strangled by the two giants.
"A capering clown," "stopping at nothing for the sake of attention," "a disgrace to journalism"—
all manner of sharp and scathing words were heaped upon them without the slightest mercy.
It was easy to foresee that this little paper, which had only just made a name for itself on the back of a single piece of fake news, would after today vanish completely and utterly from Fleet Street.
The winds of public opinion had, in the span of a single night, undergone an astonishing reversal.
The citizens' emotions were like riding a drop tower, having gone through enormous swings and plunges in just a few short days.
People railed with righteous indignation against the killer's malice, against the paper's deception and misdirection, and then dug into their pockets one after another, buying up copy after copy of the freshly printed papers from the newsboys' hands.
And as one of the very instigators of all this, Charlotte simply sat quietly at the dining table, unhurriedly enjoying the breakfast Russell had prepared for her, as though the towering storm outside had nothing whatsoever to do with her.
"So how exactly are we supposed to tally the sales?" Russell said, setting a perfectly fried soft-yolk egg onto her plate.
"That kind of trivial thing—whatever happens is fine." Charlotte cut off a small piece of toast and dipped it into the yolk. "I don't care."
"So today's paper sales—call it a draw?" Russell asked again.
"We'll just have Henry and Edgar organize today's sales figures and send them to Baker Street tomorrow. Then we'll know, won't we?"
"…Didn't you just say you don't care?"
"Not caring doesn't mean we can't compare," Charlotte said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Hearing that, Russell pursed his lips.
She obviously cared to death.
The boomerang from the past couple of days had come flying back and smacked her, hadn't it?
Russell pursed his lips, then wrapped a small, dainty sandwich in oiled paper.
After that, he set off, leaving Baker Street and heading for Imperial College.
By the time Russell arrived at the lecture hall, Mary was already sitting there.
The girl was dressed today in a black dress, its hem falling past her knees, an exquisite bow tied at her chest.
Her long silver-white hair fell naturally over her shoulders, and her face bore a light, elegant touch of makeup.
An open volume of poetry lay on the desk, but her gaze was not focused on the pages.
The girl sat there quietly, one hand propping up her cheek, those eyes that always carried a gentle smile falling squarely and unwaveringly upon Russell.
"Good morning." Russell sat down beside her, setting the breakfast he'd brought onto the desk in the same motion.
"Morning." The smile on Mary's face deepened a little further. "You seem to be in a good mood today."
"Mm. Not bad, I suppose." Russell gave a yawn.
As he spoke, he pushed the still-warm breakfast in front of Mary.
"Brought it for you."
"Hm?" Mary raised an eyebrow, a little surprised. "What made you suddenly think to bring me this?"
"Consider it a return of the favor," Russell said with a smile.
"But I've already had breakfast."
"I know, so I didn't make too big a portion—just enough for a taste."
At that, the corners of the girl's lips curved up slightly. "In that case, I'll accept it."
The bacon was fried crisp and fragrant, the egg a perfect soft-yolk, and even the toast was browned just right—from the presentation alone, one could hardly find a single fault.
"It looks like your skills really are quite good."
She offered the praise sincerely, then brought the dainty little sandwich to her mouth and took a small bite.
"How is it?" Russell asked.
"Mm…" The girl chewed, not giving her verdict right away.
Only after she had swallowed the food in her mouth did she nod with satisfaction.
"Better than my family's cook makes it. Honestly, I'm starting to feel a little envious of Charlotte."
"Don't be envious. While Charlotte's living the good life, there's always someone bearing the load behind her."
Russell said this, and the girl let out a soft laugh.
The two of them chatted idly like this, Mary enjoying the unexpected breakfast while listening with great interest as Russell recounted everything that had happened the night before.
"Oh, right," Mary said, suddenly recalling something. "Today's paper—I saw it."
She went on, "I never imagined Charlotte would really pin down the killer in just a single day?"
"That's right," Russell nodded. "Truly worthy of the great detective, Holmes. Amazing, isn't it?"
"But," the girl paused, then said with a hint of confusion, "why is it that The Guardian's report also recorded the reasoning behind the case in such detail?"
She asked, "When I went to The Guardian yesterday, I didn't tell them anything that detailed—after all, I didn't even know it myself."
"Ah, that," Russell paused for a moment. "That's because I sent a copy of the draft over to The Guardian as well."
"Hm?" Mary's chewing slowed, and she stared at Russell with wide eyes, cheeks puffed out, like a hamster.
"To be precise, it was Charlotte who told me to do it," Russell said.
At that, the confusion and curiosity on Mary's face deepened further.
No wonder, she thought—no wonder the writing style of The Guardian's report today had given her an inexplicable sense of familiarity.
"This really doesn't seem like something that proud detective lady would do."
"She said that since it's a contest, then it should be a fair and aboveboard one."
Russell repeated Charlotte's original words.
"Or maybe it's just because there's a handsome writing fee to be collected."
"I rather think it's simply that she didn't want to put you in a difficult position." Mary's voice was very soft.
"Hm?" Russell's movement paused.
"It's nothing," Mary said, shaking her head with a smile. "I was just saying it offhand."
She picked up the sandwich again, eating it in small bites.
"Still, the two of you really do get along well."
Russell didn't continue the topic any further.
Intuition told him that he seemed to be sitting at the very center of an invisible battlefield.
On both his left and right were minefields—one careless step, and it would be eternal ruin.
Silence is golden.
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