As the temperature dropped, the entire Thames seemed to freeze over in the London night.
Russell pushed open the door of 221B Baker Street and stepped out into the swirling snow. He raised his coat collar and followed Mary's instructions toward the red telephone booth on the corner that people passed every day without a second thought. The dim gas lamps flickered in the wind and snow, casting his long shadow diagonally across the snow.
Russell's gaze quickly swept across the red brick wall and stopped at a slightly worn brick in the third row from the bottom. This brick had less moss than the others, and its edges showed clear signs of frequent removal. He reached out, hooked his fingers into the seam, and gently pulled outward. With a soft click, the brick moved, revealing a rusty upside-down box inside.
"Who would have imagined that the contact point would be on Baker Street, right under Miss Holmes' nose?" Russell couldn't help but laugh. It was a clever trap laid in the dark.
He stuffed the envelope containing the instructions and cash inside, then pushed the tile back into place.
Delivery complete. All that remained was to wait for the recipient to arrive.
A gust of wind swept snowflakes from the end of the street. A patrolling officer passed the corner. The telephone booth was empty, as if nothing had happened moments ago—as if it had all been a mirage in the snow.
…
2:30 a.m. North Hill Highlands.
The temperature had dropped to minus seven degrees Celsius. The snow was deep enough to reach the ankles.
At the base of a wall near a T-junction, the frozen corpse remained where it had been left, buried under thick snow. The bloodstains had long been covered by fresh snowfall, left abandoned like the body itself.
Twenty yards away from the corpse, on the branch of a thick, withered tree—
A tall, slender figure dressed entirely in black stood like an owl, blending into the layers of darkness and snow.
Russell had already changed into the phantom thief's black double-breasted trench coat. The pure white mask hung casually beside his face. His deep black eyes quietly looked down at the snow-covered road below. Instead of heading straight back to Baker Street, he had returned here ahead of the cleaners.
If everything was to proceed perfectly, he needed to monitor the situation himself. It would also buy him some time.
He couldn't spend the entire night giving Charlotte a massage.
He didn't know how much time had passed before the sound of heavy hooves and wheels rolling over hard ice finally reached him through the wind and snow.
Russell lowered his eyes, blending into the night, and looked toward the source of the sound.
It was a heavy, old-fashioned carriage with a dim gas lamp hanging from it, pulled by two sturdy draft horses. Thick white steam rose from the horses' nostrils.
Even before the carriage approached, a sharp, pungent smell mixed with raw meat, coarse salt, and cheap preservatives drifted over on the cold wind.
This was a meat delivery truck from Smithfield Meat Market.
The carriage stopped a few steps away from the corpse.
Two men in thick, worn coats and felt hats jumped down from the driver's seat.
"Where's the goods?"
One of the men spoke.
"Here."
The other man, holding a lantern, walked toward the spot where the body was covered.
"The marker's right here."
He said, "Dig."
The other man didn't say much. He skillfully picked up a rusty shovel and cleared away the snowdrift.
"Got it. This one's completely frozen."
The man crouched down as he spoke.
"Let's see if there's anything valuable… or worthless inside…"
Russell hid in the shadows, quietly observing. He had already secured the dagger and pistol beforehand. He couldn't let them get their hands on those. He had also checked the rest of the belongings—aside from some loose change and an aluminum flask, there was nothing that could reveal their identities. The flask could be considered extra payment for them.
"Tch. Poor bastard. This is all you had."
The man grabbed the coins and the flask, unscrewed the cap, and sniffed.
"Care for a sip of whiskey?"
He looked at his companion.
"Hurry up."
The man holding the lantern said impatiently. "It's just one bottle of whiskey. Once this job's done, you can drink ten."
"Alright, alright."
He took another sip of whiskey, then shoved the flask into his coat pocket.
The two men worked together to grab the frozen corpse.
Russell had already broken the assassin's wrists and ribs before he died, and the man had slit his own throat. As a result, the entire body was in an extremely strange and rigid position.
"Damn, this is heavy…"
Old Tom grumbled.
