The moment he finished speaking, Philip froze.
Wooden crates? What wooden crates? When had these crates appeared in his warehouse?
A venomous premonition coiled around his heart like a snake, driving him forward in desperate pursuit.
"Which crates are you talking about?"
He hurried over to Lestrade's side. His tone was no longer as arrogant as before.
"That is a question you will have to answer for yourself," Lestrade said coldly.
The instant Philip heard those words, countless possibilities flashed through his mind. Had his traitorous subordinates been using their positions as warehouse managers to do something else behind his back? Smuggling? Drug trafficking? Or…?
The chaotic thoughts in Philip's mind drained the blood from his face, which had been flushed with anger moments earlier. He turned deathly pale.
"Inspector Lestrade, there are no illegal goods in my warehouse. Only ordinary raw materials…"
Lestrade ignored Philip's stiff expression and strode quickly into the warehouse. Philip hurried after him.
In the center of the half-opened cotton field stood several heavy, long wooden crates whose lids had been pried open.
Lestrade had already suspected these were "gifts" the phantom thief had secretly delivered in the middle of the night, but the sight of combat-ready weapons capable of blowing up half of London laid out in plain view still shocked him.
"That lunatic…" he muttered under his breath.
"What… what is this?"
Philip's voice began to tremble — not only from the cold air in the warehouse, but also from the sharp smell of gunpowder that overpowered the scent of cotton and silk.
Lestrade said nothing. He simply walked up to one of the crates and reached inside with a gloved hand.
Under the wary, trembling gazes of the officers standing nearby, he pulled out a Lee-Enfield military rifle that gleamed coldly.
Click.
Lestrade smoothly pulled back the bolt. The sharp metallic sound echoed through the empty warehouse like a hammer striking Philip's heart.
"This is a standard-issue military rifle still in active service, complete with serial numbers, Mr. Morstan."
Lestrade turned around, weighed the heavy weapon in his hand, and gave the staggering Philip a sharp look.
"Preliminary count shows a total of three hundred firearms, along with sufficient ammunition."
"Impossible! That can't be! Who… who put this stuff in my warehouse?!"
Philip staggered back two steps as if struck by lightning and accidentally knocked over a barrel of dye.
He had no idea why these things were here! Someone must have framed him! This was a setup! He swore he had never seen them before!
Inside the vast warehouse, his roar sounded weak and thin.
"Oh?"
Lestrade sneered and tossed the rifle back into the crate.
"Then take a look at this."
He walked to the opposite side and kicked open the lids of two slightly smaller but securely nailed crates.
Inside, thick shock-absorbing straw had been packed, and an even sharper chemical odor immediately filled the air.
"Two crates of nitroglycerin explosives with the fuses not yet attached."
Lestrade's voice was colder than winter itself.
"If we hadn't arrived on time after receiving the report, even the smallest spark or static electricity could have reduced half the South Bank storage area to ashes in an instant."
Philip's legs finally gave out and he collapsed limply onto the cold concrete floor.
Weapons? And not just any weapons — enough active-duty firearms to equip an entire company, plus nitroglycerin explosives?
These items had been discovered in the densely populated center of London at a highly sensitive time, less than two weeks before Christmas.
This was treason! This was terrorism! This was punishable by hanging!
"This must be that little girl Mary's doing! She framed me!"
Philip shouted, "I swear this has nothing to do with me!"
He rushed forward and grabbed Lestrade's hand like a drowning man clutching a lifeline.
"I admit… the people outside are definitely not clean. But they don't have the guts or the connections to get their hands on something like this! Inspector Lestrade, you can't do this to me! Investigate this thoroughly! Bring Mary Morstan here! I want to confront her directly!"
"Mary Morstan is already on her way here."
Lestrade's eyes still held no pity as he looked at Philip.
Mary had been summoned because she was the current head of the Morstan family. When such an incident occurred in a family warehouse, it was only natural for the person in charge to rush to the scene — whether she was a suspect or not.
Clatter—
Just as Philip was hysterically shouting that he wanted to confront Mary, the clear sound of carriage wheels rolling over ice and snow came from outside the warehouse.
A black carriage bearing the Morstan family crest was stopped outside the police cordon by several Scotland Yard officers.
The door opened, and a foot wearing black calfskin boots stepped onto the mud- and snow-covered concrete.
Mary Morstan wore a heavy black coat with a fur collar. Her face was pale, and her emerald-green eyes showed shock and disbelief.
