"Who is this person?" Russell asked, holding the envelope with a puzzled expression. "It doesn't look like a wrong address."
"Emily Collins…" Charlotte took the envelope back and paused for a moment, as if recalling something. "She was Hannigan's maid, remember?"
"Hannigan's servant?" Russell raised an eyebrow, a thought striking him. "The one who sold fake news to the newspaper?"
"Mm." Charlotte nodded lightly while shaking the envelope.
"There didn't seem to be a letter inside—something else was there."
As she spoke she tilted the envelope toward the table and poured out the contents. Several cigarette butts rolled onto the wooden surface.
"Cigarette butts?" Russell's eyes widened. "Why would anyone stuff cigarette butts into an envelope?"
Charlotte said nothing. She stared at the butts on the table, then looked back at the envelope in her hand.
"Emily Collins… and cigarette butts…" The girl frowned, then glanced out the window again. A realization seemed to dawn on her.
"Moriarty…"
"Moriarty?" Russell stared at her, a trace of doubt in his voice. "What does this have to do with Moriarty?"
Charlotte didn't answer. Instead she touched the surface of the envelope and spoke slowly. "He came, placed this envelope on the windowsill, and left."
"He? When?" Russell frowned and walked toward the window.
"No need to check—it happened last night," Charlotte stopped him. "There's a layer of water droplets on the envelope surface, which means it was exposed to cold air for some time."
"He probably came last night while we were all asleep," she explained. "He delivered the envelope and two cigarette butts?"
Russell returned to the table and looked at the scattered butts. "What is he trying to do?"
"Some kind of hint." Charlotte pointed at the envelope. "The recipient's name is Emily Collins. She was Hannigan's maid. Hannigan was a famous wealthy man in Southwark, so his standards for servants were never low."
"Therefore smoking is something a maid would never do."
Russell continued where she left off.
"Exactly. Emily Collins would never smoke."
"If that's the case, why did Moriarty go to the trouble of sending several cigarette butts? Is he saying he found them at Emily Collins' house?"
"So… he went to Emily Collins' house?"
"That man seems far smaller-minded than I thought," Charlotte joked. "But it looks like he only found an empty house. Emily Collins wasn't home. If she had only stepped out briefly, she would have returned soon. So Moriarty probably discovered something—or rather, realized that Emily Collins hadn't returned to the apartment for quite some time. And he found cigarette butts in the wastebasket. As I said earlier, while Emily Collins herself is unlikely to smoke, one of her male acquaintances might."
Charlotte picked up one cigarette butt with tweezers and examined it closely. "When a woman allows a man to smoke in her home, there are only two possibilities. First, the man is malicious and Emily Collins lacked the courage to resist, so she had no choice but to let him do as he pleased. Second, Emily Collins has a very good relationship with that man and has no objection whatsoever to him smoking at home."
She turned to Russell. "Which possibility do you think it is?"
"Probably…" Russell paused, then said, "the second one."
"Why?"
"Because she's just a maid. Who would care?" Russell explained. "At most she sold fake news about Moriarty's murder to the newspaper and earned a small amount of money. That alone doesn't make her a target for anyone. And…" He stopped, his gaze falling on the pile of cigarette butts. "There are too many butts here."
Charlotte followed his gaze to the carelessly scattered, burned-out cigarette butts on the clean table—looking like the corpses of defeated soldiers.
"Indeed," she nodded lightly. "An ordinary visitor or someone who broke in with ill intent would smoke at most one or two cigarettes. But here there are eight, each smoked down to the very end. That means the man spent quite a long time in Emily's room."
"A man smoking for that long in a woman's room… it's hard to believe nothing happened between them," Russell concluded. "In other words, Emily Collins may have been taken away by a male friend—or perhaps a lover."
"Find Lestrade and have him investigate Emily Collins' social circle," Charlotte said, setting the tweezers down and turning toward the bedroom. "Take these cigarette butts to him and have them analyzed. He likes tobacco and alcohol, so identifying them shouldn't be a problem."
"Then what should we do?" Russell asked, sitting on the living-room sofa and looking toward the bedroom. "We can't just sit around with only a few cigarette butts, can we?"
"Of course not, but there's no need. Since we're already planning to leave the work to Lestrade, let him handle it."
Charlotte's voice came from the bedroom. "Call Lestrade right now. By the time we return from North London Heights Sanatorium, I hope everything I requested will be done."
"Understood."
Russell picked up the telephone on the table and skillfully dialed Scotland Yard. A short while later Charlotte emerged from the bedroom. She had changed out of the comfortable bathrobe into Russell's clothes—specifically, clothes Russell had worn before. The once perfectly fitted garments now looked a little too large on her; the shoulder lines sagged slightly, making her figure appear even slimmer, as though she needed something to wrap herself in.
She walked over to Russell, who had just hung up. "Everything go smoothly?"
"Everything's ready," Russell shrugged as he set the receiver down. Lestrade had grumbled a few times before turning back to his work. "Shall we go, then?"
Charlotte pulled the warm turtleneck up to her cheeks and headed for the door.
…
…
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