The second method was Russell's favorite—not only easier, but also more fun.
He picked, seemingly at random, a late-night Londoner walking the streets—a lovely-looking but evidently cash-strapped stranger. Then, he handed them the envelope holding the explosive news, along with a slip bearing The Times' editor's contact info.
Of course, the note also stated that a substantial delivery fee would be paid if the letter reached its intended recipient. Typically, after some initial suspicion, the errand would get done, and the editor would quietly reward the courier with far more than the job was worth.
The reason he did this was very simple: not just for good deeds, but also to make a little extra cash under this identity when needed.
"There's a saying—give someone a rose, and its fragrance lingers on your hands."
All of this was to lay the groundwork for producing and selling his own stories in the future.
He still had to pay the rent, after all.
Now that he was attending university, tuition had to be paid each term—meaning he needed even more money.
Mrs. Hudson was kind, but Russell never planned to take advantage.
To the Fleet Street press, a messenger from Moriarty was nothing new anymore.
At first, reporters tried desperately to get information about these mysterious errand-runners.
But soon, they realized Moriarty's selection was totally random.
A drunken homeless man, a housemaid just off night shift, a single mother crying because she couldn't afford to take her child to the doctor…
None of them knew a thing about Moriarty. They'd merely faced a kind-hearted, masked ghost on a desperate night.
Over time, the press got used to this setup. With every new messenger, it was like Santa Claus himself was knocking, certain that the letter carried a headline able to shake all of London.
. . .
Russell walked down Fleet Street.
The news agencies along both sides of the street still had their lights on—they weren't closed. Russell held the envelope, considering where to submit the story. In the end, he settled on The Times. There were no other reasons—when it came to payment, The Times was the most generous. And the rent was due soon.
With that in mind, Russell reached out to push open The Times's glass door.
The front desk was well-lit; the receptionist looked drowsy.
"Good evening."
Russell stepped forward, tapping lightly on the table.
The drowsy receptionist looked up, squinting to see who it was, and asked, "May I help you with something…?"
"I came to submit a story," Russell replied. "Sent by Moriarty."
"Moriarty…?"
At that familiar name, the receptionist's eyes instantly snapped wide awake, their gaze darting to Russell—a plain black suit, slightly messy dark hair, eyes almost blinding under the lights.
He didn't look like a master thief—more like a student who'd just left a party and hadn't changed yet.
"Sir, you are…?"
The receptionist's voice trembled ever so slightly.
"Clearly, luck's on my side tonight."
Russell placed the manila envelope on the table and pushed it forward.
The receptionist nearly held his breath, staring at the unsealed kraft envelope and then up at the calm young man before him.
If you'd worked Fleet Street long enough, you knew what a messenger from Moriarty meant.
It meant top news, huge sales, bonuses, and a company-wide celebration!
"Please—please wait a moment!"
The receptionist jumped up awkwardly, snatching the internal phone from the table.
"Hello?! Yes, it's me! Is the editor-in-chief in? Yes! He'll be right down—tell him at once! He's here—he brought a gift!"
The person on the other end grumbled about his overreaction, but when the word "Moriarty" was whispered, there was a stunned silence.
A second later, the heavy crash of a chair and the sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway.
Russell leaned casually against the front desk, even having time to admire the prize-winning news photos displayed in the lobby.
Within a minute, a middle-aged man in overalls, wild hair like a bird's nest, and a half-finished cigar in his mouth tumbled down the stairs, followed by a pack of scruffy reporters with wolfish eyes.
"Where's the stuff?! Where's the letter?!"
Henry Scott, The Times's editor, rushed to the desk, his eyes immediately locking on the envelope.
Like it was the Holy Grail, he reverently picked it up, then focused on Russell.
"Are you the messenger?"
"As you see," Russell shrugged.
Henry narrowed his eyes, cautiously pouring out the contents—a stack of photos, a pile of documents.
As he saw a familiar face in one photo, Henry's pupils suddenly contracted.
Ethan Roy!
A government minister! Mycroft Holmes' main political rival!
Almost purely on instinct, Henry shoved everything back into the envelope and cradled it close to him, anxiously glancing around as if afraid of eavesdroppers.
"Come with me," he whispered.
Russell followed Henry into the editor's room. The pack of reporters trailing behind were quickly shut out, pacing nervously in front of the door like chicks waiting for food.
Inside, the office doors were locked, curtains drawn. Henry finally let out a long sigh, pulled a silver flask from his pocket, drained it in one gulp, and spread the envelope contents across the table, examining every piece.
The photos were explicit; the documents even more shocking—bribery, abuse of power for personal gain, selling public office… any one of them would be enough to utterly destroy Ethan Roy's political career.
"My god…"
Henry's fingers trembled in excitement.
He knew Moriarty's actions were always big—but the scale of this scoop was unimaginable. It wasn't just a headline; it was a political tremor big enough to shake the entire UK cabinet.
"Is this… all real?" Henry looked up at Russell.
"Don't ask me! How should I know?" Russell shrugged.
"Right, right… Look at me…" Henry nodded, as if recollecting himself. "You didn't give this to anyone else, did you?"
"I only read The Guardian and The Times in London," Russell replied. "And your office is closer to me…"
"Then I'm taking all of it!" Henry cut him off. "Every photo, every file—the Guardian crowd won't get this. Name your price."
"Hm… 500 pounds?" Russell offered, gauging.
Henry's face fell a little, the heat fading as he frowned. £500 was no small sum.
He fell quiet for a while, carefully studying the calm young man before him. Russell didn't look desperate for money—perhaps price negotiation could work?
"Five hundred pounds…" Henry hesitated.
"Young man, do you know what 500 pounds means for an average family? That's a year's income! Sure, it's an enormous sum, but you're only the messenger. Moriarty's gift to our newspaper—"
Relighting his dwindling cigar, Henry continued, "200 pounds. That's the highest we can offer. It's a generous fee above the going rate. After all is said and done, maybe we'll even mention you as a citizen hero in some corner of the paper… How does that sound?"
…