Supported by the old butler William, the young mistress of the mansion staggered through the police cordon and entered the warehouse filled with the smell of gunpowder.
"Cousin Philip… what have you done?!"
Mary stared at the pried-open crates of massive weapons and at Philip collapsed on the ground like a dead man. Her slender shoulders trembled violently.
She covered her lips with a lace-gloved hand, and tears immediately overflowed from her eyes. She looked like a fragile young lady who had been struck by a family tragedy and was shocked to learn that a relative was suspected of a serious crime.
"Stop pretending to be the victim! You did all of this!"
The moment Mary appeared, Philip lunged forward like a rabid dog whose tail had been stepped on, struggling to throw himself at her.
"It's you! You stuffed these things into my warehouse! You want to get rid of me and take over the South Shore assets!"
"Restrain him!"
At Lestrade's shout, two senior inspectors immediately stepped forward and pinned Philip down like iron clamps.
Mary recoiled in terror at his madness, half-stepping back to hide behind William. Tears streamed down her pale cheeks.
"Cousin, how can you say something like that…?"
The girl's voice was choked with sobs, filled with deep sorrow and despair.
"I only just inherited the troublesome problems Father left behind yesterday. I even had to pay the wages of the East District textile factory workers out of my own savings. How could a female student at Imperial College London possibly obtain enough combat ammunition and high-performance explosives to equip an entire company?"
She took a deep breath like a strong girl forced to grow up overnight and stared directly at Philip with tear-filled eyes, never flinching.
"In the No. 4 and No. 5 warehouse areas on the South Bank, every single person sent in or out — from warehouse staff to security guards — was personally arranged by you and trusted by you. Without a warrant, not even a mouse could sneak in, let alone carry in dozens of heavy, dangerous crates of ammunition!"
Mary's rhetorical question was so precise and logically sound that the officers present nodded in agreement.
How could a female university student who had been forced to make repeated concessions by her family possibly have the extraordinary connections needed to obtain unmarked military firearms? On the contrary, Philip — who controlled the lifeline of South Bank logistics and hired thugs — was far more likely to be involved in weapons smuggling.
"Lies! You're lying!"
Philip roared. The veins in his neck bulged as if they might burst, but he could find no evidence to refute her.
Lestrade had finally lost his last shred of patience and watched this family farce with cold eyes.
"That's enough, Mr. Morstan. Scotland Yard only believes in evidence."
He waved his hand, signaling his subordinates to bring the handcuffs.
"I am now formally arresting you on suspicion of weapons smuggling, endangering national public safety, and treason."
"Speak to the magistrate at Westminster Magistrates' Court. Take him away!"
Just as the cold metal handcuffs were about to clamp around Philip's wrists, a clear, slightly languid, hoarse voice suddenly cut through the noisy early-morning air of the warehouse.
"Wait—"
Everyone turned toward the sound.
Standing in the backlight at the warehouse entrance was a slender figure.
Charlotte Holmes.
She had arrived right after Mary, looking as though she had rushed over. There was clear fatigue and irritation between her brows.
"I understand you're in a hurry, but please don't rush, Inspector Lestrade."
Charlotte spoke as she stepped inside the cordon.
"Charlotte?"
Lestrade paused for a moment. "What are you doing here?"
"Of course, to make sure my résumé doesn't get stained."
Charlotte said casually.
"Accusing someone of treason without sufficient evidence can have very serious consequences if the verdict is later overturned."
"What do you mean?"
Lestrade frowned. "The evidence is clear. This mountain of weapons is in his warehouse!"
"It is indeed in his warehouse. That much is true."
Charlotte didn't even remove her gloves as she approached the pile of pried-open ammunition crates. With an extremely contemptuous attitude, she used one finger to slightly lift the moisture-proof oil paper lining the bottom of a crate.
"Lestrade, use your head. Has your brain frozen along with this pile of cotton?"
"Look at the mold growing on the oil paper and straw used for moisture protection."
She pointed at the edge of the wooden crate and spoke in her usual condescending, mocking tone.
"The bottoms of these wooden crates filled with ammunition give off a very strong fishy smell and are covered in dark brown lichen and moss. This indicates that before being moved to a temperature-controlled dry warehouse, these items were stored in an extremely humid, perpetually dark waterfront or underground hideout. No sane smuggler would stack wet explosives or rusted dangerous ammunition right next to highly flammable and valuable cotton."
Charlotte straightened her back and looked coldly at Philip with her gray-blue eyes. Philip's face had gone pale.
