As soon as the words left his mouth, the interrogation room fell into dead silence.
Charles Brown.
The lock man. The man who knew the code. The madman.
Wonderful.
They'd finally seen a sliver of hope—only for everything to snap right back to square one.
"So what now?" Russell turned his head toward Charlotte. "You going to provide counseling for that lunatic?"
Charlotte shot him a look, then turned away, cursing under her breath.
"They went and robbed a bank and that's their mental fortitude? A thief playing spooky tricks scares him into a breakdown?"
"I agree." Russell gave a small nod.
"Is he really the only one who knows the code?" Charlotte refused to give up. "The first guy who received the letters—he must've seen it, right?"
"Mr. Bilson…" the man spat out the name.
"Bilson. Where is he?"
"He's not here…" The man shook his head, sounding bitter. "We were hired—nothing more."
"Nobody in this business has a conscience…"
Russell quietly wrote the name into his notebook, while watching Charlotte's reaction out of the corner of his eye.
"Lestrade."
Charlotte turned and called out toward the corridor.
"What, you get something?" Lestrade walked over with a half-eaten doughnut in hand.
"You have two things to do, starting now." Charlotte raised two fingers.
"First: get the best psychiatrist you can find for that lunatic named Charles. I want him back to basic language function.
While that's happening, record every number he blurts out—any number. Understand?
Second: find Bilson. Bring him to me."
Lestrade looked at the absolute finality on Charlotte's face, then looked down at the doughnut he'd only just gotten into.
"I'll try, but I can't promise results quickly."
"Then figure out how to get results—unless you'd like the Professor to plan a few more crimes."
Her eyes narrowed. "Maybe next time he decides to blow up Buckingham Palace."
"And while you're at it, contact Lloyds Bank. Tell them I want the full client list for the vault room that was breached."
Lestrade hesitated. "If it involves customer privacy, what if Lloyds refuses?"
"Then you tell them to sit and wait for Moriarty to return what he stole." Charlotte's tone was flat. "I'm not the one in a hurry.
But they'd better hope the clients aren't in a hurry."
She tossed that line out, hands in her coat pockets, then flicked Russell a look.
"Come on, Watson."
Russell closed his notebook, gave Lestrade a sympathetic look that translated roughly to good luck surviving, and followed.
They climbed into a carriage. Russell opened his notebook again.
"What did you write down?" Charlotte shifted from across from him to sit beside him, eyes dropping to the page.
"Just the keywords we got." He handed it over. "No idea if any of it helps."
Charlotte took it, scanning the single page.
"Face melting. Devil. Clones… Professor. Code. Bilson…" She nodded once. "It's complete enough."
"But there's no entry point." Russell stared out the window. "Charles is insane, Bilson's missing—both our only leads are stalled."
"More importantly—what is this?" Charlotte tapped a crude doodle in the margin.
It was a swirl of dark smoke, with a giant question mark in the center.
"Art," Russell said, deadpan.
"It's a waste of paper."
The carriage rolled smoothly along wet stone streets, wheels clicking in a steady rhythm.
Inside, it was quiet. Russell leaned into the soft seat, gaze fixed outside.
He looked like he was appreciating London's scenery. In reality, he was watching the girl beside him from the corner of his eye.
He could smell a faint scent on Charlotte—something like pine resin mixed with chemical reagents.
Not unpleasant. Certainly better than last night's powder smoke and blood.
"A ghost. A monster. A devil whose face melts."
After a long while, Charlotte finally spoke, her voice unusually clear in the still carriage.
She closed the notebook and handed it back, irritation threading her expression.
"Stagecraft."
"The Professor?" Russell asked.
"I'm talking about Moriarty." Charlotte said.
"Oh?" Russell leaned in a fraction. "So you've seen through the method?"
"A realistic mask and smoke bombs," Charlotte replied. "The 'face melting' is probably some kind of chemical. Simple."
"And the clones?" Russell pressed.
"Moriarty's a famous thief. It's reasonable to assume he can move quickly without making noise."
"Under that assumption, plus smoke cover, he can reposition silently and create the illusion of appearing in multiple places at once.
That isn't far-fetched."
She clicked her tongue.
"Those idiots just never considered it—so they panicked. One coward even got scared into insanity."
[Charlotte is extremely displeased that you scared Charles insane. Malice +10]
He failed his own will save. Not my fault.
Russell justified himself silently, then said aloud:
"Moriarty's never really dealt with that type before. And they don't seem like the kind who read newspapers."
Back on Baker Street, Charlotte climbed out and marched upstairs without a word.
Russell paid the carriage fare himself.
He went up at an unhurried pace, greeted Mrs. Hudson, then stepped into Charlotte's room.
Charlotte was already busy.
Somewhere, she'd produced a board. On it, pinned with tacks, was a map of London—along with a scatter of colorful notes covered in keywords.
Under Russell's watch, Charlotte ripped every note down and tossed them aside—leaving only the yellowed map.
"What are you doing?" Russell asked.
"An aid." Charlotte said. "I only pull this out when the case is complicated."
"For the Professor?"
"Mhm."
"Alright." Russell's gaze lingered on the map for a second, then he looked away.
He turned, left Charlotte's room, and went back to his own.
From the bedside cabinet, he pulled out the file.
Tonight, I'll return it.
....
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