As night deepened, 221B Baker Street sank into silence. The fire in the hearth had died; only a few faint red embers still trembled among the ashes.
Russell opened his eyes quietly and sat up in bed. He listened for a long moment, eyes closed, confirming no sound came from anywhere in the house. Mrs. Hudson was already asleep. Charlotte, too, seemed to have retired.
Perfect.
Russell rolled out of bed, pulled a box from beneath it, and retrieved the phantom-thief costume. Once dressed, he glanced at the suitcase on the floor.
I'll figure out a better hiding place for the outfit when I return tonight.
For now, a few summer clothes stuffed inside should serve as padding.
He kicked the suitcase back under the bed, crossed to the window, flipped himself over the sill, and vanished into the darkness.
London was colder than usual tonight. Every breath bloomed into a clear white cloud. Fortunately, the phantom-thief suit possessed numerous built-in functions: resistance to penetration and fire, and excellent thermal insulation. Had it been slightly less ostentatious, Russell might have considered it casual wear.
His plan for the evening began with Fleet Street. They had chosen the tabloid rather than The Times or The Guardian. Not out of petty revenge—simply to conduct a friendly, polite, and perfectly equal conversation with the editor-in-chief.
The steel cable of the grappling hook traced a cold arc through the air and locked onto the eaves of a distant building. Russell swung like a pendulum, moving with graceful lethality through the iron-and-brick jungle of London.
Next stop: Fleet Street.
The little-known newspaper office occupied an inconspicuous corner. Compared with the grand headquarters of The Times and The Guardian, it looked pitifully shabby. Even the signboard on the outer wall had rusted and peeled; the cold wind threatened to tear it down at any moment.
Russell landed soundlessly on the rooftop opposite and crouched to observe. Lights still burned inside. Several bleary-eyed editors dozed at their desks. The public-opinion reversal engineered by The Guardian and The Times had clearly struck them hard.
After noting the rough positions of the occupants, Russell rose, dropped from the roof, and lightly brushed his clothes. Fifty malice points deducted—the original phantom-thief costume temporarily transformed into ordinary, warm attire. He dusted himself off, walked to the door, and pushed it open.
Jingle.
The bell above the door rang sharply, startling the dozing editors. Still half-asleep, they froze at the sight of a young man in a heavy coat and scarf standing in the doorway.
"I'm terribly sorry, but we're closed for the day," said the man who appeared to be the editor-in-chief.
"I know," Russell replied, stepping inside. "I'm not here to buy a newspaper."
"Then what are you doing here?" The editor frowned. "If you have information worth selling…"
"I'm not here to sell information," Russell cut in. "I've come on behalf of Mr. Moriarty to ask a few questions."
The moment the name left his lips, the half-asleep editors snapped awake as though doused with ice water. They exchanged terrified glances. The editor-in-chief stared at Russell, voice trembling.
"Mr. Moriarty…? What… what does he want with us?"
Russell smiled and returned the question. "What do you think Mr. Moriarty wants with you?"
He pulled up a chair and sat with leisurely confidence beneath their uneasy stares—exactly as though he owned the place. Or rather, exactly like a minor bourgeois borrowing someone else's power. He lounged on Moriarty's reputation, issuing orders with casual arrogance.
"I… we…" The editor's throat was dry. He stared at the young messenger, momentarily lost for words.
"Relax, everyone," Russell said gently, still smiling. "Mr. Moriarty said he has no intention of blaming you."
The others looked up in startled relief.
"Truly?"
"Of course." Russell nodded. "He understands that, as journalists, you acted according to your own motivations. He even admits he overlooked the commercial realities faced by certain tabloids and holds no grudge."
"Thank you… Mr. Moriarty!"
"No need to thank him just yet," Russell interrupted smoothly, changing tack. "Mr. Moriarty may not blame you, but that does not mean the matter is settled."
Hope that had briefly flickered in every heart instantly plummeted.
The editor's face turned ashen. "Then… then what does Mr. Moriarty intend to do?"
"Something very simple." Russell leaned back, crossed his legs and arms, and spoke with calm finality. "Mr. Moriarty wishes to know who sold you that information. Every crime has a perpetrator; every debt has a debtor. He does not wish to trouble you, but someone must pay the price. That is the honesty Mr. Moriarty expects."
"He wanted only one thing: a name. A proper name."
The editor stared into Russell's dark eyes and felt an oppressive aura utterly at odds with the young man's age. He knew this youth was merely a bully riding Moriarty's coattails. Yet they had no choice. Refusal would mean, within minutes, a devastating article—about him personally or about the entire newspaper—appearing in rival offices.
He had no options left.
Why should he protect her privacy? She was the one who had hurled them from heaven to hell with a few careless words. The reason they sat in this nightmare was entirely her doing.
"I understand," the editor said at last, drawing a deep breath. "That woman… she is a maid in the Hannigan household."
"Name," Russell said, voice perfectly calm.
"Emily," the editor answered. "Emily Collins."