"If this Mr. Morstan were truly planning a major act of treason, why would he go to the trouble of transporting cleverly hidden weapons into a cotton warehouse filled with flammable fibers at such a dangerous early-morning hour, with loading and unloading workers constantly coming and going? Was he waiting for static electricity to destroy both himself and all this cotton?"
The entire warehouse fell silent. Both Mary and Lestrade furrowed their brows.
They couldn't understand why Charlotte would intervene at such a critical moment to prove Philip's innocence.
"So… someone deliberately moved these things in before dawn to frame him?"
Lestrade asked.
"That's right! Someone must have framed me!"
Seeing someone speak up for him, Philip's eyes lit up.
"I am an innocent, law-abiding citizen. Why would I do something like this?!"
As he spoke, he stared fixedly at Mary.
"It has to be her! She framed me! Investigate her thoroughly. Maybe it was even my uncle—"
"Quiet."
Charlotte irritably cut Philip off.
"All I said was that this batch of weapons was not hidden by you. When did I ever say I was proving your innocence?"
She looked at Philip with disgust.
"You're not only filthy, you're also unbelievably stupid."
Charlotte sneered mercilessly.
"If you weren't involved in illegal activities in this warehouse — smuggling or trading in contraband — how could you have drawn attention and become such a perfect scapegoat?"
She turned to Lestrade and pointed at several corners of the warehouse and some separately stacked boxes.
"Look at the labels under these waterproof sheets. On the surface they say duty-free Indian tea, but underneath are untaxed French brandy and Cuban cigars. And those iron drums disguised as industrial grease probably contain high-purity prohibited drugs. Needless to say…"
She glanced at the intimidating-looking violent criminals who had been captured outside.
"Some of the faces among the so-called warehouse guards you've been employing look familiar. If I remember correctly, Scotland Yard's wanted list should have records of them being involved in underground boxing matches and debt collection, right?"
Philip's face instantly turned from flushed to deathly pale.
"You… you're spouting nonsense! Without evidence, what gives you the right to—?"
"Oh? Don't tell me you want me to sort through all the smuggled goods and cross-check them against customs declarations?"
Charlotte coldly cut him off.
"Mr. Morstan, I have already cleared you of the suspicion of treason, which could have led to the gallows. If you insist on pursuing this line, I don't mind reconstructing the evidence to prove that you were involved not only in smuggling but also in weapons dealing."
The moment he heard the words "treason" and "gallows," Philip's body shook violently. The burning anger instantly turned into cold sweat.
He had indeed committed many crimes. Smuggling and tax evasion were daily occurrences for him. If it were only these crimes, he would at most face fines, confiscation of assets, and a few years in prison. With the Morstan family's financial power and the wealth he had accumulated over the years, he was confident he could live comfortably inside.
But if it was treason…
That was a capital offense. The entire family could be dragged into it!
In such a serious situation, Scotland Yard — even MI6 — would rather kill a thousand innocent people than let a single guilty person escape!
Faced with two, he chose the lesser one. Almost instantly, Philip's psychological defenses completely collapsed.
"I admit… I did a little smuggling…" he said dejectedly, looking down. His voice was hoarse, as if he had aged ten years in an instant.
"The French wine hidden under the tea leaves, and… those guards were actually former black-market workers. But I swear, I only wanted money. These weapons have nothing to do with me! I have no idea where they came from!"
"Inspector Lestrade, did you hear that?"
Charlotte turned around and shrugged.
"Although it's not as sensational as treason, charges such as large-scale smuggling, employing violent gangs to violently monopolize the port, and concealing fire safety hazards are more than enough to keep this person in prison for a considerable period."
"What about the guns and explosives?!"
Lestrade pointed at the crates, mimicking Charlotte's gesture.
"If he didn't do it, then who the hell put this stuff in the middle of the city?! What the hell were these lunatics trying to do?!"
"Please don't get excited, Inspector. Scotland Yard's roof hasn't been blown off yet."
Charlotte said, sounding somewhat irritated.
"As I mentioned earlier, the moss and dead-fish smell growing on these wooden crates indicate that they were originally hidden by the water or in an underground location where water accumulates. Furthermore… these flammable and explosive materials were clearly placed in a special isolated location away from any ignition sources. This shows that the perpetrator had no intention of causing unnecessary disaster and that their methods were extremely sophisticated."
"So… what exactly were they planning? Was it really just to frame someone?"
"'Frame' is not the most accurate word."
Charlotte said.
"More precisely… it's one stone, two birds."
…