South London, St. Thomas' Hospital
The long white corridor was filled with the sharp smell of disinfectant. Nurses in crisp white uniforms hurried back and forth between the wards.
An unexpected visitor in glossy black Oxford shoes stopped in front of the nurses' station at the front desk.
He was a tall, thin man who appeared to be in his early thirties. He wore a well-tailored dark pinstripe suit that looked as though it had come from a high-end tailor, with a fine cashmere coat draped over it. His dark golden hair was neatly combed, and gold-rimmed glasses rested on his high nose. Behind the lenses, his gray-green eyes reflected a cold, serpentine light.
"Good morning, beautiful nurse."
The man's voice was low and charming, with an extremely pure upper-class London accent. He sounded like a perfect gentleman.
"I've come to visit a patient."
"Good morning, sir."
The young nurse was momentarily stunned by his demeanor, but quickly opened the register.
"What is the patient's name?"
"Arthur Morstan."
The man smiled and announced a name that everyone in London's business world now knew.
The nurse paused for a moment.
"Excuse me, are you a relative of his?"
She looked up and asked, as though it were an ordinary question.
"I am his nephew."
The man said with a smile. "When I heard that my uncle had been injured, I came all the way from Birmingham. Here is my identification."
He took a thin card from his inner pocket and handed it over.
The nurse accepted it and glanced at it.
The man's name was Charles.
"Mr. Morstan's room is 301, at the end of the corridor."
"However, the patient's current condition…" The nurse hesitated, searching for the right words.
"I know."
Charles cut her off. His tone carried just the right amount of sorrow.
"I only wish to go in and sit with him for a while."
"Please go ahead. But don't stay too long. The patient needs rest."
"Thank you very much."
Charles gave a slight bow, took back his identification, then turned and walked slowly down the long corridor toward the closed oak door.
Click.
He gently turned the doorknob.
The room was filled with the smell of medicine. In the center of the ward, on a large bed, lay a man as still as a withered tree.
Arthur Morstan.
The once-powerful tycoon who had held immense influence in London's business world now resembled a lifeless puppet. The fire had severely damaged his nervous system. His entire body was covered in countless wounds, all silently wrapped in bandages, making him look like a mummy.
Aside from faint breathing and the movement of his eyes, he could not move a single finger.
Charles walked to the bedside and looked down at the uncle he had only met once in childhood.
"Good morning, dear uncle."
Charles stood beside the hospital bed and spoke quietly.
Upon hearing this, Arthur, lying on the hospital bed, moved his eyes slightly as though trying to focus.
When he clearly saw the man's face, a flicker of confusion passed through his clouded eyes, as if he did not recognize him at all.
"My name is Charles. My mother was your younger sister, so I am also your nephew."
Charles smiled and said, "We have always lived in Birmingham. Mother only brought me to London once when I was very young, so it's only natural that you don't remember me."
The moment he heard this introduction, the confusion in Arthur's eyes gradually turned into contempt, as though he regarded the man before him as just another relative trying to take advantage of the situation for personal gain.
"You don't seem to have completely lost consciousness. In such an unfortunate situation, that could be considered fortunate."
Charles showed none of the respect expected when visiting an elder. He casually pulled a chair over to the side of the hospital bed and sat down.
He slowly unbuttoned his expensive cashmere coat, draped it over the back of the chair, then sat with his legs elegantly crossed.
"Even though you can only move your eyes now, that contemptuous gaze—like looking at a rat in a gutter—is as familiar as ever."
Arthur Morstan let out two hoarse, barely audible sounds from his throat, like a leaking bellows.
If looks could kill, the arrogant young man sitting here would have already been torn to pieces.
But he could not move a single finger, nor could he form words of protest. He could only stare at the man claiming to be his nephew with his clouded eyes.
The man extended a gloved hand and gently stroked Arthur's numb hand, as though comforting an old dog that had lost its will to fight.
Arthur stared at him. A sense of vigilance, as though being watched by a predator, gradually surfaced in his already dim eyes.
"Please don't look at me like that, Uncle. I only came to offer my sincere condolences on behalf of my mother—your sister—who died young from childbirth complications and poverty. Ironically, until her final moments, Mother still hoped that one day you would take us in."
Arthur's expression did not change upon hearing this, as though the deceased sister Charles spoke of was a complete stranger to him.
"Ah, even back then, your gaze was exactly the same as it is now."
Charles laughed.
"When Mother brought me to London to stay with you, you always looked at us with that same expression. It's truly nostalgic."
He paused for a moment, then slowly raised his left arm and rolled up the cuff of his dark suit, revealing a wristwatch with a cold metallic sheen.
"Uncle, do you recognize this?"
He brought his wrist closer. "It's a Fields custom piece."
Charles's voice remained gentle and soothing.
"Take another good look at the fabric of this suit."
His tone was calm, as though he were proudly showing off his greatest achievement to his elders.
"It was custom-made for me over three months by an old Savile Row tailor, using the finest Scottish alpaca wool, sewn stitch by stitch."
