Russell rose obligingly, giving the seat back to its rightful owner.
Lestrade threw on his coat, walked to the desk, and sat down, tossing the pistol carelessly aside.
He took a deep drag on his cigarette, then slowly exhaled. His somewhat bleary eyes cleared considerably.
"Go on then," he said, the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth as he pulled a few of the thorniest-looking files from the towering stack of documents.
"Which one do you want to start with?"
"That depends on you, Inspector." Russell sat on the other desk, idly toying with Lestrade's hip flask.
"Which one do you want to start with?"
He tossed the question right back at Lestrade, unchanged.
Hearing this, the corner of Lestrade's mouth twitched slightly around his cigarette.
He pushed aside the files in front of him, then leaned down and pulled out a file that looked considerably aged from the very bottom drawer of the desk.
The folder's cover had yellowed, its corners frayed — clearly it had been flipped through countless times.
"Let's start with this one, then."
He dropped the file on the desk, kicking up a fine haze of dust.
Russell picked up the file, blew the dust off it, and turned to the first page.
"Douglas Fairchild," he read the name aloud, his eyes sweeping over the attached black-and-white photograph.
"Three years ago, on his own estate, he forced himself on and killed a young maid. But because he used his influence, he got the victim's family to sign a letter of forgiveness, and the whole thing was settled with a bit of compensation and nothing more?"
"That's right." Lestrade nodded, taking another deep drag on his cigarette. Amid the curling smoke, his expression turned complicated.
"Douglas is the Duke of Howard's second son — a classic spoiled brat, relying on his family's power to do whatever he pleases out there.
That maid wasn't his first victim, and she certainly wasn't the last, but she was the one who suffered the worst.
We'd gathered enough evidence back then to send him to the gallows.
But right before the trial opened, the victim's family suddenly withdrew the charges and produced a letter of forgiveness signed in their own hand."
"The Duke's handiwork." Russell didn't confirm or deny it.
"Yeah," Lestrade laughed bitterly at himself.
"There was nothing we could do. We just had to watch that bastard walk free, still living it up in London's social circles."
"Once the letter of forgiveness was signed, doesn't that mean the case was closed?" Russell asked.
"But it can't just end like that," Lestrade said, looking at him. "Otherwise, more people will fall victim to this kind of senseless disaster down the road."
"So what do you want me to do?" Russell closed the file. "Ruin his reputation?"
"Honestly, ruining his reputation would be... too lenient for him."
Lestrade said.
"Then what do you want," Russell asked, "want me to kill him?"
"No, absolutely not!" Lestrade shot to his feet.
"I won't say a word if you cripple him, but you are not to kill him!"
"Why not? Does he have some secret identity I don't know about?" Russell asked, curious.
"It's got nothing to do with who he is — it's about you!" Lestrade pointed at Russell.
"You are absolutely not to kill anyone!"
He looked at Russell, something unreadable in his eyes.
"What I want is for them to pay a price — not for you to drag yourself down with them."
Watching Lestrade's agitation, Russell smiled.
"Relax, Inspector," he said, taking off his top hat and holding it to his chest with a slight bow.
"I'm just a thief, not a murderer."
"Good, then." Lestrade let out a breath and sank back into his chair, the tension draining from him.
He looked at the young man before him in the white mask and suddenly felt a strange sense of unreality.
A Phantom Thief — the very man giving all of Scotland Yard headaches — was sitting right here in his own home, discussing with him, an Inspector, how to mete out justice.
"So, what exactly are you planning to do?"
Lestrade lit another cigarette, the smoke blurring the lines that years had carved into his face.
"Send him to prison?"
"Prison?" Russell gave a light laugh. "What difference would that place make to him, compared to his own back garden?
His Grace the Duke has plenty of ways to make sure he's comfortable in there — he'd probably get better treatment than he would outside."
Russell tossed the file back onto the desk.
"Professional matters need professional hands."
"You mean—"
"Mr. Mycroft would surely be delighted to add another feather to his cap."
Russell said with a smile.
The hand holding Lestrade's cigarette froze mid-air.
"...Mycroft?"
"Of course. Is there anyone in all of London better suited for the job?" Russell said, turning the silver flask over in his hand.
"Douglas Fairchild, the Duke's son, a murder three years ago, a victim's letter of forgiveness bought with money.
Put all that on his desk, and if the Duke isn't summoned within twenty-four hours, Mycroft ought to resign."
He said with a smile.
"Since the Duke of Howard wields so much power, let's see him go up against the British Government instead — do you still have the letter of forgiveness?"
"I do." Lestrade nodded, then dug the letter out from the file and handed it to Russell.
Russell set down the flask and took the letter, glancing over it briefly.
"As bedtime reading goes, it's decent enough."
He tucked the letter into his pocket as he spoke, walking toward the window.
Lestrade watched his back and suddenly spoke.
"Hey."
Russell turned around.
"...Who exactly are you?" Lestrade asked.
Russell tilted his head.
"Inspector Lestrade," he said, a hint of amusement in his voice, "are you sure you want to know the answer to that?"
Lestrade opened his mouth, then closed it again.
He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.
"...Forget it," he sighed. "Knowing too much makes it hard to sleep at night."
"You're not sleeping tonight either way." Russell reminded him helpfully.
Lestrade shot him a glare.
"And whose fault do you think that is?"
Russell smiled, then turned and leapt out the window.
"Good night, Inspector Lestrade."
"Good night — wait, this is the second floor!"
By the time Lestrade rushed to the window, all he saw was a black shadow tracing a graceful arc through the moonlight, landing in the shadows on the rooftop across the way.
Then, nothing.
Lestrade stood by the window for a long while in silence.
He looked down at the cigarette case still clutched in his hand, then at the pile of disturbed files on the desk.
Finally he lit another cigarette and cursed at the empty night.
"Lunatic."
He closed the window, walked back to the desk, and pulled Douglas's file out to set it alone on top of the pile.
Then he looked at the empty chair and suddenly smiled a little.
"Good thing," he murmured.
"Go raise some hell."
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