It struck Charlotte then that somewhere along the way, she had changed.
She had stopped caring so much about evidence and conclusions — at least where certain things were concerned.
Take right now, for instance.
She had even begun to want to go on living inside that small self-administered comfort: "without evidence, nothing can be proven."
She would rather never know the truth at all, and let the days go on just as they were.
"Charlotte?"
Russell's voice pulled her back to the present.
She lifted her head without thinking and found him watching her, a trace of worry in his eyes.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked. "You don't look well."
Charlotte blinked, then shook her head.
"It's nothing," she said. "Just thinking about something."
"About Charles Brown?"
"Mm." Charlotte gave a small nod.
"Then stop," Russell said. "There's no point chewing it over now. We'll know when we get there."
"In any case, Charles Brown is the only thread we've got left. Making sure Lestrade keeps him alive matters more than anything else."
"If he dies, then the whole thing really has been for nothing."
He paused, then added, "Speaking of which — the assassin The Professor sent to kill Pilsen. Any leads on him?"
Charlotte shook her head.
"None," she said, a thread of weariness and resignation in her voice.
"Lestrade's already sent men to look into it, but you know how it was. In conditions like that, nobody could have seen much of anything."
Russell didn't look surprised.
It was simply the truth.
Pitch darkness, a figure gone in the space of a blink, marksmanship accurate enough to be frightening — the genuinely useful evidence left behind amounted to almost zero.
"What about working from the bullet?" Russell asked.
"Lestrade thought of that too," Charlotte said.
"Recover the bullet, compare the caliber and type, use that to pin down the exact model of the pistol, then work through everyone who owns one — that's what you had in mind, isn't it?"
Russell nodded.
"But have you considered this: a man that professional, with the job already done — why on earth would he hold on to the weapon?" Charlotte asked.
"And even granting the impossible, even if he did still have that pistol, a gun like that wouldn't have come to him by honest means. There'd be no record anywhere for anyone to trace."
She sighed.
"So it's another dead end — and Lestrade went and did it anyway."
"Why?"
"He can hardly do nothing, can he?" Charlotte shrugged. "At least this way he can collect his wages with a clearer conscience."
A laugh escaped Russell.
"Good to hear your tongue's as poisonous as ever," he said, relieved.
Across the table, Charlotte's brows drew together.
"Sounds to me like you're angling for tea at Buckingham Palace."
"Ahem — joking, only joking." Russell raised his hands in surrender.
Dinner ended in perfect peace.
Mrs. Hudson volunteered to take over the washing-up and shooed Russell and Charlotte off to the sitting room.
The two of them watched the old lady's eager back for a moment, then glanced at each other.
Russell stood and crossed to the tea table.
"I'll make the tea."
He had just picked up the pot to put the water on when Charlotte's voice came from behind him.
"Don't bother with tea, Watson. I don't want any."
Russell's hands stilled. He set the pot down and turned to look at her.
"What do you want, then? Coffee?"
"No. Nothing at all." Charlotte shook her head, rose from her chair, and made for the door.
"I want to go out for a walk."
Russell stayed rooted where he was.
"What is it?" When he didn't follow, Charlotte turned back, looking at him with curiosity.
"You don't want to go out?"
"No…" Russell's tone was complicated. "You want to go out?"
You're not Charlotte. Who are you, really? Get off her at once.
"Why shouldn't I go out?" Charlotte countered.
"I've slept the entire day away in this house. Is there a problem with wanting a little air?"
She was already standing at the door by the time she finished.
Russell said nothing more. He simply picked up his coat.
"We're going out for a bit, Mrs. Hudson. We'll be back soon."
He called it toward the kitchen, and once she answered, he stepped out with Charlotte.
London on a winter night: the air was clean and cold, threaded with the faint smell of coal smoke.
The lamps along Baker Street were already lit, casting pools of dim yellow light across the flagstones.
Now and then a carriage passed somewhere in the distance, wheels grinding over the road in a steady rhythm before the sound faded into the dark.
They walked side by side, Charlotte in that heavy black coat, both hands buried in her pockets.
She walked slowly — not from exhaustion, but with the unhurried slowness of someone going nowhere in particular.
She simply kept to Russell's side, her eyes on the road ahead, lifting her head now and then to look at the sky, or turning to glance at a shop window along the street.
Russell matched her pace and walked without hurry.
No conversation, no destination, as though the walk itself were the whole of it.
Eventually the two of them came to a bridge.
The River Thames slid past beneath them, its surface holding the yellow lamplight from both banks like a black ribbon sewn all over with stars.
Charlotte stopped, went to the edge, braced her hands on the cold stone balustrade, and gazed at the water, lost in thought.
Russell came up beside her and set his hands on the rail the same way she had.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked.
"Nothing." Charlotte shook her head, her eyes still on the river.
"Only that London is very quiet at night."
"That's just because of where we're standing," Russell said with a smile. "Go down to Southwark District, or the East End, and you wouldn't think so."
Charlotte didn't argue.
So they stood there in silence, watching the water, listening to the wind, feeling this city breathe beneath the dark.
How long they stood, neither of them could have said. Then Charlotte spoke.
"Russell."
"Mm?" He turned his head. "What is it?"
She was still facing the river, though her attention had plainly left the moving water.
"Do you lie to me?" she asked.
Russell went still.
And what was that supposed to mean?
These past two days he'd run into nothing but questions that were hard to answer.
He thought it over for a moment before he answered, slowly, "I do."
"Because it's something that's already happened," he said. "Which makes asking rather pointless."
"In that case, I'll ask one that isn't pointless."
Charlotte pushed herself up off the rail, stretched, and tilted her head toward him.
"From now on — will you lie to me?"
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