The next day, Charlotte was woken by a piercing telephone ring.
The girl rolled over irritably in her sleep, even pulling the blanket over her head.
But even so, that telephone kept ringing noisily, as if it would go on ringing until the end of the world unless she got up to answer it.
Finally, Charlotte couldn't take it anymore.
"Damn it."
She cursed, then climbed out of bed and, brimming with morning grumpiness, picked up the receiver.
"I don't care who you are—you'd better have something very important to discuss with me, or you're a dead man."
From the other end of the line came Lestrade's voice.
Hearing his voice, Charlotte's temper flared even hotter.
"Someone died in the Southwark District? Is a single death over there really such a rare occurrence?"
Charlotte said impatiently.
"I hope you understand that I have a more important case to deal with right now. Or do you think Scotland Yard has become so incompetent that it has to call for outside help with even the most basic homicide?"
Lestrade, on the other end of the line, was not at all offended by Charlotte's tone.
On the contrary, he simply said a few words—and instantly Charlotte's grumpy face froze, then turned grave.
She was silent for a moment, then drew a deep breath and slowly exhaled.
"The address."
Charlotte said.
"I'll be there in twenty—no, ten minutes. Until then, don't let anyone disturb the scene."
After receiving the answer, she hung up the phone.
"What on earth is going on..."
Southwark, Southwark District.
The early-morning air carried an oppressive, heavy quality, tinged with a faint smell of rust.
The whole way there, Charlotte's expression was far from pleasant, her exquisite features nearly knotting together.
She couldn't figure it out—no matter how she tried, she simply couldn't figure it out.
It should just be a copycat.
So she thought, as she arrived at her destination.
The Victorian terraced house that had been visited last night was now surrounded on all sides by yellow police tape.
Several uniformed officers stood guard at the door, dispersing the passersby and reporters who had come to gawk.
In the air, a faint, cloyingly sweet smell of blood mingled with the morning mist—just smelling it made her want to retch.
"Good morning, Miss Holmes." A young officer, seeing Miss Holmes, immediately stepped forward and lifted the police tape for her.
"Inspector Lestrade is waiting for you inside."
Charlotte nodded, said nothing more, and walked straight in.
In the living room, Lestrade was conversing in low tones with several detectives, his expression complicated.
Seeing Charlotte enter, Lestrade immediately stopped talking and strode quickly toward her.
"You're finally here," Lestrade said, his gaze instinctively drifting to the space beside her. "Where's Russell?"
"In class." Charlotte said. "What exactly is going on?"
"Let me take you to see the scene first." Lestrade said, then turned and headed upstairs.
Charlotte stepped forward to follow, and the two of them walked all the way to the door of Hannigan's study.
"This is it," Lestrade said, then raised his hand and pushed open the study door.
The instant the door opened, Charlotte first frowned, momentarily dazzled by the electric lamp still glowing inside the study.
"Why is the light on?" she couldn't help asking.
"This morning, when his maid came to wake him, she found that Hannigan wasn't in the bedroom.
Then the maid noticed the study light was still on, so she walked over and knocked on the door.
The next moment, she discovered her master collapsed in a pool of blood."
Lestrade explained, an indescribable expression on his face, mixing absurdity with gravity.
Hearing this, Charlotte nodded, then let her gaze fall to the floor.
The first thing that met her eyes was a corpse lying in a pool of blood.
Hannigan's body lay sprawled on the ground, his complexion pale from excessive blood loss, while the blood that had flowed out had stained that expensive carpet a glaring dark red.
Charlotte was no stranger to corpses; not a ripple showed on her face.
"As you requested, we didn't let anyone disturb the scene... but quite a few people still saw it."
"And the cause of death?" Charlotte asked.
"Killed with a single stroke," Lestrade said. "The murder weapon was an extremely sharp dagger that pierced straight through the heart."
"Time of death?"
"Somewhere between eleven last night and one in the morning."
"Anything else besides that?"
"There's also... we found that the victim's valuables are missing."
"How much?"
"Uncertain. We only know that the cash and jewelry and the like are all gone."
Lestrade shook his head.
"And then?" Charlotte asked again. "You said this matter is connected to Moriarty, but I don't quite see where the connection is."
Charlotte looked around. "Just because money was stolen?"
"No, it's because of this." Lestrade glanced left and right, then pulled out an evidence bag.
He handed the evidence bag to Charlotte. Charlotte reached out, took it, and opened it.
Inside was a red-and-white card.
Charlotte found a pair of tweezers, pinched the card out, and held it up close to examine it.
The card was not actually red and white; the red portion was because it had been soaked in blood, and white was its original base color.
Although well over half of it had been soaked through with blood, the ink-black handwriting upon it still declared its presence with incomparable flamboyance.
[What does not belong to you will, in the end, leave you—Moriarty]
That handwriting was so glaring, and so familiar.
The moment she saw that card, Charlotte's pupils suddenly contracted.
The Mind Palace in her brain was mobilized at high speed; many Moriarty cards surfaced one by one in her mind, arranging themselves and comparing against the one before her.
In the end, all conclusions led to one unshakeable result.
—The card was genuine.
It was no high-quality forgery; it was the real thing, a card written by Moriarty's own hand.
Charlotte's brow furrowed tightly.
"This is... the reason I called you here."
Lestrade's voice sounded from behind her, his tone complicated.
"The moment I saw this card I had my men collect it. It's just... I'm not sure whether anyone else may have seen it."
He paused, then looked at Charlotte and couldn't help asking:
"This is a forgery, right?"
Charlotte did not answer immediately.
She held up that blood-soaked card, examining it quietly, her gray-blue eyes churning with emotions no ordinary person could read.
Confusion, bewilderment, suspicion, and even anger...
"I'm very sorry, Lestrade."
After a long while, she finally spoke slowly, her voice carrying a heaviness and bewilderment.
"This card is genuine."
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