Early the next morning, the first rays of sunlight pierced the thin fog and lit up London's streets. The city awoke to its familiar noisy clamor.
"Extra! Extra! The Tis reports another culprit in the Hannigan murder case!"
"The Guardian front-page headline—Phantom Thief Moriarty didn't kill anyone!"
Newspaper delivery boys waved their papers and shouted at the top of their lungs, spreading the shocking reversal to every passerby.
As if coordinated in advance, both major newspapers simultaneously nad the real culprit who had frad Moriarty and accused him of every cri. From the tiny clues left at the scene, to the adulterous relationship between murderer and victim, to the ticulously planned framing operation—every step was logically connected and brilliantly executed.
The tabloid that had published the "Moriarty Murder Case" article beca the target of a joint assault by the two giants.
"Clown!"
"Will do anything for attention!"
"Sha of journalism!"…
The press used every sharp, sarcastic phrase imaginable.
It was easy to imagine that this small newspaper agency, which had only just begun attracting attention through fake news, would vanish completely from Fleet Street after today.
Public opinion reversed dramatically overnight. Citizens' emotions felt like a roller-coaster ride—within just a few days they had experienced a massive reversal and a spectacular plunge. People fiercely condemned the murderer's brutality and the newspaper's deceptive tactics, then pulled out money and bought fresh copies one after another.
Charlotte, one of the architects of this uproar, sat quietly at the dining table as though the storm outside had nothing to do with her, leisurely enjoying the breakfast Russell had prepared.
"How are the sales figures calculated?" Russell placed a perfectly cooked soft-boiled egg on her plate.
"Whatever happens, it doesn't matter." Charlotte cut her toast into small pieces, dipped one in the crushed yolk, and said, "I don't care."
"So today's newspaper sales are the break-even point?" Russell asked again.
"I'll have Henry and Edgar compile today's sales data and send it to Baker Street tomorrow. Then we'll know the results."
"…Didn't you just say you don't care?"
"Just because I don't care doesn't an I can't compare," Charlotte spoke calmly.
Russell's lips twisted.
"I obviously care a great deal."
The boorang he had thrown a few days earlier had probably co back and hit him.
Russell pursed his lips, wrapped a small sandwich in parchnt paper, then left Baker Street for Imperial College.
…
When Russell entered the lecture hall, Mary was already seated. Today she wore a black dress that reached her knees, a delicate ribbon tied at her chest. Her long silver-white hair fell naturally to her shoulders, lightly made up. An open poetry book lay on the table, but her gaze wasn't on the pages. She sat quietly, chin resting on her hand, her gentle smiling eyes fixed on Russell.
"Good morning." Russell sat beside her and casually placed the breakfast he had brought on the table.
"Morning." Mary's smile deepened. "You seem to be in a good mood today."
"Hmm… so-so." Russell yawned. While speaking, he pushed the still-warm breakfast toward her. "This is for you."
"Huh?" Mary raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Why did you suddenly bring this to ?"
"Consider it payback," Russell smiled.
"But I've already eaten breakfast."
"Yeah, so I didn't make too much—just enough for a taste."
Hearing that, the girl's lips curved slightly. "Then I'll accept it."
The bacon was fried to a perfect crispy golden brown, the egg yolk runny, the toast ideally browned—visually flawless.
"Your cooking is truly excellent." She gave sincere praise, then took a bite of the small sandwich.
"How is it?" Russell asked.
"Hmm…" The girl didn't answer imdiately, still chewing. After swallowing, she nodded with satisfaction. "It's much more delicious than what our family chef makes. Honestly, I'm a little jealous of Charlotte."
"Don't be jealous. Charlotte may enjoy happiness, but she always has people supporting her." When Russell said that, the girl chuckled softly.
The two chatted casually. Mary unexpectedly enjoyed the breakfast while listening with interest as Russell recounted the previous night's events.
"Oh, right," Mary suddenly rembered. "I saw today's newspaper." She said, "I still can't believe Charlotte identified the culprit in just one day."
"Yeah," Russell nodded. "No wonder she's called the great detective Charlotte Hols. Don't you think it's amazing?"
"But," the girl paused, slightly puzzled, "why did The Guardian also publish such a detailed explanation of the background behind the case?" She asked, "When I went to The Guardian yesterday, I didn't know anything about that, so I didn't go into that much detail."
"Ah," Russell paused, "that's because I also sent a copy of the article to The Guardian."
"Huh?" Mary slowed her chewing, puffed her cheeks like a hamster, and stared straight at Russell.
"To be precise, Charlotte forced to do it."
Russell said.
Hearing the story, Mary's confusion and curiosity only deepened. She remarked that the writing style of today's Guardian article felt strangely familiar.
"This isn't the sort of thing a proud young police officer would do."
"If you're going to compete, compete fairly and squarely."
Russell repeated Charlotte's words.
"Perhaps it's because of the high royalties."
"She probably just didn't want to put you in a difficult position."
Mary's voice was very soft.
"Huh?" Russell was montarily speechless.
"Nothing," Mary smiled and shook her head. "I just said it casually." She picked up the sandwich again and ate it slowly. "But you two really do have a good relationship."
Russell didn't continue the topic. He could intuitively feel he was sitting in the middle of an invisible battlefield. Both sides were minefields—one wrong step and everything would explode.
Silence is golden.
…
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