In the public restroom at the end of the hospital corridor, only a gas lamp in the corner emitted a dim, eerie light.
Russell stood with both hands on the edge of the sink, head lowered, letting the cold water gush forcefully from the faucet. The water washed over the white porcelain basin and spiraled down the drain.
He scooped up a handful of cold water and splashed it vigorously onto his face.
The biting chill stimulated his brain, clearing his mind considerably from the confusion caused by the unexpected events. However, the melancholy that had lingered in his heart for so long showed no sign of fading.
He straightened up. Water droplets ran down his forehead and dripped into the sink.
Russell stared at his reflection in the mirror. Fatigue still lingered in his eyes.
In the corridor, medical staff hurried back and forth. Their hushed voices mixed with the sound of carts, creating a chaotic and suffocating atmosphere.
Russell watched quietly. His deep black eyes swirled with indescribable complex emotions.
He had felt it just moments ago—when he was holding the distraught, sobbing girl outside the emergency room.
The chilling, almost tangible malice emanating from her was unmistakable.
It wasn't directed at him. Russell understood that well.
Thanks to the system, his sensitivity to malice was several times—sometimes dozens of times—sharper than that of ordinary people.
It felt as though he were standing beside a volcano on the verge of erupting. He could clearly sense the restless, destructive magma filled with violent desires deep within the earth's crust.
Mary had collapsed in his arms, sobbing violently, her body trembling.
Yet beneath that seemingly fragile and unstable exterior, what Russell sensed was not confusion or despair from losing a loved one or having no one to rely on.
On the contrary, it was a kind of extremely suppressed ecstasy.
Was she scared?
No. She was simply excited—far too excited for her body to stop trembling.
Such urgent, helpless questions might be perceived by others as questioning fate or lamenting to God.
But Russell saw an entirely different meaning in them.
She was confirming whether the fire had achieved the purpose she intended.
When the butler William said that Arthur Morstan was still alive, Russell clearly felt the malice swirling inside Mary—like boiling water—come to an abrupt halt.
It was as if a bucket of ice water had been thrown over her. She froze on the spot.
The "why" she had unconsciously uttered at that moment was not asking why her father had to suffer such an unjust misfortune.
She was asking why—why that man hadn't died.
On the way to the hospital, Mary had leaned into his arms, but what Russell sensed from her was not worry, but fear.
She was afraid that the man might be safe. She was afraid he might escape danger.
Therefore, when the doctor told them that Arthur Morstan had survived the fire but suffered severe burns all over his body and would be bedridden for life, unable to even speak, Russell felt a deep sadness.
If he could observe Mary's inner malice with concrete data, he would see that it had increased almost exponentially.
That chilling malice even gave Russell a kind of illusion.
It was as though the person he was holding was not a helpless girl who had suffered a terrible injury, but a demon wearing a ferocious smile.
This fire was certainly not as simple as it appeared on the surface.
Had the fireplace embers really fallen by chance? Had the window really been open by chance? Had Arthur Morstan really been resting alone in the study and happened to fall into a deep sleep?
There aren't that many coincidences in this world.
Russell closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
What should I do…?
After staring at his reflection in the mirror for a long time, he shook his head, looked away, and turned to leave the bathroom.
At that moment, Mary was sitting alone on a chair in the hospital corridor. She looked like a fledgling that had lost its home, tightly clutching her mantle to ward off the cold. Her appearance was so pitiful that it pained anyone who saw her.
Russell stopped a few steps away from Mary and quietly watched her.
He was thinking about what kind of expression he should wear when facing her.
Should he expose the seemingly perfect lie, or should he pretend nothing had happened and simply hold her?
For no particular reason, a memory suddenly flashed through Russell's mind.
It was from quite some time ago—several months ago.
Just as he was about to skip school to go to David Holly's house, at the school gate…
The midday sun divided the ground into clear lines of light and shadow. He stood in the light, listening to the girl standing in the shadow speak in a voice mixed with expectation and anxiety.
"Will you come help me?"
Russell slowly closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, there was no longer any hesitation or confusion in his gaze.
Since he had already accepted Mary's identity as James Moriarty, how could he expect Moriarty to act like a saint and sacrifice her own family for a man she barely knew and even disliked?
There is no absolute justice in this world.
Even if such a meeting existed, he wouldn't be the one presiding over it.
Russell suppressed all his complicated thoughts, put on a calm and concerned expression, and strode toward the girl sitting on the bench.
The window at the end of the corridor was wide open. A cold winter wind mixed with snowflakes blew in, making the already freezing air even colder.
Mary sat there. When she heard footsteps, she slowly raised her head.
Her eyes were still slightly red, and the tip of her nose was pink from the cold. The mantle with the white fur collar was tightly wrapped around her slender body.
The moment she saw Russell approaching, tears immediately welled up in her emerald green eyes. It was as though the strength she had worked so hard to maintain collapsed again the instant she saw him.
