The room Emily Collins had rented wasn't large, so Russell searched every inch of it in short order.
Her clothes were still there, some of her cosmetics not even opened yet, and her suitcase lay neatly tucked beneath the bed.
Everything looked perfectly normal.
The one thing that gave him pause was that, no matter how thoroughly he turned the place over, he couldn't find so much as a single penny.
Why would Emily Collins bolt, and take nothing but the money, without so much as a glance at anything else?
Was she really that afraid of Moriarty's retaliation?
That didn't quite add up. His own reputation was, after all, rather... good.
At least to the ordinary citizens of London, it was still fairly good.
And besides, even if she had fled, where could she possibly hide?
How long would that little bit of money in her hands even last her?
Instinct told him there was more to this than met the eye—that perhaps there was some hidden reason behind it all.
But for the moment, he needed to find Emily Collins first.
"One after another, every last one of them so fond of hiding," he couldn't help but grumble under his breath.
Just as he was about to leave, the corner of Russell's eye suddenly caught sight of the wastebasket in the corner.
Moonlight spilled in, falling squarely on the wastebasket, and inside there seemed to be something distinctly out of place.
Russell's steps halted. He then walked over to the wastebasket and upended it onto the floor.
The contents spilled out with a clatter, scattering across the ground. Russell's gaze settled on them, his eyes narrowing slightly.
They were several cigarette butts.
Several butts smoked down to less than two or three centimeters, lying quietly there amid a heap of ordinary household refuse.
Given Emily Collins's income level and her profession, there was no way she smoked.
For one thing, she couldn't afford it—or rather, her standard of living wasn't enough to support a smoking habit.
For another, she was a maid, and maids couldn't smoke. Otherwise, if her employer caught the smell of smoke on her, she could kiss the job goodbye.
Therefore, these cigarettes could only have been smoked by a man.
This room, before she left, had once been visited by another person.
A man—a man with a habit of smoking.
"Now that's interesting." Russell arched an eyebrow, as though something had occurred to him.
He found an envelope in the room, then gathered up all the cigarette butts and sealed them inside.
Charlotte would surely be interested in these.
As it happened, he could seize the opportunity to deliver the clue to her under the guise of Moriarty—repaying the favor he owed her fair and square.
Russell tucked the envelope holding his little gift into his coat and, lingering no longer, slipped soundlessly out of the now-deserted apartment.
The night was ink-black, and the cold wind knifed through the narrow alleyways, letting out a sound like a mournful sob.
Russell moved across the rooftops, looking down upon the city already fast asleep below.
The grappling hook gun tore across the night sky, and in a few rises and falls the Phantom Thief's figure vanished into the tangled maze of rooftops across the Southwark District.
Early morning, 221B Baker Street.
Charlotte opened her eyes from bed, ran a hand through her somewhat tousled hair, then rose with a yawn.
Just as the girl was preparing to cross the sitting room and head straight downstairs to greet the breakfast and morning paper that were rightfully hers—
the moment she reached the bottom of the stairs, Charlotte caught a whiff of an aroma that whetted the appetite and gladdened the heart.
It was the smell of fat sizzling away.
Following the scent, Charlotte came to the kitchen doorway and saw Russell standing with his back to her, positioned before the stove.
Today Russell was once again wearing that apron of Mrs. Hudson's, deftly flipping the bacon in the frying pan.
The grease crackled and sputtered under the high heat, the curled edges of the bacon fried to a crisp golden brown, giving off a rich, meaty fragrance.
In an instant, it captured the girl's taste buds, still a little sluggish from having just woken.
Charlotte yawned, leaned against the doorframe with her arms crossed, and quietly watched him work.
"Morning."
Russell didn't turn around, but the faint stirring behind him was enough for him to recognize who had arrived.
"Just a little longer, breakfast will be ready soon."
"Morning," Charlotte answered, stepping forward and craning her head over curiously to look at the few strips of bacon dancing merrily in the oil.
"Such a lavish spread today?" She arched an eyebrow.
"Thank Mrs. Hudson for that—she's the one who bought it."
Russell scooped the finished bacon out and set it on a piece of paper towel to drain.
"Consider it a little reward for our hardworking great detective."
Charlotte pursed her lips, pulled out a chair, and sat down at the table. She picked up the copy of The Times lying there, still fragrant with printer's ink, and leafed through it idly.
Russell brought the last portion of breakfast to the table—golden, crisp toast, richly fragrant bacon, and a perfect soft-yolked poached egg, all served alongside a glass of warm milk.
"That's your share." He pushed the plate over in front of Charlotte.
Charlotte set down the newspaper, picked up her knife and fork, and cut off a small piece of toast.
"So, did last night yield anything, great detective?" Russell sat down across from her and took a bite of the sandwich he'd made himself.
"Nothing particularly special," Charlotte said, popping the yolk-smeared toast into her mouth and chewing carefully.
"The materials Lestrade sent over were far too disorganized. It took me an entire night just to barely untangle Pilsen's social circle in the Southwark District."
"So did you pin down any suspicious targets?"
"Not yet, for the moment," Charlotte shook her head and picked up the milk for a sip.
"Pilsen is a very cautious man—or rather, a very cunning one.
He's spent years knocking about the underworld, and who knows just how far his connections reach. He's even served as a soldier.
Most of the people on the list are just drinking buddies or plain business associates.
Counting on them to risk drawing Scotland Yard's attention by harboring a murderer—that's not very likely."
"Is that so." Russell neither agreed nor disagreed. "Let's set that aside for today. We still have to go see Charles Brown."
"Mm." Charlotte gave a slight nod, then looked up at the clock, as though checking the time.
After that, in a few quick, efficient motions, she polished off everything on her plate.
"I'm going to change," she said. "Then we'll set off in a bit."
"Now?" Russell raised an eyebrow, but nodded obligingly all the same.
"Go on."
The girl set down her utensils, turned, and headed upstairs.
Russell, meanwhile, cleared away the dishes and carried them to the kitchen to wash.
By the time he'd dried his hands and stepped out of the kitchen, he found that Charlotte still hadn't finished.
"Charlotte?" he called out tentatively.
No answer.
At this, Russell arched an eyebrow, then strode quickly up the stairs and pushed open the door.
Charlotte was standing in the sitting room, still dressed in that same nightgown.
She stood by the windowsill, an envelope pinched between her fingers, her brow slightly furrowed.
"What are you doing?"
Russell walked forward, asking though he already knew, his gaze falling on the envelope in Charlotte's hand.
What was this?
"I don't know." Charlotte shook her head.
"This thing seems to have just appeared out of nowhere on my windowsill."
"Let me see..."
Russell reached out and took the envelope from Charlotte's hand, looking at the handwriting on its surface.
"The recipient... Emily Collins?"
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