Charlotte silently looked at the newspaper in her hands, her gaze flickering with conflicting emotions.
Lestrade had already promised her that he wouldn't let his subordinates go around spreading word of this matter.
But why, then, had it still reached the ears of those fellows on Fleet Street?
And what's more, it had been published by some small paper she'd barely even heard of.
To confirm the situation, Charlotte went and bought two more newspapers—The Guardian and The Times.
Unsurprisingly, the central figure in both papers was likewise Hannigan, but their focus was not the murder case.
Each had published a portion of Hannigan's smuggling ledgers, running them as their headlines.
The two papers seemed to be at loggerheads again, falling over each other to disclose the shocking details dug out of those ledgers, using the sharpest of prose to nail this once-charitable businessman to the pillory.
This was the development that matched her expectations.
So what had gotten into this obscure little paper, and where on earth had it gotten its information?
At this thought, Charlotte's brow furrowed tightly.
Just then, she heard the sound of Russell coming down the stairs.
"Up this early?" Russell seemed somewhat surprised by Charlotte's presence, then his gaze fell on the newspaper in her hands.
"What are you reading?"
"Did you go to Fleet Street last night?" Charlotte asked.
"Last night?" Russell paused, then shook his head. "No."
Last night he had split the ledgers into two parts and delivered them directly into the hands of the two papers; he indeed hadn't gone to earn extra cash as a courier.
"What's wrong?" Russell asked.
"See for yourself."
Charlotte didn't explain much, instead handing Russell the paper that had run the murder case.
Russell took the paper, and the instant he saw the headline, he froze on the spot.
Someone died?
And the one who died was Thomas Hannigan? How did he die?
No way, man.
When I went there he was perfectly fine, still chatting away with someone.
After a brief moment of stupefaction, it finally dawned on Russell.
No wonder my Malice Points kept shooting up yesterday—it was just swiping some smuggling ledgers; was there really any need for such a fuss?
Now, taking another look, it turned out someone had died—and he himself had been cast as the murderer.
"Is this real?" He turned to look at Charlotte.
"It's fake," Charlotte said.
"Yesterday morning, Lestrade called me and had me go down to the crime scene."
She told Russell about her findings and deductions at the crime scene.
"So, Moriarty was framed?"
Russell summed up after hearing out Charlotte's reasoning.
"Mm." Charlotte nodded. "I told Lestrade that same conclusion at the time, too.
You should have seen the expression on his face."
"What expression?" Russell was a bit curious.
"Both love and hate." Charlotte couldn't help laughing, and repeated Lestrade's words to Russell.
After hearing it, Russell fell silent, then picked up the coffee at hand and quietly took a sip.
Lestrade, he really... I'm dying here.
"So why did this still get leaked to the papers?" he asked. "A subordinate let something slip?"
"How would I know?" Charlotte shook her head. "I warned him at the time, and he said he'd be careful—but the result... you've seen it for yourself.
And it wasn't even The Times or The Guardian, but some small paper I'd never even heard of."
"The big papers on Fleet Street all depend on Moriarty to make their living; to them, Moriarty has become their very own brand.
They'd never do something that smashes their own brand. If they truly angered Moriarty, they wouldn't get a single fresh headline ever again."
Russell said, his gaze lingering for a moment on that paper, confirming that he indeed had no impression of it at all.
"But this also creates a certain problem."
"What problem?" Charlotte asked.
"Moriarty either finds couriers to deliver the dirt, or he quietly leaves the goods somewhere and waits for others to discover them on their own," Russell said.
"And those couriers, myself included, in order to maximize their returns, basically only go to the big players like The Times or The Guardian, because they pay more."
"So those smaller, less capable papers can never get a taste of this rice bowl." Charlotte followed his line of thought and drew the conclusion.
"Exactly," Russell said noncommittally.
"Unless Moriarty hands out Christmas presents on Fleet Street like last time, getting first-hand intel is something they needn't even dream of.
There's nothing for it—to make a living, they have no choice but to seek another way out for themselves.
Think about it: when all of Fleet Street is reveling over Moriarty, raking in fortunes off the scandals he delivers, while only a tiny handful can't even get a sip of the soup—how do you think they'd feel?"
"If they can't get a meal, then they smash the pot." A glimmer of understanding flashed in Charlotte's eyes.
"They don't have the ability to compete with the big papers for Moriarty's first-hand material, so naturally they don't feel much gratitude toward him.
And if things are a bit worse, forget gratitude—not holding a grudge against him would make them saints."
Russell said with a self-mocking laugh.
"Since things are already like this, why hold back so much?
Right now there happens to be a piece of dirt on Moriarty delivered right to their doorstep—not making this money would be money left on the table.
Nothing is more dramatic, more discussion-worthy, than a dark hero once exalted onto a pedestal falling into a murderer."
As he spoke, he casually picked up a slice of toast, ignoring the prompts from the System that kept ringing in his ears.
"You seem pretty calm about all this," Charlotte said, looking at Russell.
"Me? What else would I be?" Russell raised an eyebrow. "I'm not the one being wrongly accused.
What does Moriarty killing someone have to do with me, Russell Watson?
"I can hardly go and argue with the papers just because Moriarty paid my tuition, can I?
After all, he also knocked me out at Buckingham Palace and dumped me in a pavilion to catch a draft." He shrugged, looking utterly detached.
"..." Charlotte silently regarded Russell, and finally gave a slight nod, as if in agreement.
"I suppose that's true."
She said, then glanced at the clock on the wall.
"By the way, you look like you're about to be late."
At Charlotte's reminder, Russell hurriedly swallowed his last bite of toast, gulped down a big mouthful of milk, then grabbed his backpack and headed out the door.
Charlotte sat in her chair, watching his hurried figure shove through the door and out, and only after that figure had vanished from sight did she slowly draw back her gaze.
She took a long sip of coffee, the white porcelain cup obscuring her face, making her expression impossible to read.
Under the effect of the caffeine, her thoughts grew exceptionally clear.
Charlotte set down the cup, then stood up and returned to her own room.
"Liar."
The door closed, shutting everything out.
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