The Savoy Hotel on the Strand in London.
In the luxurious suite on the top floor, a magnificent crystal chandelier cast a soft yet unmistakably opulent light. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the gray Thames looked like a lifeless black ribbon. A few barges struggled through the wind and snow, their foghorns sounding in vain.
Charles sat comfortably on a leather sofa by the fireplace, dressed in a neat suit, a glass of warm red wine in his hand. Wagner's opera played from the phonograph; the heavy, majestic symphony filled the spacious suite, yet it could not drown out the ragged breathing of the man standing before him.
Last night, the person who had appeared in Adrian's secret study had been that famous paparazzi.
The top gossip reporter of Fleet Street showed none of the usual enthusiasm he displayed when exposing celebrity scandals. Instead, he kept his head down, looking uneasy.
"Relax, my friend."
Charles took a sip of cognac and gazed gently at the man through his gold-rimmed glasses, his ash-green eyes calm.
"The Savoy has the finest heating in London. There's no need to shiver here."
"Now then… tell me exactly what you saw in Adrian's study last night. No cheap embellishments. I want only the facts."
The paparazzi swallowed hard, forced himself to calm down, and began recounting the events of the previous night in a trembling voice.
From the moment the phantom thief appeared without a sound, to Adrian offering a thirty-thousand-pound note and a free pass to walk the streets of London, to the white-masked devil burning the note with contempt.
Hearing this, Charles raised an eyebrow slightly. Strong curiosity and interest appeared in his eyes.
"So he burned the bill of exchange, stole whatever he came for in an instant, and left the mansion?"
"Yes… yes."
The paparazzi nodded.
"And what did he say about Mary Morstan?"
"He never admitted any relationship with Mary Morstan." The paparazzi shook his head. "No matter how hard Adrian tried to persuade him, he kept insisting it was nothing more than one of his own whimsical ideas."
At that point the paparazzi carefully lifted his head and glanced at Charles on the sofa.
"Mr. Charles… I'm truly sorry. That was Moriarty. I simply cannot write a report without solid evidence… I'm afraid I cannot accept this commission."
Contrary to the paparazzi's expectations, the media magnate who had built his fortune through blackmail and controlled the three major newspapers of Birmingham showed no anger.
Instead, he chuckled softly in a low voice—pleasant, even filled with admiration.
"Burning thirty thousand pounds just to watch the carefully maintained arrogance of a cunning old fox collapse in an instant?"
Charles set down his glass and tapped two slender fingers lightly twice.
"What extravagant, twisted sense of humor. Truly fascinating."
He took a top-grade Cuban cigar from the box beside him, sniffed it lightly, but did not light it. Instead, he picked up the gold-edged checkbook nearby, elegantly signed a string of numbers, tore the check free, and handed it to the paparazzi.
"You did a perfect job. The most valuable quality in an excellent hunting dog is not barking impatiently, but knowing how to stay quiet when facing prey it cannot bite through."
Charles smiled at the bewildered reporter.
"Have a drink and calm yourself. And don't breathe a word about last night to anyone. Understood?"
"Yes, sir! Thank you for your generosity, Mr. Charles. I'll take my leave!"
The paparazzi accepted the still-ink-scented check as though receiving a pardon, bowed repeatedly, and fled the oppressively luxurious suite as if escaping.
When the heavy door closed, only Wagner's symphony and the white noise of the fireplace remained in the suite.
Charles rose slowly and walked to the enormous French windows, looking down at the buildings and carriages of London that appeared as small as matchboxes in the wind and snow.
His base of operations was in Birmingham, but that did not mean he was bound by London.
As a media magnate of Birmingham, Charles also held considerable influence over London's press. On Fleet Street, the name most familiar to journalists was Moriarty; the name most familiar to editors was Charles.
The former was the one who put food on their tables; the latter was their superior.
"Moriarty…"
Charles murmured the name. White breath rose against the glass. He reached out and traced the letter "M" on the windowpane.
During his stay in London he had behaved quietly and politely. He had never troubled Mary, nor had he made contact with the detective of Baker Street. He remained confined to his luxurious hotel suite and never went out, yet like a spider he grasped every event occurring in London through his vast information network—including the theft at Benson Morstan's company and the arms-smuggling incident at the South Bank warehouses.
Without a doubt, Moriarty was in an illicit relationship with his cousin Mary Morstan.
Yet the man was extremely clever. He had probably realized from the very beginning that someone was eavesdropping. That was why, no matter how hard Adrian tried to extract information, he remained unmoved.
There was no need to go to the scene to confirm. With only the slightest information, one could roughly deduce the situation.
"What a splendid comeback!"
Charles raised his glass to his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window. His voice carried both gentleness and expectation.
"Keep climbing. Climb as high as you can. Build your own dynasty and seize every last bit of the Morstan family's wealth and resources."
Only when a pig is fat enough can the finest oil be extracted at slaughter.
If he had been an ordinary blackmailer, he would have fled in fear the moment he learned his target had a backer like Moriarty.
But Charles was different.
He was the uncrowned king of blackmail.
"A phantom thief and a king of blackmail—who is the true cunning predator lurking in the night?"
