Because Emily Collins' rented room was small, Russell quickly searched every corner. The clothes were still there, some cosmetics appeared freshly opened, and suitcases were neatly stacked under the bed. Everything looked normal. Yet the fact that he found not even a single penny after turning the entire room upside down made him suspicious.
Why had Emily Collins taken only the money and left everything else behind? Was she afraid of Moriarty's revenge? That didn't make sense… His reputation was still quite good, at least among ordinary London citizens. And even if she had fled, where could she possibly hide with so little money? How long would it last?
His intuition told him the matter was far more complicated than it appeared—and that something truly complex was probably hidden beneath the surface. But first he had to find Emily Collins.
"They all love hiding, don't they?" he muttered under his breath in irritation.
Just as he was about to leave, something in the corner of his vision caught his eye: a wastebasket illuminated by moonlight. Something out of place lay inside. Russell stopped, walked over, and overturned the basket. Its contents clattered onto the floor. His gaze sharpened.
Cigarette butts—several of them. Short stubs no more than two or three centimeters long lay quietly among the household trash.
Given Emily Collins' income and profession, the likelihood of her smoking was extremely low. Economically she could not afford the habit, and as a maid she certainly could not smoke—if her employer smelled tobacco on her she would lose her job. Therefore these cigarettes could only have been smoked by a man.
Someone else had been in this room before she left: a man who smoked.
"Interesting," Russell murmured, one eyebrow raised. He found an envelope, collected every cigarette butt, and sealed them inside. Charlotte would definitely be interested in these. What a perfect opportunity! He could use Moriarty's name to send her this clue and repay the favor.
Russell slipped the envelope into his pocket and quietly left the empty apartment without lingering.
The night was ink-black. A cold wind howled like a sob through the narrow alleys. Russell walked across rooftops, gazing down at the sleeping city. His grappling hook pierced the darkness; after several leaps the phantom thief disappeared into the tangled rooftops above Southwark.
…
Early morning, 221B Baker Street.
Charlotte opened her eyes in bed, ran a hand through her messy hair, yawned, and sat up. Just as she was about to cross the living room and head downstairs for breakfast and the morning paper, a rich, mouth-watering aroma greeted her the moment she reached the stairs.
It was the smell of frying fat.
Drawn by the scent, Charlotte reached the kitchen doorway and saw Russell standing with his back to her at the stove, skillfully flipping bacon in a pan. He was wearing Mrs. Hudson's apron again today. The oil sizzled at high heat; the edges of the bacon curled and turned golden, becoming perfectly crisp while releasing a thick, meaty fragrance. In an instant the aroma captured the girl's still-drowsy taste buds.
Charlotte yawned, leaned against the doorframe, folded her arms, and quietly watched him work.
"Morning."
Russell didn't turn around, but the slight movement behind him told him exactly who had arrived. "Please wait a moment. Breakfast will be ready shortly."
"Morning," Charlotte replied, stepping forward to peer curiously into the pan at the dancing slices of bacon. "Are we having a feast today?"
She raised an eyebrow.
"Thanks to Mrs. Hudson—she bought it," Russell said, lifting the cooked bacon onto absorbent paper. "Consider it a reward for a diligent detective."
Charlotte pursed her lips, pulled out a chair, sat at the table, and picked up the ink-scented Times, casually flipping through the pages. Russell finished plating the meal: golden crisp toast, fragrant bacon, perfectly runny poached eggs, and warm milk.
"This is your share." He pushed the plate toward her.
Charlotte set the newspaper aside, took knife and fork, and cut a small piece of toast.
"So, what did you find last night, Miss Famous Detective?"
Russell sat across from her and took a bite of the sandwich he had made for himself.
"Nothing much," Charlotte said between bites of egg yolk on toast. "The information Lestrade sent was so chaotic that I spent the entire night just trying to understand Bilson's social circle in Southwark."
"Any suspicious targets identified?"
"Not yet." Charlotte shook her head and took a sip of milk. "Bilson is an extremely cautious—rather, extremely cunning—man. He's been involved in the underworld for years; no one knows how far his network extends. He even served in the military. Most people on the list are just drinking buddies or business partners. They're unlikely to risk Scotland Yard's attention by harboring a murderer."
"Mm." Russell avoided a direct answer. "Let's set that aside for today. We need to meet Charles Brown."
"Alright." Charlotte nodded lightly, glanced at the clock, then quickly finished the food on her plate. "I'll get changed. We can leave in a bit."
"Now?" Russell raised an eyebrow but still nodded in agreement. "Go ahead."
The girl set down her cutlery, turned, and headed upstairs. Russell cleared the dishes and carried them to the kitchen to wash. When he came out drying his hands, Charlotte still hadn't returned.
"Charlotte?" he called uncertainly.
No answer.
Russell raised an eyebrow, hurried up the stairs, and pushed open the door. Charlotte stood in the living room still wearing the same bathrobe, holding an envelope tightly in one hand, a faint crease between her brows.
"What are you doing?" Russell stepped forward, pretending ignorance, and looked at the envelope in her hand. "What is that?"
"I have no idea." Charlotte shook her head. "It just appeared on the windowsill outside my room."
"Really…" Russell took the envelope from her and examined the writing on it. "The recipient is… Emily Collins?"
…