Charlotte silently stared at the newspaper in her hands. Her eyes flickered between light and shadow.
Lestrade had promised her that he would not let his subordinates spread this matter. So why had it reached the ears of the Fleet Street crowd? Moreover, it had been published in a tiny newspaper she had barely even heard of.
To confirm the situation, Charlotte bought two more papers: The Guardian and The Times.
As expected, both papers featured Hanigan as a central figure, but the focus was not on the murder itself.
Instead, each published portions of Hanigan's smuggling ledger and gave it extensive coverage.
The two newspapers once again engaged in a battle of wits, competing to expose shocking details dug up from the ledger and using their sharp pens to nail the former philanthropist to the pillar of shame. This was exactly the development she had anticipated.
So what on earth had happened with this unknown small newspaper, and where had they obtained their information?
Thinking about it, Charlotte frowned.
Just then, she heard Russell coming down the stairs.
"So early?" Russell looked slightly surprised by Charlotte's presence but quickly shifted his gaze to the newspaper in her hands.
"What are you looking at? Did you go to Fleet Street last night?" Charlotte asked.
"Last night?" Russell paused for a moment, then shook his head. "No."
Last night, he had personally split the ledgers into two and delivered them to the two newspapers, so he had not tried to earn extra income as a messenger.
"What's wrong?" Russell asked.
"See for yourself." Charlotte said little else and simply handed him the newspaper carrying the murder article.
Russell took the paper. The moment he saw the headline, he froze on the spot.
Someone died? Was it Thomas Hanigan? How did he die? When I was there, he seemed perfectly fine. He was even talking to someone.
After a moment of shock, Russell belatedly understood what was happening.
He had wondered why the malicious points had spiked so sharply yesterday. It was just a stolen smuggling ledger—why the rush?
Looking at it again now, he realized someone had died and he had been mistaken for the murderer.
"Is this real?" He turned to Charlotte.
"It's fabricated," Charlotte said.
"Yesterday morning, Lestrade called and asked me to come to the crime scene."
She explained to Russell what she had discovered at the scene and her deductions.
"So Moriarty was framed?" Russell concluded after hearing Charlotte's logic.
"Mm." Charlotte nodded. "I told Lestrade the same conclusion at the time."
"You should have seen the expression on his face."
"What kind of expression?"
"Both liking it and hating it." Charlotte couldn't help but laugh as she relayed Lestrade's words to Russell.
After listening, Russell fell silent, then picked up his coffee and took a sip.
Lestrade… he really… I'm crying.
"Then why was this matter reported in the newspaper?" He asked, "Are your subordinates leaking information?"
"How would I know?" Charlotte shook her head. "I warned him before, and he said he'd be careful… You saw it yourself."
It wasn't The Times or The Guardian, but a small newspaper I had never heard of before.
"Some of the major newspapers on Fleet Street make their living off Moriarty. To them, Moriarty is already their own brand. They would never do anything to damage their own reputation. If they really angered Moriarty, they'd never get sensational headlines again."
Russell gazed toward the newspaper office for a while and confirmed he truly remembered nothing about it.
"But this will cause problems."
"What kind of problems?" Charlotte asked.
"Moriarty either sent a messenger to deliver the incriminating information or secretly placed it there himself and waited for someone else to discover it voluntarily," Russell said.
"And messengers like me, in order to maximize profit, basically only approach major media outlets like The Times or The Guardian, because they pay better."
"Therefore, small, financially weak newspapers like this one could never make a living from this business."
Following his words, Charlotte reached a conclusion.
"That's correct."
Russell avoided making a direct statement.
"Unless Moriarty hands out Christmas presents on Fleet Street like last time, it's probably impossible to get the information directly. There was no other way. To make a living, they had to find another method."
"Imagine it. While the whole of Fleet Street celebrates Moriarty's success and builds enormous wealth from the scandals he causes, a tiny handful of people can't even get a sip of soup. What do you think they would feel?"
"If they can't get food, they might as well smash the pot."
A glint of realization appeared in Charlotte's eyes.
"They couldn't compete with the big newspapers for Moriarty's direct information, so naturally they couldn't feel much gratitude toward him."
Even if the situation were worse, failing to feel gratitude—let alone harboring resentment—would be an act worthy of a saint.
Russell laughed self-mockingly.
"If things have deteriorated this far, why worry so much about it?"
Just a moment ago, unfavorable information about Moriarty had landed right in my lap. I can't let this opportunity slip.
There is nothing more dramatic and thought-provoking than watching a once-worshipped and deified dark hero fall into a murderer's trap.
As he spoke, he ignored the system notification ringing in his ear and casually picked up a slice of toast.
"You seem very calm," Charlotte observed, looking at Russell.
"Me? What else is there?" Russell raised an eyebrow. "I'm not the one being falsely accused."
"What does Moriarty's murder case have to do with me, Russell Watson?"
"Just because Moriarty paid my tuition doesn't mean I can go to the newspaper and defend him, right?"
"He knocked me out at Buckingham Palace and left me in the gazebo to get some fresh air."
He shrugged, acting as if it had nothing to do with him.
Charlotte silently stared at Russell, then finally nodded lightly in agreement.
"That seems true."
She said, then glanced at the clock on the wall.
"By the way, it looks like you're about to be late."
Hearing Charlotte's reminder, Russell hurriedly swallowed the last bite of toast, gulped down his milk, grabbed his backpack, and rushed outside.
Charlotte sat in her chair, quietly watching his hurried figure push open the door and leave. She kept watching until he disappeared from view, then slowly turned her gaze away.
She took a big gulp of coffee. The white porcelain cup covered her face, making her expression impossible to read.
Thanks to the caffeine, my thoughts became surprisingly clear.
Charlotte set the cup down, stood up, and returned to her room.
The door closed, shutting everything out.
…