It was a question that truly invited thought…
He drained the entire glass of red wine in one gulp, set it down, and turned his back on the London skyline behind him.
There was still a little time before the harvest, but now that every obstacle had been cleared, it was time to begin preparations.
After all, sharpening the axe does not delay the work of chopping wood.
Charles walked to the bedside, opened the drawer of the nightstand, and tossed a rather heavy stack of documents onto the bed. He lay down, then picked up the papers and leaned against the headboard to read.
The documents contained every piece of information he had collected under the name Mary Morstan.
The girl in the file possessed both elegance and grace, excelling in both character and academics. She was the most noble young lady in high society, and at the same time the most outstanding daughter his uncle had produced.
As Charles read the annotations in the file, a rough image of Mary gradually took shape in his mind.
All the information he possessed—including the photograph of Mary Morstan—was in black and white, yet his brain never stopped filling in the blanks.
She must have long, elegant silver hair and eyes as blue as the Aegean Sea.
That black-and-white portrait quietly, yet surely, opened a door in his memory just a crack.
It had been fifteen years ago.
At the time, Charles was nothing more than a boy abandoned by fortune. Together with his mother, who was suffering from poverty and illness, he had come from the countryside of Birmingham to London to seek help from his uncle.
On a gloomy, rainy afternoon when the peculiar indifference of London's West End seemed to hang in the air itself, he had stood in the suffocatingly luxurious hall of Morstan Manor and felt even breathing become difficult.
Arthur Morstan had driven the mother and child away with a look as though they were garbage, telling them to return to Birmingham.
As a child, he had by chance glimpsed a figure through the half-open door of a second-floor bedroom.
It was a little girl.
She lay quietly on an oversized velvet bed. Her face was so pale it was almost translucent, like a porcelain doll that might shatter at any moment.
All Charles remembered of her was that shining silver hair and those clear blue eyes.
He never knew what had happened to the girl, nor did he dare ask. He simply burned her image into his heart.
Arthur Morstan had refused to support his mother and had looked down on the nephew he had adopted. And so mother and son left London and returned to Birmingham.
After that, far too many things happened, and Charles almost forgot the girl's face.
By the time he came to his senses, he had become the media king of Birmingham and the king of blackmail in Britain.
…
Baker Street, 221B.
"I didn't take a single button from him."
"Not only that—I very politely refused his attempt to buy me with a thirty-thousand-pound bearer check and at least four-digit annual dividends."
"Thirty thousand pounds?"
Charlotte paused while drinking and raised her delicate eyebrows.
"You refused it like that?"
"What else was I supposed to do? I even lit the gas lamp right in front of him like fireworks."
Russell shrugged, a mischievous delight in his voice.
"I wish you could have seen his face when he thought I was joking. He could only watch helplessly as the money turned to ash."
"Idiot."
Charlotte uttered the cold word, yet the corners of her mouth rose slightly against her will, forming a faint smile.
"You're not only a monster with extraordinary physical abilities—you're a born spendthrift. With thirty thousand pounds you could buy almost half of Baker Street."
As she spoke she walked over to Russell's sofa and, as though she had every right, kicked his shin to signal him to make room.
Russell chuckled and shifted aside.
Charlotte naturally sat on the edge of the sofa and leaned her weight against him.
The citrus scent of someone who had just showered instantly filled Russell's nostrils, creating an unpretentious, intimate domestic atmosphere.
"But from a long-term perspective, this choice isn't unreasonable."
She said, "If you make that woman your ally, the entire Morstan family becomes yours. What's another thirty thousand pounds?"
"That makes it sound as if I approached Mary for her money."
Russell shook his head and picked up his teacup.
"Is that so?"
"My apologies. Our love is purely platonic."
"Hmph!"
Charlotte's eyes widened.
"Are you jealous?"
Russell glanced sideways and spoke in a sarcastic tone.
He reached out and skillfully tucked the girl's wet hair behind her ear. In the process his fingertip, as if by accident, lightly brushed her soft earlobe.
"Tch."
Charlotte frowned slightly, then turned and bit Russell's finger.
"I—"
Russell drew in a sharp breath and reached out to pinch Charlotte's cheek.
"Are you a dog?"
"This is called self-defense."
Charlotte opened her mouth; a faint look of pride and provocation appeared in her ash-blue eyes.
"Who said you could touch places you shouldn't?"
"Eh? Where am I not allowed to touch?"
Russell did not withdraw his hand. Instead he used the opportunity to seize Charlotte's slender wrist, applied a little force, and pulled the girl—still in her loose nightgown—into his arms.
"It's as if there's no part of your body I haven't already touched."
"You…!"
Charlotte bit her lip, her face flushing.
He gave her no further chance to protest. He lowered his head and sealed the provocative words that had been about to leave her lips.
Charlotte resisted lightly at first, then reached up and wrapped her arms around Russell's neck, deepening the embrace.
The faint scent of black tea mingled with the youthful citrus fragrance lingering on her lips.
Only after the last breath had been drawn from her lungs and her throat began to protest did Charlotte struggle desperately to push Russell away.
The girl gasped for air. Her ash-blue eyes shone with tears; her gaze was unfocused.
