Russell was silent for a while, then tried another guess:
"Well…or maybe he just couldn't wait that long. It'd be at least ten years before his master retired. All that time, living in the great man's shadow, and even after retirement, people would always compare him to Winter. It might have felt better to end it quickly—have his teacher retire at his peak and seize his own future."
"A clever theory, but unfortunately impossible," Mary shook her head.
"Why not?"
"Because Nicholas Winter wasn't going to live much longer," she replied casually.
Russell was thunderstruck.
"Not going to live? He's only in his fifties, isn't he?" Russell sat up as all sleep vanished from his mind.
"There's no mention of that in any police record—or in the papers…"
"There wouldn't be," Mary said, her blue eyes each brilliantly clear yet unreadable in the sunlight.
"The specific cause is unknown—the doctors said tuberculosis, but treatment never worked. All we could do was watch him grow weaker with each day." She added, "Only our family, Mr. Winter, and Edgar knew this."
"A dying artistic titan always attracts malicious vultures."
"As you said…people profit from the suffering of others."
Russell was floored. If that was true, then Charlotte's premise was entirely wrong. If he was already set to inherit everything—and knew his master was dying—why commit unnecessary murder?
"Holmes has no clue about this, does she?"
Mary gave a mischievous smile.
"...If she did, the case would have been closed long ago. Why else suffer a full night of torture?"
"So, since you have all this inside information, why don't you tell Charlotte?" Russell asked.
"Why would I?" Mary blinked, her expression angelically innocent. "It's rare to see a genius so stymied by missing information, and besides…" Her gaze sharpened, "I want to see what you do as her assistant."
"..."
Why am I always dragged into this?
Russell fell silent, then eventually asked,
"Is that why you think Edgar is innocent?"
"No," Mary shook her head, her silver hair swaying gently.
"This only disproves a financial motive."
"Then what is your reason?"
"I told you. His eyes."
She smiled softly.
Talking to this woman is exhausting, Russell thought. He felt like he was losing.
When Russell no longer responded, Mary lost interest in teasing him. The classroom fell silent again except for the old professor's steady voice.
But only minutes later, Mary's academically curious voice echoed in his ear:
"By the way, Mr. Watson…"
"What now?" Russell replied wearily.
Mary seemed half talking to herself, half questioning him:
"Is something wrong with Holmes? From her perspective—doesn't she have motive, means, and evidence?"
"She said the emotional chain was off," Russell recalled last night's conclusion.
"She thought there was a feeling stronger than fear or anger behind it."
"A feeling even beyond fear and anger?" Mary's eyes lit up.
"That's her theory? Interesting. Do you know which feeling?"
"No," Russell admitted, "She couldn't work it out either—she was about to break her violin in frustration."
"Hmm…" Mary twirled a lock of hair absently. In the morning sunlight, her intent pose was beautiful as a painting.
But Russell knew there was treacherous poison hidden amongst the pigment.
Then, as if struck by inspiration, revelation dawned in her blue eyes.
She turned to Russell, speaking slowly—questioning, yet confident:
"Could it be…martyrdom?"
"What?" Russell stared—was it actually supernatural after all?
Martyrdom? Did magic exist in this world, after all?
"Martyrdom?" He frowned, his brain stumbling over the sudden, religious-sounding word.
"Don't tell me Edgar was in some cult?"
He groaned. "Miss Morstan, this is Imperial College—not a seminary."
[Mary Morstan pities your lack of imagination. Malice +20.]
Tch, belittled again.
"Of course not," Mary remained patient, like a kindly teacher.
"Faith doesn't always require a god, Watson. When someone treats something as the meaning of life itself, that thing becomes their god."
Her gentle words seemed to part the fog clouding Russell's mind.
"For Nicholas Winter, art was his god," she continued.
Russell fell silent, remembering the unfinished painting in Charlotte's notes from last night—a burning sunset, madness turning life to ash.
"So…" he finally ventured.
"I'm just presenting a possibility," Mary cut in, seizing the conversational lead as she watched his every subtle reaction.
"Imagine an artist whose life is drawing to a close, whose ailing hands can no longer hold a brush. For him, not being able to create a final masterpiece might be more tragic than death itself."
"Then…?"
Mary's voice was now low, almost magical.
"Driven to perfect the art that was his life, he would stop at nothing—even at the cost of his own life."
Though only the professor's voice filled the room, Russell felt as though the world had gone completely silent.
He could almost see it:
The old man at the end of his life, coughing blood before his easel. His trembling hands unable to mix the colors he imagined.
His eyes brimming with hatred and despair.
"But how does this connect to the poisoning?" Russell pressed.
"He could have simply finished the painting, then waited quietly for the end."
"No, you're still missing the point," Mary shook her head, her gaze falling on the skull doodled on Russell's notebook.
"Ultimate art is often laced with madness," she said softly.
"Someone as much a purist as Winter could never accept a final painting created while sick and feeble. He needed ritual—a way to weave death itself into his last painting." She tapped the notebook lightly with a slender finger.
"What he needed was a pigment that could surpass human limits—take him to the edge where agony and ecstasy meet. That's why poison was his final tool."
Russell caught his breath.
The wild hypothesis took shape:
The disciple didn't poison his master with paint.
Rather, the master—desperate to finish his masterpiece—begged the disciple to blend the fatal pigment into the colors.
In this way, he achieved the most perfect end to his existence as an artist.
This was, for Nicholas Winter, the greatest possible sacrifice for his art.