The two men, one at each end, staggered as they carried the heavy, stiff "log" toward the carriage that reeked of fish.
The rear door of the carriage was roughly opened. In the dim lantern light, the interior was packed with frozen carcasses of pigs and cows.
The strong smell of dark red frozen blood mixed with low-quality preservative salt was enough to overwhelm even a hunting dog's sense of smell.
"One, two, three—go!"
With a dull thud, the assassin's corpse was mercilessly thrown onto the pile of frozen meat, mixing with the cold animal carcasses until they were indistinguishable.
"Bang."
The carriage door slammed shut and was locked with an iron padlock.
"Hyah!"
With the coachman's rough shout and the sharp crack of the whip against the horses' backs, the carriage slowly turned in the wind and snow, heading toward the perpetually dark corner of London's East End.
Within minutes, the heavy snowfall acted like nature's broom, gradually covering the tracks left by the carriage and the spot where the body had lain. There were no bloodstains, no footprints, no corpse—nothing remained.
It was as if the murderer had never existed in this world.
After watching the carriage disappear into the distance, Russell quietly followed.
The carriage headed east, leaving behind the gentle avenues of the wealthy districts. The deep ruts rolled along the bumpy, muddy roads of Spitalfields until it finally stopped near the ruined industrial docks downstream of the Thames.
The snow here was no longer pure white. It was an unpleasant gray-black mixed with coal ash and sewage. The air was filled with the acrid smell of coal smoke and the stench of rotting mud. Even the river surface was covered with a thin layer of ice.
A few dim gas lamps barely stayed lit in the wind and snow, but they couldn't illuminate the deep darkness farther down the river.
Here, the Thames flowed gently, its surface covered with large chunks of ice. The black water quietly swallowed the surrounding light like a viscous monster. Russell crouched beneath the eaves of a ruined warehouse near the dock, quietly watching the movements below.
Two men wrapped in tattered overcoats jumped down from the carriage. They skillfully opened the carriage door and dragged the completely stiff corpse out from the pile of frozen meat.
Without hesitation, they searched the body but found nothing except some loose change and a wine bottle. Only then did they drag out some wire and several heavy discarded counterweights from the corner of the pier, cursing the entire time.
It was clear this wasn't the first time they had done such dirty work. Their teamwork was perfect.
The rough wire bit deeply into the victim's flesh and clothes. They securely tied the iron weights to the body's waist and legs.
Muttering to himself, he skillfully tied the knots, then took another sip of the whiskey he had taken from the assassin.
The man holding the lantern looked around. Confirming that there was only wind and snow in the vicinity, he winked at his companion.
The two men grabbed the corpse, which was tightly bound with iron bars, and walked to the edge of the pier. They swung it forcefully.
"Splash!"
A dull sound echoed through the quiet winter night, and icy water splashed outward.
The freezing cold Thames water instantly swallowed the corpse. Large splashes and murky white foam rose to the surface.
The heavy counterweights dragged him down with tremendous force. He plunged headfirst into the foul-smelling mud several meters deep, shrouded in darkness.
A few seconds later, the water surface calmed once more. It was as if nothing had happened. Only a few chunks of ice collided with the undercurrent.
The two men stood by the water for a while. After confirming that nothing floated up, they brushed the dirt off their hands with satisfaction.
"Let's head back to the city."
They hurriedly climbed back into the carriage. With the crack of the whip, they disappeared once more into the winding streets and alleys of London's East End.
Russell, who had been crouching on the rooftop, waited until the pungent smell of frozen meat was completely carried away by the cold wind before slowly standing up.
Before leaving the river, which held a high position in his heart, he glanced at the now-calm black surface of the water.
In the next moment, the black figure leaped agilely from the iron pillar like a nocturnal bird and completely melted into the deep blizzard before dawn.
By the time Russell set foot on the smooth cobblestones of Baker Street, the night was nearly over. A faint outline was beginning to appear on the eastern horizon. Instead of entering through the front door, he quietly slipped in through Charlotte's bedroom window and made his way to the living room.
