Mary stared at Russell in silence.
"Did he look like someone short on money?"
"Who would complain about having too much money?"
Russell said it flatly.
"How exactly should I deliver the money and the banner to him?" Mary blinked, trying to follow his train of thought.
"Who knows," Russell shrugged. "If you're out of ideas, write a thank-you letter to the newspaper and express your gratitude that Mr. Moriarty saved your family from the bank's fraud. To show our appreciation, we have prepared a banner and fifty pounds in cash. Please inform Mr. Moriarty to collect them at Scotland Yard at noon tomorrow."
"That's a good idea." Mary nodded seriously. "I'll write it when we get back to the classroom."
"…Are you serious?" Russell watched her expression, his lips twitching slightly.
"Wasn't that the advice you gave me?" Mary countered.
"Fine, fine—stop joking."
"You're the one who started joking first."
"Alright, alright, it's my fault." Russell raised both hands in surrender. "Let's head back to the classroom."
He stood and walked toward the door. Mary watched his retreating figure, a faint smile on her lips, then followed lightly behind him.
They walked side by side down the quiet corridor toward the classroom for their next lesson.
The afternoon sunlight streamed in through the glass windows on one side of the hallway, casting bright patches of light on the floor.
"By the way, what about afternoon tea on Saturday?" Mary suddenly asked, as if remembering something.
"Huh?"
Russell turned to her.
"You really seem to like desserts, don't you?"
"They're all right," Russell said after thinking for a moment. "I wouldn't say I love them, but I don't hate them either. It depends on the sweetness. I really can't stand macarons, though."
"Considering how you keep eating macarons one after another, it's surprising that you can't stand them." Mary smiled. "So, what's your favorite food?"
"Butter cookies would be nice. Wait, are you going to bake them for me?" Russell countered.
"My father won't let me get involved in baking bread, but I can ask the chef to help." Mary added, "Of course, whether you get to eat them depends on your test score."
The girl smiled mischievously. "If you make it into the top ten, I might consider it."
"That sounds tough."
"How would you know without trying?"
"Fine," Russell finally gave in. "For butter cookies, I'll bet everything."
After chatting casually a while longer, the two quickly returned to the lecture hall.
…
Five minutes later, Mary looked at Russell, who was sound asleep beside her, and fell into deep thought. Where exactly is that spell being used? Please tell me.
…
In the evening, when Russell pushed open the door of 221B Baker Street, he was not greeted by Mrs. Hudson's usual welcome or Charlotte's beautiful—no, rather ear-piercing—violin playing. Instead, a strong, pungent smell of chemical reagents assaulted him.
He frowned, hurried up the stairs, and pushed open the slightly ajar door.
The living room was a complete mess. Beakers, test tubes, and alcohol lamps were scattered haphazardly across the table and floor. Colorful liquids bubbled inside glass containers, emitting strange odors. Wearing a dressing gown and goggles, Charlotte stared intently at the chemical reaction happening in a test tube, muttering to herself.
Russell wasn't very knowledgeable about chemistry, but there was one thing he was certain of: if one were to define the current field of experimentation, equipment, and standards… it would probably be no different from connecting alcohol lamps in series.
"Let me ask one question." Russell walked over to her, glanced at the table piled high with reagents, and his eyes twitched involuntarily. "What are you doing?"
"Experimenting." Charlotte didn't even turn her head. She poured out the waste liquid from the test tube and began preparing new reagents.
"I can tell it's an experiment," Russell said, pinching his nose. "But are you planning to blow Baker Street sky-high?"
"I'm trying to recreate Moriarty's face melting trick." Charlotte explained concisely.
"Do you actually believe what that madman Charles said?"
"A madman's words may be incoherent, but they often hide the truest terrors." Charlotte set the test tube down and removed her goggles. "He said he saw the face melting. That means, at that moment, his vision definitely suffered some kind of intense shock."
"So?"
"From that, I formed a hypothesis. Moriarty probably applied a specially made, highly corrosive and fuming chemical reagent onto an extremely thin fake mask." She picked up a piece of rubber full of corrosion holes and showed it to Russell. "Once he completed the task and was ready to leave, all he had to do was activate a specific mechanism—probably to change the temperature or expose it to air."
In other words, once the mechanism was triggered, the reagent would quickly react and dissolve the mask.
The process would produce a large amount of smoke and a strong, irritating odor—enough to temporarily impair both vision and smell in a short time, providing the perfect cover for his escape.
"That… actually sounds very plausible." Russell nodded seriously. "But this alone doesn't seem to help us identify who Moriarty is."
"I was just curious." Charlotte said, slapping a notebook against Russell's chest. "Since you're here, help me record the data."
"Rejected." Russell took the notebook back without hesitation. "I'm still young. If I have to choose how to die, it shouldn't be because of a meaningless chemistry experiment."
"Can you really bear to let Mrs. Hudson read our obituary in tomorrow's morning paper?"
"Coward." Charlotte curled her lips and shot him a contemptuous look. "I'm doing this for my own safety—and for the safety of every resident on Baker Street."
Russell corrected her properly.
Just as the two were arguing, Mrs. Hudson's voice came from downstairs. "Charlotte! Russell! What on earth are you two doing up there? There's a strange smell!"
See?
Russell looked at Charlotte. Charlotte clicked her tongue in irritation and finally gave up. While stuffing all the experimental equipment into a box on the table, she muttered under her breath, "A boring man with not a shred of scientific spirit."
"This is simply the most basic respect for life."
…
At dinnertime, the three sat around the dining table. Mrs. Hudson grumbled that it wasn't good for Charlotte to always be doing dangerous chemistry experiments in her room, while cutting up soft, juicy roast steak and serving it onto her own plate.
Charlotte listened absentmindedly, forked a piece of steak, and chewed.
"Russell, as her neighbor, you really must take good care of Charlotte." Mrs. Hudson turned to Russell, who was focused on his meal.
Hearing this, Russell looked up and gazed innocently at the landlady in front of him. "Mrs. Hudson, I've been taking very good care of her. I swear to God."
Those words seemed to remind Charlotte of something. She looked up from her thoughts and stared at Russell.
"So it was you last night?"
"What about me?"
"You moved me to the bedroom."
"Huh… normally people call that a hug… but whatever." Russell nodded and casually admitted it. "I couldn't just leave you sleeping on the sofa all night. What's wrong?"
"No, nothing." Charlotte looked away.
At that moment, the telephone on the second floor rang, and all three noticed it. Russell and Charlotte both looked up toward the ceiling.
"Who could be calling now?" Mrs. Hudson asked instinctively.
"Mycroft or Lestrade," Russell guessed. "It's impossible for a third party to call her."
Charlotte said nothing. She put down her knife and fork, stood up, and went upstairs to answer the call.
About two minutes later, Charlotte came downstairs in a hurry, wearing her trench coat.
"Watson, you have two more minutes to finish dinner," Charlotte said.
"Why?" Russell asked instinctively, unconsciously speeding up his eating.
"Lestrade's carriage will be here soon. We need to go out for a while."
"Lestrade? What's he doing here?" Russell asked, his mouth full of steak, his voice muffled.
"Charles Brown has recovered."