"This fabric is softer than a lover's touch."
Under Arthur's murderous gaze, Charles elegantly removed his gold-rimmed glasses, took a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket, and slowly and carefully wiped them. In the dim light coming from the corridor, Arthur's slightly moving eyes finally caught what was engraved on the inside of the gold temples of the glasses.
There, in extremely delicate and decorative cursive English, small and fine letters were deeply carved:
Charles.
His first name was engraved on the left side, and his surname on the right.
However, for some reason, the letters on the surname line did not appear to be "Morstan."
Due to the angle, Arthur could not see it clearly and could only assume it was because of the artistic font.
"I climbed step by step from the very bottom of Birmingham to my current position through sheer effort."
"Ah, I almost forgot to mention—I am currently the Chairman and CEO of the Birmingham Daily Mail, the Birmingham Daily Express, and the Sunday Courier."
"I may not be as wealthy as you, but I am confident that in terms of status, I am your equal."
Charles put the engraved glasses back on and looked down at Arthur. His serpentine gray-green eyes were filled with undisguised ambition.
"When I returned to London as a proper adult, I imagined sitting across from you—the respected head of the Morstan family—in a spacious conference room for an equal arm-wrestling match."
He sighed regretfully and shook his head.
"But Uncle, I am truly disappointed."
"Before the match had even officially begun, how did you become a rotten piece of wood that cannot even speak?"
Arthur stared at Charles with his clouded eyes, filled with anger.
"But it's all right."
Charles slowly and carefully folded his handkerchief into a perfect square and tucked it into his suit breast pocket. He leaned forward slightly, closing the distance between himself and the hospital bed.
"Even if you fall, the game can continue."
"After all, the attractive cake of the Morstan family is still there, and you have left behind a wonderful successor in this world, haven't you?"
"What was her name again… Ah, Mary Morstan. What a lovely name."
The moment he heard Mary's name, Arthur's eyes—previously filled with anger and resentment—underwent an extremely dramatic and strange change.
It was not the kind of worry or protective anger a father should feel upon hearing that his daughter was being targeted by hungry wolves. His eyes trembled violently. From extreme terror and deep rage, his pupils contracted sharply in an instant.
The veins on his neck bulged. Several strange, hoarse sounds clearly filled with resistance and fear escaped his throat. His entire body twitched slightly from the violent emotional upheaval.
Seeing this, Charles frowned. He was somewhat surprised, as Arthur's reaction upon hearing about Mary was completely different from what he had imagined.
A few seconds of silence hung in the ward.
Charles finally understood what was happening and let out a low laugh.
"Just now, when I mentioned Mary Morstan, your expression clearly changed."
"Your pupils contracted, and there was even a defensive spasmodic reaction. There was no expression of worry for a loved one in your eyes."
"On the contrary, you seem afraid of her. Why?"
Charles paced back and forth in the hospital room, muttering to himself.
"It is truly remarkable that a father would fear—and even resent—the daughter he raised alone."
He stopped and turned to look at Arthur.
Arthur lay on the hospital bed, silently staring at him as though trying to convey something through his eyes.
The ward fell into silence.
A few minutes later, Charles's eyes widened slightly. An expression of disbelief and shock appeared on his face.
"You're lying here because of some ridiculous accident, aren't you?"
He asked in a low voice, barely suppressing his excitement and sarcasm.
"You were put here by your own daughter!"
The moment he finished speaking, as if confirming Charles's conclusion, Arthur's eyes trembled even more violently.
Arthur wished he could convey everything he knew through his eyes, but he did not know whether Charles understood. All he could see were those serpentine gray-green eyes, which grew increasingly frenzied with excitement under his gaze.
"Interesting… This is truly interesting!"
Charles muttered to himself. He covered half his face with his long, pale fingers. His shoulders trembled slightly with uncontrollable laughter as he let out a low, almost neurotic chuckle.
"I never imagined that the proud and dignified Arthur Morstan would be reduced to a useless person who needs care because of his daughter."
He walked to the bedside, placed both hands on the white sheets, and looked down at the once-arrogant tycoon lying on the bed.
"Thank you for the wonderful gift, Uncle."
His tone once again carried that chilling elegance.
"You cannot speak, but your eyes have told me a great deal. I want to know more."
"This is much more interesting than dealing with a stubborn old man who only follows rules."
Arthur ignored his mockery and continued signaling with his eyes.
Just then, footsteps could be heard outside the door.
Charles turned his head and saw the ward door being gently pushed open. An elegant old gentleman stood in the doorway.
"Sir, I have come to take care of you…"
William said as he closed the door, then froze in place.
He stared at the unexpected guest who had appeared in the ward. A flicker of vigilance flashed in his eyes.
"I don't believe we have met before, sir." William frowned, trying to recall the face but failing.
"This is Mr. Arthur Morstan's room. If you don't mind, may I ask who you are…?"
"I am his nephew, sir."
Charles said elegantly, "My mother's name was Susie Morstan."
"Susie Morstan…" William repeated the name, then looked as though he had realized something.
