Russell reached out and brushed a petal, feeling the cool dampness slip between his fingers. Judging by the soil's moisture and evaporation, the watering had happened no more than thirty minutes prior.
"Very thoughtful," he muttered skyward, before turning toward the bedroom.
The arrangement of the books on the shelf had changed, but that could be chalked up to Holly David's agitation from yesterday. Right now, Russell couldn't say if the contents had been altered.
His gaze fell on the desk. Aside from Holly David's notebook and fountain pen, there was nothing of note there. Russell picked up the notebook, flipping through the pages; the content was all coded keywords only she would understand. That didn't interest him; he flipped to the latest blank page.
Russell's brows furrowed. There were indentations on the latest page—as if someone had written on the previous page, and the writing had pressed through. The impression was blurry and patchy, but with his enhanced ability, he could make out, more or less, a passage.
A letter.
Russell scrutinized the notebook from all angles, trying to decipher the message. Unfortunately, it was too faint. Never mind. That's what miraculous tools were for.
Russell set the notebook down and opened the system store:
[Tracing Imprint Powder: A light dusting will reveal secrets invisible to the naked eye]
[One-use item. Price: 50 Malice Points.]
[Purchase confirmed.]
Russell didn't hesitate.
[Item purchased.] Current balance: 1400—Roy's malicious contributions kept the wallet topped up, refilling what had dropped into triple digits. Clearly, Mycroft's influence was kicking in.
He reached into his pocket—somehow, a small silk pouch appeared. Russell opened it, revealing fine black powder, like graphite. He sprinkled it over the paper and spread it with his finger. What had been white paper—
In the next moment, ghostly lines of delicate script slowly began to appear.
As expected, it was indeed a letter. But to Russell's surprise, it wasn't from the ghost to Holly David, but rather… could it be from Holly David to the ghost?
Russell frowned deeper. He stared at the lines of vague greeting, confounded.
[The night's grown cold. Did you close the windows? Something funny happened in the studio today—I wanted to tell you... I put away that coffee cup you left behind. I know you like that brand—next time I go out, I'll get more. Don't worry. I told Miss Holmes the truth. You're like a ghost, but I don't mean that as an insult. I'll be staying at a friend's the next few days, so it's fine. Please look after the flowers. And drink the milk I bought yesterday in the fridge.]
Russell read each line, his confusion intensifying.
Was this right? Had Holly David developed Stockholm syndrome from her trauma? Or were he and Charlotte just playing roles in a drama between these two? Too many deviants in London?
Unwilling to accept it, Russell tore the letter out and compared it with one of Holly David's previous essays.
He soon spotted the issue.
"I knew there were still normal people left in London," Russell breathed a small sigh of relief.
The handwriting matched Holly David's almost exactly, but thanks to [Detective C++], Russell found minute differences. Holly David's script—like her art—was casual and fluid. This letter's handwriting, though pretending to be natural, was carefully deliberate at every start, pause, flourish, and ending—too orderly to be genuine.
It was like someone in a foreign country, standing in the rain and dancing for no reason while claiming relaxation.
Conclusion: The ghost had written this letter to himself, imitating Holly David's handwriting.
"Self-deception," Russell said, tossing the note back onto the desk. "It's one thing to fool others, but shouldn't fool yourself."
His voice, full of ridicule, echoed through the small apartment, though whether it was to himself or the absent ghost was unclear.
Russell walked over to the bookshelf, sizing it up. Its size was more than enough for a person to squeeze through.
Time for a practical test.
Only practice reveals the truth. Russell rolled up his sleeves and tried shoving and shifting the bookshelf, but it was far heavier than he'd expected—a single person couldn't budge it at all.
Nor did pressing or pulling to either side move it even an inch.
"Not the bookshelf?" Russell frowned. "Or maybe there's some mechanism I need to trigger first?"
Abandoning brute force, he stepped back, scrutinizing the shelf carefully. Maybe, as Mary said, make a bold guess and test it carefully. Would a particular arrangement of books serve as the trigger?
Acting on instinct, Russell pulled a chair over and sat down, surveying the shelf like a student browsing a library.
Books ranged from design theory to classic poetry to popular novels. Most were carefully organized by publisher and size, but a few were out of place—a thick Shakespeare anthology wedged among small paperbacks, for instance.
Another book, "Stray Birds," stood awkwardly alone on the top shelf among design books.
A few authors Russell didn't recognize, but from the wear, clearly these books were regularly read.
The order… was off.
He got up and restored the Shakespeare tome to the correct spot, beside the other classic literature. Then, standing on the chair, he retrieved "Stray Birds" and placed it among the poetry volumes. Following his own logic, he restored each misplaced book, one by one.
Whether this approach was correct wasn't clear, but at least the arrangement was now orderly.
He pushed the last book into place, aligning its spine with its neighbors.
Nothing happened.
"Guess I'm off," Russell shrugged wryly. "Time for Plan B."
As everyone knows, the detective and his assistant are one and the same. One for brainwork, one for muscle. Russell never wanted to admit to being Charlotte's assistant—but whose fault was it for giving himself a name with "Watson" in it?
He left the bedroom, headed to the living room, and picked up the fixed-line telephone.
Then—
"Hello, is this Charlotte Holmes of 221B Baker Street, student at Imperial College London?"