The night grew deeper.
After leaving Lestrade's house, Russell didn't rush into action.
He sat for a while atop a bell tower in Kennington.
Russell sat in the shadow of a Gothic pointed arch, legs dangling over the edge, looking down at the scattered lights of Kennington.
In the distance, the River Thames wound like a great black serpent through sleeping London.
In his mind, a three-dimensional building diagram unfolded slowly, glowing faintly blue.
Russell sank his awareness into it, carefully studying the entire layout of the building.
Douglas Fairchild, twenty-seven, unmarried, resided at the Fairchild estate in Belgravia.
It was the Duke's family townhouse in London, no more than two streets from Buckingham Palace, and heavily guarded.
A three-story main house with a basement, split into East and West Wings — the East Wing held the living quarters, the West Wing the servants' rooms and kitchen.
The main staircase stood at the center, but there was also a spiral staircase hidden at the end of the East Wing, leading straight to the master bedroom on the third floor — a secret passage meant for a mistress.
Douglas Fairchild's bedroom was on the east side of the third floor, right next to that staircase.
Russell zoomed the image in close, memorizing the position of every window, the direction of every corridor, every corner that might hide something.
"Quite the standard playboy setup," he muttered to himself. "His sleeping quarters are less than twenty steps from his escape route."
The wind snapped at his black overcoat. Russell stood up and rolled his shoulders.
"Let's get to work."
The grappling hook gun fired without a sound, and his body melted into the deep night.
The streets of Belgravia were unusually quiet.
The gaslamps cast long, warm halos across the wet cobblestones, hazy and amber.
The Fairchild estate sat on a corner of Eaton Square, its black wrought-iron gates shut tight, ivy climbing the stone walls.
Russell landed on the roof across from the estate, crouched down, and watched quietly for about ten minutes.
Two doormen — one dozing at the front gate, the other smoking by the back door.
A light was on in a third-floor window on the east side, with a shadow occasionally moving behind the curtain; the servants' quarters on the west side had already gone dark.
The patrolling guards moved in pairs, steady steps, fixed routes.
Most of the main house's windows were dark, only a few still glowing faintly.
Russell waited ten minutes, memorizing the rhythm of the guards' patrol by heart.
In the gap between two crossing patrols, he glided down soundlessly like a night owl spreading its wings, dropping into the shadows of the estate's back garden.
The garden was large, its neatly trimmed hedges and tall trees providing natural cover.
Russell moved along the shadows, his shape blending into the darkness.
He reached the corner of the West Wing, looked up, and pulled the lightweight grappling hook gun from inside his coat.
The steel cable cut through the night sky, its hooked claw catching precisely onto the sill of a third-floor window.
Russell tested the tension, then reeled the line taut and glided across through the darkness.
The window was unlocked.
He flipped inside and landed without a sound.
This was a narrow spiral staircase, its stone steps coated with a thin layer of dust, clearly not often used.
Russell climbed up along the wall, stepping only on the edges of each stair.
The door on the third floor was left ajar.
Russell peered through the crack.
It was a corridor laid with deep red carpet, the walls hung with several oil paintings, all portraits of unnamed nobles.
At the end of the corridor was a door, warm yellow light spilling from the gap beneath it, and the faint sound of voices could be heard.
It was a woman's voice.
"You promised me, Douglas — you said you'd take me to Paris this month!"
"What's the rush?" another voice answered lazily, thick with drink.
"Once I finish this business I've got on hand, you can go wherever you like."
"You say that every time! Last time it was that maid business, and before that…"
"Shut up." Douglas's voice turned suddenly cold. "I said, once it's done, it's done.
If you keep whining, you can get out right now."
The woman fell silent.
Through the gap in the door, Russell saw a figure rise unsteadily from the sofa and stagger toward the liquor cabinet.
That was Douglas Fairchild — twenty-seven, slick-haired and smooth-faced, dressed in a silk robe with an open collar that showed the sparse hair on his chest.
