"Southwark District?" Russell raised one eyebrow. "Is that really it?"
"Southwark is far larger than you think," Charlotte replied. She clearly understood what he was getting at and continued her explanation. "The Southwark area stretches from London Bridge all the way to Deptford—six miles, roughly 9.6 kilometers, along the riverbank."
The Southwark where Hannigan had fallen was indeed a place steeped in history. Churches stood there, Guy's Hospital rose proudly, and lawyers and businessmen still enjoyed afternoon tea in elegant Georgian townhouses.
But the entire Southwark district was not nearly as orderly as one might imagine.
"Hmm?" Russell offered no clear reply, simply urging her to go on.
"The Southwark area is vast. It is divided into four smaller districts: Southwark proper, Bermondsey, Rotherhithe, and Woolwich. Apart from the central and safest zone—Southwark itself—the other three are far from pleasant."
As she spoke, Charlotte rose and walked to the wall map of London, pointing at the relevant sections.
"These three districts are a true melting pot where every kind of person gathers. They rank among the most chaotic and labyrinthine places in all of London. Glamorous theaters and art galleries stand side by side with filthy slums and black markets. People of every description come and go."
"Especially Bermondsey—one of London's most notorious slums. Only a few blocks from Southwark, yet it might as well be another world. Infant mortality there is nearly twice the London average. Measles deaths are five times higher. Respiratory diseases claim lives at three times the normal rate."
"Rotherhithe connects directly to Bermondsey and was once the departure point of the Mayflower. Woolwich is slightly better than the other two… but only slightly."
Charlotte popped the last piece of roasted chestnut into her mouth and wiped her fingers on a napkin.
"For a desperate fugitive, no place offers better cover than here. Crowds everywhere, eyes everywhere, information racing through the streets—yet everyone remains isolated. Bermondsey's population density is staggering: roughly a hundred people per acre. If he truly intends to disappear, even Inspector Lestrade sending every man from Scotland Yard might fail to find him."
"London's wealthy simply refuse to look east. They don't even know how many districts exist here."
"In other words," Russell said, tossing aside a chestnut shell, "you're saying Billson is most likely hiding somewhere in those three districts?"
"Most likely," Charlotte nodded. She picked up the fresh documents Lestrade had just sent—files detailing Billson's network—and began leafing through them absently. "More than half of the information Lestrade forwarded concerns the Southwark area. Business ties, shared hometowns, old acquaintances… This district was practically Billson's own backyard. Familiar, safe, and rich in resources."
"Looks like our workload just grew again," Russell sighed.
"At least be grateful you're not being asked to extract five random numbers from a mountain of unrelated names and backgrounds," Charlotte remarked.
"Either way, we have only two options left: wade through the endless tedious paperwork at Lloyd's Bank… or comb through every gray-zone criminal with a record in the Southwark district."
"If I had a choice, I'd pick neither," Russell shrugged. "Sounds exhausting. Why not just arrest the scoundrel who's been feeding fake news to the papers first?"
"How much is the fee?" Charlotte asked without looking up.
"Seditious libel, criminal libel, fraud… Take your pick. One of them ought to fit you nicely."
"Seditious libel requires incitement of hatred against the government, the Crown, or the law," Charlotte said, finally glancing up with a faintly troubled expression. "Criminal libel demands false defamation of a specific individual—especially a peer or official. Clearly Moriarty is no peer, and that woman has no intention of suing. The tabloid might try for fraud, but that's hardly our concern."
Russell fell silent for a long moment, deep in thought. Then he exhaled, picked up the list as though resigned to his fate, and began reading.
Given that only twenty-seven names appeared on Lloyd's Bank's list, locating criminals with records in Southwark should not have been difficult. Rather, finding a single truly respectable citizen among them would be the real challenge.
"Suddenly I understand," Russell murmured.
"Understand what?" Charlotte looked at him.
"God."
"…Excuse me?" The girl's brow furrowed. Has he finally lost his mind?
"God promised Abraham that even if only ten righteous souls remained in Sodom, He would spare the city."
Russell explained calmly.
"Then Sodom would be destroyed."
He yawned, sank deeper into the sofa, and listlessly turned pages. His eyes skimmed over dense columns of criminal names and offenses. Drowsiness soon overtook him. Name after name rose and fell like a revolving lantern— theft, robbery, brawls, smuggling… so many varieties of crime that disbelief threatened to choke him.
London truly was a land blessed with wonderful people and beautiful scenery.
After scanning so many near-identical résumés, Russell began to suspect Lestrade had simply bundled every unsolved case file in his jurisdiction and sent the lot.
At last he could endure no more. He stood, stretched, and declared, "I'm done. I need a break."
Charlotte glanced up but said nothing. She merely sent him off with a few dry, sarcastic remarks.
Before leaving, Russell appeared to fiddle with something on the table, though Charlotte paid it little attention.
She was alone once more.
Time passed—she could not say how much—until fatigue slowly crept into her chest. She yawned and rubbed her temples. Rising to brew coffee, she noticed a cup of warm milk already waiting on the table. The glass sat in a bowl of hot water; a few droplets still clung to its sides, and faint steam curled upward.
Clearly, the man who had just departed had prepared it especially for her.
Charlotte stared at the milk, then at the tin of coffee beans, and sighed. She muttered a soft complaint, yet picked up the glass and took a slow sip. The milk was rich, velvety, and instantly melted away the worst of her mental exhaustion.
"Such a busybody…"
…
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