The next day, Charlotte was awakened by the shrill ringing of the telephone.
The girl rolled over and pulled the blanket over her head. Still, the phone kept ringing, as if it would continue until the world ended unless she got up to answer it.
Finally, Charlotte couldn't take it anymore.
"Damn it."
She cursed softly, still grumpy from being woken up, got out of bed, and picked up the receiver.
"Whoever you are, if you have sothing truly important to tell , say it. Otherwise, you're going to die."
Lestrade's voice ca from the receiver. Hearing his voice made Charlotte's anger flare even hotter.
"Soone died in Southwark? Is that such a rare occurrence there?"
Charlotte said irritably. "I hope you understand that I have more important cases to handle right now. Or does Scotland Yard think it's so incompetent that it needs outside help even for the most basic murder cases?"
Lestrade on the other end of the line didn't seem offended by Charlotte's tone. Instead, after he said just a few words, the face that had been grumpy since morning instantly froze, turning serious.
She remained silent for a mont, then took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.
"Address."
Charlotte said. "I'll be there in 20 minutes—no, 10 minutes. Until then, don't let anyone disturb the scene."
After receiving the reply, she hung up the phone.
…
"What the hell is this…?"
Southwark District.
The morning air was heavy, with a faint sll of rust. Charlotte's expression remained uneasy throughout the journey; her beautiful features were twisted with discomfort.
Impossible to understand. No matter how I think about it, it doesn't make sense. Probably just a copycat.
With that thought, she arrived at the destination.
The Victorian-style townhouse she had visited last night was now completely cordoned off with yellow police tape. Several uniford officers guarded the entrance, dispersing curious passersby and reporters.
A faint, sweet, and pungent sll of blood mixed with the morning mist. Just slling it made her feel nauseous.
"Good morning, Miss Hols."
When a young police officer spotted her, he imdiately stepped forward and created a cordon around her. "Inspector Lestrade is waiting for you inside."
Charlotte nodded without saying anything more and went inside.
In the living room, Lestrade was quietly talking with several investigators. His expression was complicated. When he saw Charlotte enter, he imdiately stopped speaking and strode toward her.
"You're finally here," Lestrade said. "What about Russell?"
"He's attending class."
Charlotte asked, "What exactly happened?"
"Let show you the scene first."
Lestrade turned and headed up the stairs. Charlotte hurried to catch up, and the two of them proceeded together to Hanigan's study.
"Here it is," Lestrade said, reaching out to open the study door.
The mont the door opened, Charlotte was startled by the light spilling from the study and frowned.
Why is the light on?
She couldn't help asking.
"This morning, his maid ca to wake him and found he wasn't in the bedroom. Then the maid noticed that the light in the study was still on and went over to knock on the door. Right after that, she discovered her master lying in a pool of blood."
Lestrade explained with an indescribable expression mixing comical and solemn elents.
Hearing this, Charlotte nodded, then lowered her gaze to the floor.
The first thing that caught her eye was the corpse lying in the pool of blood. Hanigan's body lay on the ground, his skin pale from massive blood loss. The spilled blood had dyed the expensive carpet a vivid, deep red.
Charlotte showed no reaction to the sight of the corpse; her expression remained completely calm.
"We followed your instructions and kept everyone out of the scene… but quite a few people still saw it."
"What was the cause of death?"
Charlotte asked.
"The fatal wound was a single strike," Lestrade stated. "The murder weapon was a very sharp short sword that pierced straight through the heart."
"Ti of death?"
"Soti between 11 p.m. last night and 1 a.m. this morning."
"Anything else?"
"Also… it was discovered that so of the deceased's belongings are missing."
"Such as?"
"I'm not sure, but it's confird that cash and jewelry are gone."
Lestrade shook his head.
"Then what?" Charlotte asked again. "You said this is related to Moriarty, but I don't see how."
Charlotte looked around. "Because money was stolen?"
"No, here's the reason."
Lestrade looked around, then took out an evidence bag. He handed the bag containing the evidence to Charlotte. She reached out, took it, and opened it.
Inside was a red-and-white card.
Charlotte found tweezers, picked up the card, and brought it close to her eyes for careful examination. The card wasn't actually red and white. The red parts were bloodstains; the white parts were the original color. Most of it was soaked in blood, but the jet-black text written on it still powerfully declared its presence:
"What does not belong to will eventually leave —Moriarty"
The handwriting was extrely clear, yet also very familiar.
The mont Charlotte saw the card, her pupils contracted sharply. Her mind palace activated rapidly. Many of Moriarty's cards appeared in her mind, arranged and compared with the one before her. In the end, all conclusions led to an irrefutable result.
The card is genuine.
It was not a high-quality fake—it was the real thing, written by Moriarty himself.
A deep furrow ford between Charlotte's brows.
"This is… why I called you here."
Lestrade's voice ca from behind. His tone was complicated. "The mont we found this card, I had my subordinates retrieve it. But… I don't know if anyone else saw it."
After a short pause, he looked at Charlotte and couldn't help asking,
"This is a fake, right?"
Charlotte did not answer imdiately. She held up the bloodstained card and stared at it quietly. In her gray-blue eyes swirled emotions ordinary people could not understand: confusion, bewildernt, doubt, and anger…
"I'm sorry, Lestrade."
After a long silence, she spoke slowly. Her voice carried a mixture of solemnity and confusion.
"This card is genuine."
…
…
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