In this kind of argument, she always lost to Russell in every sense.
The deep kiss gradually warmed the air between them.
Russell's hand, which moments earlier had been pinching Charlotte's cheek, had somehow slipped naturally and silently along the hem of her loose silk nightgown into the warm region still carrying the fresh scent of a bath.
"Here we go again…" the girl muttered, yet her body moved in response to his.
But just as the golden wind and jade dew were about to meet and surpass countless encounters in the mortal world—
Ding-dong.
Suddenly, from the front door downstairs, a very unpleasant, grating, and urgent brass doorbell rang out.
Charlotte's previously somewhat dazed ash-blue eyes instantly regained their clear brilliance.
She abruptly broke free of Russell's embrace and hastily pulled up the half-open collar of her nightgown.
Even in the living room that belonged only to the two of them, the cheeks that had been flushed from lack of oxygen and passion quickly turned to irritation at the sudden interruption.
"Who on earth is so inconsiderate in the middle of the night?"
The girl clenched her teeth and muttered in a low, dissatisfied voice.
If looks could kill, the man ringing the doorbell would already have died a thousand times.
She quickly smoothed her slightly disordered hair and, as though discarding a weapon, casually picked up the violin bow from the coffee table.
"Calm down. I'll go check. It might be Lestrade wanting to see you."
"If it really is Lestrade, no matter what he's doing right now, tell him to go home."
Charlotte muttered under her breath.
Russell gently soothed her, stood up, straightened his slightly wrinkled shirt, and hurried downstairs.
Mrs. Hudson had been preparing tomorrow's jam in the kitchen when the doorbell rang. She wiped her hands on her apron and peeked out carefully.
"Russell, could you open the door? The fog is so thick I can't tell who it is."
"Leave it to me, Mrs. Hudson."
Russell answered and opened the heavy oak door of 221B.
Outside, the damp, cold fog peculiar to London at dusk wrapped the whole of Baker Street like a tangible gray veil.
A postman in a plain gray overcoat and peaked cap stood at the foot of the steps. Half his face was hidden by the large collar; he stamped his feet against the cold.
"Good evening. Are you looking for someone?"
Russell asked.
"Good evening. May I inquire… does Mr. Russell Watson live here?"
In the thick fog the postman's voice sounded muffled.
"That's me."
Russell said.
"Ah, yes, Mr. Watson."
The postman nodded, then took a plain white envelope with no markings from his shoulder bag.
"This letter is for you."
Russell narrowed his eyes slightly and calmly reached for the envelope.
His gaze fixed on the extremely simple envelope. For a moment the instinctive vigilance unique to a phantom thief rose within him.
There was no black sealing wax from the Morstan family, nor any special mark from Scotland Yard or Whitehall.
"Who sent it?"
he asked.
"I don't know, sir. The sender simply handed me the letter and five pence for express delivery right next to a postbox on Fleet Street. He was wearing a hat, so his face was too covered for me to see clearly."
The postman rubbed his hands together. Having finished his task, he turned around irritably, as though he could not wait to return to a warm fireplace.
"Well then, good night."
With that he hurriedly disappeared into the thick gray fog, as if he had never been there.
Russell stood in front of the door, looking at the letter in his hand for a while, then closed the door to shut out the cold air.
The envelope was of the most ordinary quality—something one could buy for a penny on a street corner.
He turned around thoughtfully.
"Russell, who was that?"
"Miss Mary?" Mrs. Hudson asked.
"No, no, Mrs. Hudson."
Russell shook his head. "A messenger."
"Oh."
Mrs. Hudson looked away, a little disappointed.
Russell went upstairs with the thought still in his mind.
In the living room Charlotte was already seated on the sofa, a cup of black tea in her hand.
But the moment Russell entered the room, her eyes locked onto the envelope in his hand.
"Whose letter is it? Lestrade's? Or Mary Morstan's?"
Charlotte's tone carried a faint irritation and clear displeasure.
"Neither."
Russell walked to the coffee table and, without any attempt to hide it, showed Charlotte the unsigned pure-white envelope.
"It was sent by an anonymous person who stopped a postman in the thick fog and specifically asked him to deliver it to me."
Hearing this, Charlotte raised her eyebrows. She immediately set down her teacup; the curiosity of a detective instantly overpowered her earlier excitement.
She leaned forward, took the envelope, and examined its contents.
"Cheap paper bought for a penny on the street…"
Charlotte held the envelope up to the gas lamp. Even though she was still wearing a slightly disheveled silk robe, she at once began her work.
"No postmark means the letter never passed through the post office's normal sorting system. There are very faint traces of soot on the edge of the reverse side. The sender… bought it near a station or an industrial district."
While analyzing the situation she casually picked up a paper knife from the coffee table, skillfully slit the envelope open, and took out a piece of paper of equally poor quality.
There was only a single line of text on the letter, yet the moment Charlotte saw it she froze on the spot.
"What's wrong?"
Russell asked curiously, then walked over to her side. His gaze also fell on the letter.
And he, too, was stunned.
The words on the letter had been cut from newspapers and pieced together. They consisted of three words:
[IKnowU]