"Russell…" Mary called out softly in a slightly hoarse voice.
"I'm here."
He sat down next to Mary and reached out to gently stroke her soft hair, damp with snow.
"How is Dr. Morstan's condition?"
He asked in a concerned tone, showing no sign that anything was wrong.
"Mm…" Mary nodded. Tears rolled down her cheeks and dripped onto the back of her hand.
"He woke up for a moment, but then fell back asleep… The doctor said he probably won't wake up for a while."
She sniffled as she spoke, her voice sounding very weak.
"But… even though I don't like him, I still… I really don't know what to do…"
"It's okay. He'll definitely get better."
Russell lightly patted Mary's shoulder, then pulled her into his arms.
The two of them leaned against each other in the hospital corridor. After a while, Russell saw Lestrade appear in the hospital as well.
"Inspector Lestrade."
He called out in a lowered voice so as not to disturb others.
However, Lestrade still heard him. He turned his face, gave Russell a slight nod, and strode over.
He glanced at Mary leaning against Russell, then looked away.
"How is Mr. Morstan?"
Lestrade asked, "What did the doctor say?"
"He's out of danger."
Russell said in a lowered voice.
"However, he has extensive burns all over his body and severe damage to his respiratory system. He's still in a coma and there's no immediate prospect of him regaining consciousness. Even if he does wake up, he won't be able to speak."
Hearing this, Lestrade took a deep breath, his expression turning somewhat grim.
"This is a blessing in the midst of misfortune."
He shook his head, then turned his gaze to Mary. His eyes were filled with sympathy.
"Have you received the results of the on-site investigation?"
Russell asked, casually changing the subject.
"According to the preliminary investigation," Lestrade said in a low voice as he sat down next to Russell, "it appears that fireplace embers accidentally rolled out and ignited the carpet. Since the window was open, the wind fanned the flames and the fire spread rapidly."
He furrowed his brows and paused. "But honestly… something doesn't sit right. The fire got that big, so why didn't Mr. Morstan wake up?"
Even if he had fallen asleep from exhaustion, a person would show instinctive survival reactions when exposed to high temperatures and thick smoke.
The moment Russell finished speaking, he felt Mary's body in his arms stiffen slightly for an instant.
Before she could speak, Lestrade continued in a lowered voice, "Miss Morstan, has your father made anyone angry recently?"
Hearing this, Mary lifted her face from Russell's embrace and looked at Lestrade with a confused and anxious expression, then shook her head.
"I don't know… Father rarely told me about his social connections, so I'm not sure either."
"Is that so…" Lestrade pondered for a moment. "Well, we'll know once the blood test results come back."
"Blood test?"
Russell was surprised. "Why is a blood test necessary?"
"Prevention is better than cure."
Lestrade said with a serious expression. "If it was just an unfortunate accident, that's fine. But if someone really was targeting Mr. Morstan, then it's not something we can take lightly."
Hearing this, Mary's expression changed slightly.
"Blood test…" she repeated in a slightly trembling voice.
"But… he's already like this," she looked up at Lestrade, her eyes filled with sadness and hesitation, tears welling up. "We don't even know if he'll recover, let alone whether he can endure the pain of having blood drawn."
Under the hospital's bright white lighting, her moist, vivid emerald green eyes looked especially pitiful.
"I'm sorry, Miss Morstan."
Lestrade sighed and softened his tone.
"This is standard procedure. We have to investigate any suspicious factors, including whether the victim was drugged and rendered unconscious before the fire."
"Don't worry. The amount of blood drawn won't be much, and the doctor will collect the sample without affecting his injuries."
Mary bit her pale lower lip and nodded. Then, as though she could no longer endure any more blows, she trembled and lowered her head again.
In reality, the delicate face pressed against Russell's chest had turned slightly pale from excessive tension.
Barbiturates have a short half-life, but that depends on the dosage.
A very small amount of sleeping pills might have been manageable, but to make Arthur sleep through such a large fire without even calling for help…
The amount she had added to the tea was more than enough to catch the attention of Scotland Yard's forensic examiners during a blood test.
Once the blood test results came back and it was discovered that Arthur Morstan had taken a large amount of barbiturates before the fire…
Even without Charlotte's intervention, everything would already be quite clear.
As expected… that man could have died in the fire.
Mary tightly gripped the lining of Russell's coat, her breathing quickening.
"Inspector Lestrade," Russell said quietly while gently comforting the girl in his arms, his gaze turning calmly toward Lestrade.
"When will the blood test results be available?"
"If things go smoothly, the report should be submitted by tomorrow."
Lestrade glanced at his pocket watch.
"Since the Morstan family is involved in this case, we have to take it seriously. We need to reach a clear conclusion on whether it was an accident or intentional."
He stood up and straightened his snow-soaked police uniform jacket.
