Back in the carriage on Baker Street, Russell and Charlotte said nothing, each gazing out the window at the passing cityscape.
When the carriage stopped in front of 221B Baker Street, Charlotte broke the silence.
"How do you think the ghost got in?"
"I don't know," Russell replied honestly. "We checked every possibility—the door and window locks were untouched, and there were no secret passages. The fireplace seems even less likely. Unless the guy really can walk through walls, there's no other possibility."
He paused, then continued: "Miss David will be staying with a friend for a few days. If the ghost sees that she hasn't come home, maybe… maybe it'll give up?"
"Or get nastier, or just pack a bag and move in," Charlotte replied, pushing open the door and stepping out of the carriage.
The two of them entered the apartment one after the other. Charlotte shrugged off her coat and flopped into a wide, comfortable armchair, propping her legs up shamelessly on the coffee table, returning to her usual lazy posture.
"So, what now, great detective?" Russell pulled a chair up opposite her.
"We spent all morning on this and concluded absolutely nothing?"
"Who said that? We've drawn plenty of conclusions," Charlotte replied, opening her eyes. The listlessness she'd felt earlier was gone from her gray-blue pupils.
"Like what?"
"Like, for example, the ghost can enter Miss David's house directly, without using a key or picking the lock. Like, he knew her schedule—when she worked, when she'd be home, what she read, what perfume she wore—everything about her life, even better than she did. Like, he wasn't interested in money, and his interest in her wasn't even quite sexual. It was like all he wanted was simply… to exist in her life."
"That's the sign of a total psychopath," Russell remarked.
Charlotte shrugged, but her expression was ambiguous.
"At the very least, it's clear he harbored an intense, perhaps pathological, affection—or obsession—for Holly David, and knew her better than she knew herself," Charlotte said, then looked up at Russell. "Well then, based on what we know—Watson, tell me your theory."
"Theory…?" Russell muttered, thinking. "He can sneak in without anyone noticing, without touching anything else or triggering any alarms. Either he truly has some supernatural power, or his skills are on par with master thief Moriarty. Of course, there's also another possibility…"
He fell silent for a moment, then continued under Charlotte's gaze:
"What if Holly David has a split personality—and she doesn't know about it?"
"Split personality?" Charlotte lifted a brow. "That's an interesting hypothesis. Keep going."
"Suppose Holly David has a second self—let's call it the 'ghost'—which comes out when she's sleeping or zoned out, to do these strange things."
"But that doesn't make sense," Charlotte yawned. "How could her second self warm the bed before going to sleep?"
Russell fell silent again. After a long pause, he finally shrugged.
"Then there's nothing more I can do."
"Don't be discouraged. At least we've ruled out the wrong answer," Charlotte laughed. "In fact, that's how we confirm that the ghost is not a hallucination or figment of Holly's mind. He's a real, breathing human being who invaded her life in ways we never imagined. That's all."
"So, what now?" Russell asked. "Should we start by investigating Holly's social circle?"
"That's too broad. I'm more interested in his methods," Charlotte replied. "Once we know that, we can deduce the rest."
"And what if he gets away?" Russell asked.
"He's a twisted, devious psychopath. Still alive, I'm sure," Charlotte said, almost enthusiastically. "If he's gone for good, that'll be the best outcome for Holly David."
"How does someone come and go from an apartment without leaving a trace…?"
…
The next day, as the morning bells of Imperial College London rang from the clock tower, sunlight poured through the classroom windows, warming the back row. Russell sat slumped at his usual seat, waiting for class to begin.
Today's classroom was quieter than last week. Something subtle had changed. Timmy Roy hadn't come to school—and wouldn't be coming back. All thanks to a certain man.
Even if nobody knew Russell's connection to the Roy family's downfall, everyone had seen him get close to the minister's son and bring about his social ruin. That alone required immense courage—bordering on madness. He was just lucky: after he started, Moriarty exposed the Roy family's scandal. If Moriarty hadn't targeted the Roys, nobody could guess what sort of revenge Russell might have faced after the love letter incident.
That was the general opinion.
So now, whenever people entered the classroom, their first reaction was to glance at the seemingly forever-sleeping boy in the back row. Their eyes now held respectful distance.
Even the girls involved in the love letter incident—including Anne—had changed their opinion. Only after everything blew over did they realize they'd been played by Russell. Since then, their looks had turned to dislike, keeping their distance. No one thanked Russell for what he'd done.
Isolation began anew, this time not from contempt, but from fear. For a while, no one dared sit in the first two rows near Russell, as if anyone associated with him would meet misfortune.
Until the familiar presence quietly appeared—like a lonely planet in the universe finally finding its satellite. Unlike all the others keeping their distance, she sat beside him as always, cast her blue gaze around the hall, soaking up every glance, every complex feeling from those around her.
And as she did so, the smile on the girl's lips grew more pronounced. Keeping a modest distance, she edged closer to Russell and spoke softly:
"Good morning, Russell."
…