A young woman still sat on the sofa, dressed in revealing clothes, her expression aggrieved.
Russell looked away.
That kind of scene held no interest for him. What he was after wasn't here.
According to the map's guidance, what he needed should be in a hidden compartment in the study.
Best to be quick about it.
Drag this out any longer and he'd be falling asleep in class again tomorrow.
The study was on the second floor, east side. Russell descended the spiral staircase without a sound, moving along the wall.
At the end of the corridor stood a pair of double oak doors, their handles shaped like gilded lion heads.
Russell pressed his ear to the door, listening for movement beyond — silence, no breathing.
The door was unlocked.
He slipped inside and pulled it shut behind him.
The study was spacious, carpeted, its bookshelves running floor to ceiling. Embers still glowed in the fireplace, giving off a faint warmth.
Facing the door stood a massive mahogany desk, papers scattered across its surface, and beside them a half-finished glass of brandy.
Russell didn't rush to search the desk.
He stood in the center of the study, closed his eyes, and recalled the structure of the map.
The hidden compartment's location was in the third row of the east bookshelf, between the seventh and eighth books counting from the left.
It was a set of leather-bound Encyclopaedia Britannica volumes, looking no different from the books beside them — but pulling those two out at the same time would loosen the panel behind them.
Russell opened his eyes, walked to the bookshelf, and ran his fingers along the spines.
There.
He pulled out the seventh and eighth volumes, and a faint click sounded from deep within the shelf.
The panel sank inward by half an inch.
Russell reached inside, his fingertips brushing a cold metal box.
He pulled the box out and set it on the desk.
The box was made of brass, palm-sized, finely crafted, with an intricate keyhole.
Of course, "intricate" was about all it had going for it.
Russell casually produced his lockpicking tools and had the lock open in a few quick moves.
The box opened to reveal several thick ledgers lying quietly inside, along with a stack of letters.
Russell picked up a ledger and flipped through it quickly.
What it recorded were the various shady dealings Douglas had carried out over the years using his family's power — everything from land grabs to smuggling contraband.
The stack of letters were private correspondence between him and other nobles, their contents even more explicit, full of filthy dealings.
None of this was anything new to Russell.
He didn't even bother giving it a second look — he simply stuffed the items into his pocket, put the brass box back in the compartment exactly as it had been, replaced the books, and restored everything to how it was.
The whole process took less than four minutes.
Russell turned toward the window.
Just as he was about to leave, footsteps sounded in the corridor.
Very light, furtive, clearly deliberately muffled.
Russell stopped in his tracks.
The footsteps drew closer and closer, then stopped right outside the study door.
The doorknob turned.
Russell slipped behind the curtain — a heavy velvet drape that hung down to the floor, plenty enough to hide a person.
The door opened.
A figure poked its head in cautiously.
It was a maid, young, in her early twenties, wearing the standard Fairchild household uniform, though her apron was tied crookedly and her cap sat askew.
She carried a silver flask, and headed straight and purposefully for the desk — or rather, for the liquor cabinet beside it.
Russell watched her from behind the curtain.
The maid opened the liquor cabinet, took out a bottle of red wine, and poured it into her own flask.
Not satisfied with just that, she opened a nearby box of cigars, pulled out a few, and stuffed them into her apron pocket, then put everything back exactly as it had been.
Then she straightened up, clapped her hands together in satisfaction, and turned to leave.
But just then, new footsteps appeared at the door.
The instant she heard the sound, the maid's body visibly stiffened.
She whipped around, staring wide-eyed at the door, the color visibly draining from her face.
The hand still holding the flask trembled slightly, the silver surface reflecting the dim red glow of the dying embers.
Too late — if she were discovered, she'd be finished.
Her eyes swept wildly around the study, searching for anywhere she might hide.
Meanwhile, the footsteps outside were drawing closer, as though the door might open at any moment.
In that critical instant, the maid's gaze landed on the heavy velvet curtain beside her.
At this point, there seemed to be no other choice.
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