"I'm going out for a smoke. I can never get used to the smell of disinfectant here."
"Please take care of Miss Morstan, Mr. Russell. If anything new comes up regarding Mr. Morstan, contact me immediately. I'll be outside."
"Mm."
Russell gave a slight nod and watched Lestrade's figure disappear around the corner of the corridor.
He looked away and gazed down at Mary in his arms. After thinking for a moment, Russell spoke quietly.
"Mary."
The girl's body trembled violently like a startled rabbit, and she hurriedly looked up at him.
Russell smiled gently and wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes.
"I'm going to make a phone call."
"I need to call Mrs. Hudson and let her know I'm safe. After such a big incident today, she'll worry if I don't."
"Mm…" Mary forced a weak smile. "Go ahead. I'll wait here."
"I'll be right back."
Russell stood up, turned around, and disappeared around the corner of the corridor.
Once out of Mary's sight, he continued walking and went straight into a storage room deep within the hospital.
A sharp sound of malice being deducted rang in Russell's mind. The next moment, a map of the entire hospital appeared in his brain.
At the same time, a somewhat dirty white coat and a nurse's cap suddenly appeared on him.
In that instant, he transformed into a male nurse with a tired expression, wearing a rather old name tag around his neck.
He pushed open the storage room door and stepped out confidently.
The pungent smell still lingered in the corridor. Several nurses hurried past, pushing carts loaded with clean sheets.
"Terrible weather. Several more people with broken legs were brought into the emergency room."
A slightly overweight female nurse complained while struggling to push her cart.
"That's right! On days like this, you should be drinking warm tea by the fireplace. What's the point of running around outside?"
Russell naturally stepped forward to lead the conversation and casually reached out to help push the cart over a slightly stuck threshold.
"Ah, thank you."
The nurse sighed in relief and looked up at Russell.
It was a completely unfamiliar face. Flaxen hair, a somewhat sunken nose, and a few fine wrinkles at the corners of his eyes from working late.
Wearing a slightly grayish-white coat, he looked like a veteran male nurse who had worked at St. Thomas' Hospital for five or six years, his back slightly hunched from heavy labor.
"You're welcome. The head nurse is in a bad mood tonight, so be careful."
Russell said casually, having only glanced at the schedule provided by the system from the hospital information.
"Oh right, I heard that drunk on the second floor threw up on her again."
The nurse's eyes widened as she continued pushing the cart.
"See you later."
"See you later."
Russell smiled and waved, then headed toward the second floor.
His pace was neither too fast nor too slow. He occasionally stopped to neatly organize a few medical records or straighten a tilted IV stand in the corridor.
Even if he bumped into a hurried doctor, he would simply lower his head slightly and greet them familiarly with "Good work."
Everything looked very natural. It was as though he had truly worked countless days and nights in this hospital filled with the smell of disinfectant.
"Second floor…" Russell thought as he recalled the hospital map in his mind and began climbing the stairs.
Soon, he found his target in the ward at the end of the corridor.
A middle-aged man reeking of cheap, sour whiskey lay sprawled on the hospital bed, snoring loudly.
Russell pushed open the door and entered, efficiently putting on medical gloves.
He considerately covered the man with a blanket, then skillfully took a syringe and blood collection tube from the cart.
The needle accurately pierced the man's arm vein, and dark red blood flowed through the needle into the collection tube.
When a man was heavily drunk, his blood alcohol concentration could be surprisingly high.
However, in either case, no other drugs would be detected.
After drawing the blood, Russell removed the needle, pressed a cotton swab on the bleeding site, and casually took a piece of medical tape to cover it.
Russell calmly tucked the glass tube containing the blood sample into his pocket and left the ward.
The rest was much simpler.
He went down to the first floor and easily found the test tube rack where blood samples were stored.
These items haven't been sent for testing yet.
There was only one night-shift lab technician in the laboratory, and he was dozing off at his desk.
Russell tiptoed inside and stared at the rows of labeled test tube racks.
He quickly found what he was looking for—a blood sample labeled "Arthur Morstan."
Russell picked up the test tube, took it away, and replaced it with the blood sample from the alcoholic patient, forging the label by imitating the handwriting.
He took the small vial containing Arthur Morstan's blood sample and left the storage room.
It hadn't even been ten minutes before he returned to the storage room and changed back into his dark charcoal-gray wool coat, dispelling the disguise.
Russell straightened his collar and walked out of the storage room, heading toward the washroom.
Cold tap water flowed into the bottom of the porcelain basin, quickly diluting the dark red blood. The blood spiraled and disappeared into the dark drain.
Russell cleaned up the glass fragments, washed his hands, and looked at his face in the mirror. It had returned to normal.
His jet-black eyes were calm and quiet, as though nothing had happened.
He took out a tissue to dry his hands, turned around, and left the restroom, heading toward the phone booth to make a call.
…