"Half a month ago..." Russell's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.
"According to what Lestrade managed to dig up from Emily Collins's neighbors, and also her coworkers."
Charlotte set down her coffee cup, her fingertip resting on a particular line in the file, tapping it twice.
"Her coworkers all said that, starting roughly half a month ago, the air Emily Collins gave off started to feel a little different."
"Different how?" Russell asked, curious.
"No idea." Charlotte shook her head, her expression complicated. "Something like... she looked more... radiant, I suppose. Probably an excess of hormones."
"Fine, I get the picture." Russell nodded. "What else?"
"There's also the fact that, when the maids were chatting among themselves, Emily Collins mentioned she'd found herself a boyfriend."
"His name?"
"She never said." Charlotte shrugged. "Beyond that, there's the matter of Emily Collins's neighbors."
"What did the neighbors say?"
"Her neighbor said that, also starting about half a month ago, sounds would occasionally come from inside Emily Collins's apartment."
"Couldn't those sounds just be Emily Collins herself?"
"She lives in Hannigan's residence, remember?" Charlotte reminded him. "A maid's position permits her to live in her employer's residence."
"Then why was she still renting an apartment?" Russell knitted his brow.
"She rented that apartment before she latched onto Hannigan. According to what the other servants said, when she first started the job, she wasn't allowed to reside in the residence full-time.
Every week Hannigan gives the servants two days off, all to reinforce his image as a philanthropist.
And during those two days, in order to cut down on unnecessary expenses, any maid on leave had to leave the residence.
That's precisely why Emily Collins kept renting that room all along—after all, for who she'd become by then, the rent on that little apartment was hardly worth mentioning."
"And then, once she later earned the right to live in full-time, that room sat empty. So naturally, that man moved in," Russell said, picking up the thread.
Charlotte nodded.
"Based on the neighbors' testimony, people did indeed see that man's figure coming and going around the apartment.
But every time, the man wore a hood, and he rarely went out, so basically no one ever caught sight of his face."
"Even so, those neighbors still didn't call the police?"
"Why would they call the police?" Charlotte countered.
"Subletting, sharing a flat, even hot-bedding or boarding—none of that is anything out of the ordinary in London."
She said.
"One person rents the whole place first, then subleases individual rooms, or even just beds, to others—that sort of thing is common as dirt in most cheap rental districts, especially the slums.
Particularly in a place like Walworth, having three or four people crammed into a single room is nothing to raise an eyebrow at.
Everyone's just trying to get by. As long as nobody kicks up too much of a fuss, no one's going to stick their nose in."
Russell fell silent for a moment.
"So the lead from the neighbors is a dead end too."
"Not necessarily." Charlotte shook her head. She picked up the evidence bag holding the cigarette butts and waved it in front of Russell.
"Don't forget, we still have this."
"Did the report Lestrade sent over mention the brand of these cigarette butts?" Russell asked.
"It did." Charlotte flipped the report to its last page.
"Woodbine, a very cheap cigarette, popular mainly among the working class and soldiers. Five for a penny.
Practically anyone in all of Southwark District could be a smoker of these."
"But a man who could bewitch Emily Collins so completely—make her willing to abandon everything she has, glad to run to the ends of the earth with him... he can't possibly just be some ordinary dockworker who only smokes cheap cigarettes like these, can he?"
Russell said.
"Mm-hmm." Charlotte gave a noncommittal reply. "This only tells us he's extremely short on money—and that he has a severe nicotine addiction on top of it.
Otherwise, something you can buy five of for a penny... honestly, he'd be better off just grabbing a fistful of tobacco leaf and chewing it."
"So the situation with this fellow is:
First, he wears a hood and only goes out at night, not wanting anyone to see his face."
"Second, he has nowhere to live, so he can only stay in his mistress's little apartment," Charlotte added.
"Third, he has a severe nicotine addiction, and he possesses an extremely high degree of personal charm where the opposite sex is concerned..."
Russell counted off the man's traits on his fingers one by one, then lifted his head to look at Charlotte.
"The answer's pretty obvious by now, isn't it?"
"It is. Quite obvious," Charlotte nodded.
"That Pilsen fellow really does have some rotten luck," Russell remarked.
"Don't I know it," Charlotte replied, noncommittal.
"I'm starting to suspect that what Emily Collins told you that day might actually have been false testimony," Russell said.
"False or not, it hardly matters. Both of them are missing now anyway."
Charlotte pinched the bridge of her nose.
"A brain rotted by love is a terrifying thing," Russell sighed.
"So-called love is nothing more than a chemical reaction the brain produces to make animals propagate their offspring," Charlotte said without even looking up.
"But plenty of people are undone by exactly that chemical reaction." Russell picked up one of the cigarette butts and rolled it gently between his fingertips.
"Indeed." Charlotte's gaze lifted from the file and settled on Russell's face.
"It can even make a clever girl willingly do things for a man who has nothing—things she knows full well are foolish, yet can't bring herself to refuse."
"That sounds awfully strange, coming from you..." Russell furrowed his brow.
"Does it?" Charlotte arched an eyebrow noncommittally and steered the topic back on track.
"In any case, Pilsen is most likely with Emily Collins right now.
The two of them are probably still holed up in some no-man's-land in the Southwark District, living hand to mouth off her savings and the money stolen from Hannigan."
"How long is that little bit of money supposed to last them?" Russell couldn't help but say.
"How can you be so sure Emily Collins was really that dutiful and conscientious during her time working in Hannigan's residence?" Charlotte countered.
"Her job was crooked from the start—did you honestly expect the work itself to be squeaky clean?
For all we know, she was quietly pocketing a fair bit of Hannigan's money on the side, or his jewelry. Pass it off through a fence, and turning a tidy profit would be easy enough—enough for the two of them to live on, at least."
"Stealing sounds rather romantic," Russell quipped.
"Fugitive lovebirds. A London love story."
Hearing this, Charlotte curled her lip in disdain.
"Nothing but a Numbskull and a Grouch, the pair of them."
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