"Ah, your mother was the master's younger sister… Where is she now?"
"My mother passed away fifteen years ago."
Charles lowered his eyes and spoke in a low, heavy voice, perfectly expressing the sorrow of a son who had lost his mother.
The moment he heard this, deep regret and sorrow appeared on William's wrinkled face.
As the Morstan family's senior butler, he naturally knew how cruelly the head of the family had driven out his eloping sister.
"Ah, God… Please accept my condolences, sir…"
The old butler sighed but said nothing more.
At the very moment they were speaking, Arthur Morstan, lying on the hospital bed, fell into an unprecedented state of agitation.
His bloodshot, clouded eyes darted back and forth between Charles and William at a terrifying frequency!
Arthur breathed heavily like a broken bellows. The veins on his neck bulged from extreme effort.
He was using his last remaining strength to send a distress signal to this nephew who had seen through the truth with his own eyes.
If Charles were to speak up now and expose Mary's suspicions, given William's status and loyalty within the family, he would undoubtedly report it to Scotland Yard immediately and reopen the investigation into the so-called accidental fire!
Charles tilted his head slightly and clearly caught the almost pleading and desperate expression in Arthur's eyes.
However, when faced with the desperate plea from his once-noble and dignified uncle, Charles only smiled.
Expose Mary Morstan?
For what? For so-called justice? Or for revenge against the cold-hearted uncle who abandoned mother and son?
Don't make me laugh.
For an ambitious man who controlled three major newspapers in Birmingham and stood at the top of the media world, a perfect, law-abiding family successor was utterly boring.
On the contrary, a beautiful young woman who had personally killed her father, turned him into a vegetable, and yet pretended to be a delicate and innocent flower in front of everyone—that was a true gem.
What he needed was to gently pull the thread of fate at the right moment.
The entire Morstan empire, and that beautiful yet ruthless young woman, would become puppets he could manipulate at will.
"Sir, what's wrong?"
William noticed that Arthur's condition was strange and immediately spoke up.
Charles opened his mouth and cut off Arthur's desperate resistance.
"William, my uncle was very emotional just now."
"Emotional? Has his condition worsened? I'll call a doctor—"
"No, it's not illness."
Charles reached out and grabbed William's arm, stopping him.
He turned to look at Arthur and sighed.
"Uncle was trying to tell me something with gestures… He cannot speak, but there is worry in his eyes."
Charles turned to William. His voice carried emotion and a sigh.
"Uncle was desperately trying to tell me how much he loves his only daughter."
"He wanted to say that Mary is still young and studying at Imperial College, yet now she has to bear the burden of the Morstan family alone."
"Those cold-hearted relatives will surely make things difficult for her."
"There was a father's sorrow and helplessness toward his daughter in Uncle's eyes."
If Arthur could move at this moment, he would undoubtedly jump up and grab this lying demon by the throat without blinking.
His pupils instantly shrank to the size of pinheads. His whites were covered in terrifying blood vessels. Turbid tears overflowed from his eyes due to violent rage and despair.
He had never expected that this hyena from Birmingham would not only refuse to help him but would conveniently and perfectly help the murderer complete the final piece of the warmth puzzle.
"Ah… Sir…" William's eyes turned red the moment he heard those words.
He took out a slightly yellowed white handkerchief and wiped the corners of his eyes. He did not notice the despair in Arthur's eyes and assumed the tears were from excessive worry for his daughter.
"Please don't worry, sir. She is very capable. She has already begun handling letters from the family starting today."
William said solemnly.
"Right now, the most important thing is to take care of your own health. I will look after Miss, so please don't worry. If there is anything you don't understand, I will teach you everything."
"Also, regarding Mr. Watson from Baker Street—although you seem to dislike him, if I may be so bold, he is truly a promising young man, and Miss trusts him greatly…"
Charles stood to the side, watching this moving scene of deep affection between master and servant, desperately suppressing the laughter rising in his chest.
He elegantly picked up the cashmere coat draped over the back of the chair and slowly put it on.
"Since William is here, I won't disturb my uncle's rest any further."
"I will be staying in London for a while. If you need anything in the future, please don't hesitate to contact me. Here is my address."
Charles handed William a business card.
"Well then, I shall take my leave. I still need to unpack my luggage."
"Please wait a moment!"
The old butler suddenly remembered something and called out to him.
Charles stopped at the boundary between light and shadow. He turned his head slightly. Half his face was hidden in the corridor's shadow, while the other half was illuminated by the winter morning light from the window.
"Is there anything else, William?"
"You said you are Mrs. Susan's son, but I was so overcome with grief that I completely forgot to ask your full name. I was terribly rude."
William lowered his head slightly. "Please forgive my rudeness."
"Of course not."
Charles smiled gently.
In the interplay of light and shadow, the man extended a hand wearing an expensive leather glove and adjusted the gold-rimmed glasses on his nose with the utmost elegance. The glasses reflected a cold, sharp light.
"William, you may call me Charles."
He said.
"My name is Charles Morstan Milverton."
…