Russell listened to the haggling quietly.
He could see it only needed a couple lines of excuse to halve the fee, and thought the negotiation reasonable.
"Are we done talking?" he asked.
"Of course! We can settle right now if you want."
"In that case, please return the materials, Mr. Henry. I'll have to pay a visit to The Guardian. I doubt they'll haggle over £500," Russell replied, holding his hand out.
Henry's expression gradually went cold.
"What do you mean?"
"Exactly what I said, sir," Russell's hand stayed raised. "There are a few points you got wrong. First, this isn't a gift from Moriarty to your paper. It's a gift from me. He only handed the materials to me—he never told me to submit them specifically to The Times. So who gets it is entirely up to me."
"I'll favor whoever pays the most," he said firmly.
"Second, I don't need a mention in your newspaper. I care about practical things more than empty praise. For example, I rent a flat on Baker Street, and this fall I became a freshman at Imperial College London. Get what I mean?"
Before Henry could speak, Russell continued, "Which means, I need to pay both rent and tuition. Of course, there are other expenses on top of that. All told, it's about £400 a year. So, if you ask how—my answer is £500, not a penny less."
"It's your choice—pay or return my things."
After a pause, Russell looked at Henry and added,
"Of course, you could just throw me out and use the scoop for free. But what do you think will happen next? Should I go to The Guardian and tell them exactly what you did? Even if you don't get the best headline, wouldn't hitting a rival paper where it hurts be nice? If Moriarty ever heard you tried to cheat his messenger, you could be next in the headlines."
As Russell spoke, Henry's face grew darker and darker.
He stared at the fearless young man, hands clutching the envelope tightly.
Russell gave a mild smile—just in time, making a quick concession.
"Of course, if you're willing to add just 50 pounds more, I could throw in another scoop."
Henry frowned.
"What news?"
"On Ethan Roy's foolish son, Timmy Roy," Russell replied.
"Tonight, at Imperial College London's orientation party, he was publicly exposed for dalliances with no fewer than several noblewomen. I was there, and saw it all firsthand."
Henry's eyes lit up immediately.
A veteran journalist, he instantly grasped the story's value:
The scandal which could bring down a cabinet minister, and at the same time, the ruin of his promising son over a chaotic private life, all in the same night.
Father and son, politics and society—everything collapsing together.
Most importantly, Timmy Roy's lovers included daughters of other noble houses.
"I could give you more details," Russell's voice held the melody of the devil's temptation.
"Which ladies slapped him in public—their names, and their fathers' names…"
"No need for more!"
Henry interrupted with a slap of the table, all his doubts vanishing in a flash.
This was the kind of exclusive news they lived for.
For only £500? What a bargain!
Henry yanked open his bottom desk drawer, pulling out a money pouch and counting its contents.
"Here's three hundred… Damn it, hold on!"
He dashed out. "Everyone, stop what you're doing right now!" he bellowed. "Bring me 250 pounds—fast!"
The command thundered through the newsroom.
The reporters outside were stunned, then scrambled into action as realization dawned.
"There's money on the second floor; I'll go grab it!"
"My flat's next door—I'll run home!"
"God, does someone have change? I'll double your loan on payday!"
The sound of pockets being rifled, hurried footsteps, and eager swearing filled the air—The Times building was suddenly like the world's biggest stock exchange.
Russell waited by the office door, faintly smiling as he surveyed the bustling crowd. Calmly, he stepped to Henry's desk, pulled out a chair, and picked up a tabloid, pretending to read. His composure stood in stark contrast to the chaos outside.
Soon enough, coins and paper notes were carried in. A young reporter, breathless, handed Henry a hat full of cash.
"It's all here!"
Henry poured the money onto the desk, counting with the speed of a banking professional, hands almost a blur.
"Five hundred and fifty pounds," he said, pushing the pile to Russell. Not a penny more, not a penny less.
Russell set the paper aside, not even looking at the money, and calmly recited names:
Anne Brown, Isabella White, Joey Carter...
Henry, at first shocked, quickly understood and began noting down every name Russell gave. The narration was clear, vivid, and so full of color that old hand Henry was enthralled. His pen danced across the page, jotting keywords that would become tomorrow's sensational headlines.
"That's about it," Russell finished at last.
Henry stopped, as if awakening from a dream, and looked at the shorthand-filled notebook on his desk, feeling his blood race. He could already see tomorrow's edition—and not just that. For a week, maybe a month, The Times would own the headlines.
"Magnificent! Absolutely wonderful!" Henry couldn't help but praise him, his gaze at Russell wholly transformed. "Young man, who are you, really?"
Russell simply stood, smiling, as he slowly loaded the money into his pockets.
"Me?" He looked up gently, an innocent smile on his face.
"I'm just a broke university student—a relatively lucky ordinary citizen, just passing by."
With that, he turned, giving Henry no chance for more questions.
"Well then, I won't take up more of your time. Mr. Henry, it was a pleasure doing business."
Click.
The office door opened and quietly closed.
Henry Scott sat, dazed, alone. After a moment, he finally sighed deeply, slumping back in his chair.
He reached for a new cigar, lit it with trembling fingers, and took a deep drag.
The acrid smoke made him cough, but he smiled happily, like a child given a new toy.
An ordinary citizen, he said?
Ordinary, my foot.
But… who cares?
Even if he were Moriarty, it wouldn't matter. All that matters now is: get that story out.
…
Bonus chapter at 100 PS