However, contrary to what he had expected, the living room was not dark.
The fireplace was still burning, though at minimum power—enough to provide basic warmth and light.
And in that familiar single armchair, a figure lay quietly.
Charlotte was not asleep.
She was wearing a silk nightgown—the one she had bought after the interview, claiming she couldn't keep wearing the robe all the time. Over it, Charlotte had put on one of Russell's usual thick knit cardigans, which was a little too big for her. She had to roll up the sleeves, and the hem barely covered her thighs. Only her calves and part of her feet were visible, glowing dazzlingly white in the firelight.
Hearing the sound, Charlotte looked up from her thick book and turned her gaze toward Russell.
"I thought you'd come through the front door."
Charlotte closed the book. Her tone was flat, yet carried an indescribable melancholy.
"The cleaners hired by the Professor don't seem to be as efficient as I expected."
"It's not their fault. I just stayed a little too long."
Russell walked over to the fireplace and reached out to warm his hands.
"If you're going to see something through to the end, you can't feel at ease until you've confirmed the goods have been fully received yourself."
"So, everything went smoothly?"
"At the very least, it won't float back up to the surface until it's completely decomposed and dissolved into the mud of the Thames."
"That's good."
Charlotte nodded vaguely.
"Now, it's time to do something else."
"It's already 4 a.m., Charlotte."
Russell sighed.
"In three hours, I have to wake up and make breakfast. And in another hour after that, I have to go to Imperial College London."
He paused for a moment, then glanced at Charlotte cautiously.
"So… can I pay you back first?"
"You can apply for leave."
"Now is the time to overcome difficulties and challenges."
"How much longer will it take?"
Charlotte asked.
"One week."
Russell calculated the time and said, "In one week, I won't have anything left to do. It'll be just in time for Christmas."
"A whole week?"
Charlotte raised one eyebrow. After thinking for a moment, she tossed the book aside.
"Fine."
She said, "One week is one week. Go to sleep."
"Thank you for understanding."
Russell let out a sigh of relief and was about to walk toward the door when Charlotte's voice came from behind him again.
"Where are you going?"
Russell paused, then turned around and looked at Charlotte with a puzzled expression.
"Didn't you just tell me to go to sleep?"
"Yes, but isn't your bedroom right behind mine?"
Charlotte said flatly, pointing to her own bedroom.
"When did I tell you to go back to your own room to sleep? Or do you really like smelling like white camellia all over?"
"Good…"
"When London's moneylenders meet a client asking for a repayment extension, they wouldn't hesitate to cut off one of the client's fingers as collateral."
Charlotte sat on the sofa, looking at Russell.
"Miss Holmes' interest rate is no different from theirs. Providing a warm bed for one week as interest is already quite generous."
Hearing this, Russell was surprised. Seeing Charlotte's righteous expression, he couldn't help but give a bitter smile.
"Alright. Since the female creditor has spoken."
He said this, then walked toward the bedroom.
"Let's go. We still have three hours. If we don't go now, we'll miss it."
Charlotte hummed a soft tune, then stood up from the sofa and headed to her bedroom first.
Russell followed her inside.
Unlike Charlotte's previous casual and messy style, this bedroom maintained a relatively neat and open atmosphere thanks to Russell's recent efforts to tidy it up.
Charlotte climbed into bed first, curling up like a swollen silkworm cocoon. Only a bit of her messy curly-haired head peeked out.
Russell took off his somewhat chilly suit vest and shirt jacket, leaving only a cotton shirt. He lifted the edge of the blanket and lay down.
Almost as soon as he lay down, the silkworm cocoon beside him began to move.
Charlotte naturally rolled over toward him, and then a warm foot pressed against Russell's thigh.
"Shh—"
The girl sucked in a breath.
"Did you come back barefoot from outside?"
"Charlotte, it's already minus seven degrees outside."
Russell said helplessly. "If you're cold, just let go."
"Do you use this kind of tone when speaking to creditors?"
Charlotte furrowed her brows.
"The one who borrows money is the boss."
Russell said.
"Faulty reasoning."