Russell raised an eyebrow. "There are cases even you can't crack?"
"It's not that I can't crack it." Charlotte's voice drifted back from ahead, blurred a little by the wind. "It's that I don't want to."
She said nothing more, just kept walking, the hem of her black coat swaying gently with each step.
Watching her back, Russell let out a soft laugh.
"What are you laughing at?" Charlotte turned to look at him.
"Nothing."
The two of them walked on, threading through the crowds of Fleet Street, heading toward Oxford Street.
Meanwhile, in the interview room, Miles was flipping excitedly through his notebook, muttering to himself.
Henry sat behind the desk, sipping his tea unhurriedly.
"Chief," Miles looked up, his eyes shining.
"Don't you think that last part was especially interesting?"
"When Miss Holmes talked about Mr. Watson, that expression, that tone—"
"Mm." Henry nodded.
"I'm sure the readers will love this part!" Miles went on.
"A genius detective, with such complicated feelings about her own assistant—half complaint, half—"
"Miles."
"Hm?"
Henry set down his teacup and glanced at him.
"Those things you just wrote down—the descriptions of Mr. Watson, and the things Miss Holmes said."
"The complaining part, you can write. But that silence of hers afterward, and her closing line—that is, 'a necessary nuisance.'"
"Quote that line word for word. Don't add any explanation."
Miles paused at that. "Why?"
"Because," Henry began slowly, a veteran's clarity in his voice, "some things lose all their charm the moment you spell them out."
Miles blinked, half-understanding.
"You mean…"
Henry smiled, offering no explanation, and just patted his shoulder.
"You'll get it someday, kid."
"Go write your piece," he said. "This should be more than enough for you to put together a brilliant story."
"Yes, Chief!"
Miles didn't press further. He nodded eagerly, then grabbed his notebook and bolted out of the office in a whirlwind.
Henry watched his bounding figure disappear, then glanced at the clear sky beyond the window, and a low chuckle escaped him.
"Ah, to be young."
Sunday.
Morstan Estate.
The young woman drifted awake from her dreams.
After a quick wash and getting dressed, Mary took her seat at the table right on schedule.
"Good morning, Father."
She greeted the man across the table as she always did.
Without any warmth—merely a daily duty.
"Mm." Arthur Morstan gave a slight nod, his idea of a reply.
Breakfast began in silence.
Mary looked at the exquisite spread before her and, for reasons she couldn't name, found she had little appetite.
The silver plate held a standard English breakfast, each item set in its fixed position, as if measured out with a ruler, precise to the last fraction.
Mary picked up her knife and fork, cut a small piece of fried egg, and put it in her mouth.
The egg was cooked perfectly, the heat judged just right; the bacon's fat had been crisped to a crackle, and the sausage was firm and springy.
All flavors she liked.
All prepared to the standards she was used to.
And yet today, somehow, it all tasted of nothing.
She swallowed quietly, then cut another small piece, and another.
She ate slowly, chewing each bite with care, as though carrying out some task that simply had to be done.
Arthur Morstan sat across from her, leafing through The Times in his hands.
The paper gave a faint rustle as he turned the pages, and now and then he would lift the black tea at his side, take a sip, and set it down again.
So father and daughter took their breakfast apart, separated by the long table, by the silence, and by something deeper still, something unseen.
"By the way,"
Halfway through her meal, Mary suddenly heard the man's voice from across the table.
She stopped what she was doing and looked up at her father.
"What is it, Father?"
Arthur Morstan looked at her, his tone flat.
"Where did you go last Saturday?"
Mary's fingers around the knife and fork tightened, almost imperceptibly.
Her mind raced, and in a moment she was calm again.
"I went to the Phedon Tea Room, Father."
She said it openly, hiding nothing.
This man never asked such questions without reason, and if he was asking, then he had already come with the answer in hand.
"The Phedon Tea Room…" Arthur mused for a moment. "With whom?"
"Russell Watson."
As the words left her, an eerie stillness settled over the air.
Arthur Morstan did not speak at once, nor did he show any anger or disappointment.
He first lifted the coffee beside him, took a sip, and only then asked, unhurried:
"As I recall, I believe I told you not to have any further dealings with him. Am I right?"
"Yes…"
"Then why, this past week, did you go to the Phedon Tea Room with him?"
Arthur Morstan looked at Mary.
At that, Mary pressed her lips together, her gaze moving to the man, then dropping to the newspaper in his hands.
His hand covered the headline, and she couldn't make out what it was.
Mary thought of the words Russell had said to her.
So she drew a deep breath, then said:
"I'm sorry… Father."
She apologized first, then, before the man could speak, went on:
"At the time, I—I actually did listen to you, I wanted to keep my distance from him."
A troubled look crossed her face.
"But… Russell Watson is a bit… persistent, you understand."
"He was the one who asked me to the Phedon Tea Room. What I was thinking was that I'd have it out with him there and make him stop pestering me afterward."
"You could have simply refused, couldn't you?"
"Actually… I refused him several times, but he kept finding one excuse after another."
"In the end I had no choice but to agree to meet him once and set things straight."
She said it with ease, just the right note of helplessness in her voice, as if she truly were confiding a real trouble to her father.
Arthur Morstan listened, was silent for a moment, then nodded.
"I see…" he said. "Some people lack proper manners and don't know when to stop. I can hardly blame you for that."
He paused, his gaze lingering on the paper a moment longer, then asked again:
"So did you make it clear to him?"
At those words, Mary's guard went up at once.
She recalled the man's expression just now, and his tone, weighing what she should say next.
At last she spoke slowly, giving an ambiguous answer:
"I did, but I put it gently… so I can't promise he understood."
"In that case." Arthur Morstan laid down the newspaper in his hands.
"If he can't take the hint, then let it be."
The man's tone had softened considerably from before, carrying even a subtle shift that was hard to detect.
"Some people simply need to be dealt with in a more direct manner." He lifted his coffee cup and spoke unhurriedly.
"The way you handled it wasn't wrong, Mary."
Mary looked at her father with feigned confusion.
"Father… what do you mean?"
"What I mean is," Arthur set down the coffee cup.
"Since he's so persistent, since he wants so badly to get close to you…"
The man's voice dropped a little lower.
"Then perhaps you should give him a chance."
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