The night deepened.
After leaving Lestrade's house, Russell did not immediately spring into action.
He sat for a while atop the clock tower in the Kennington district.
Russell sat in the shadow of a Gothic spire, legs dangling in the air, gazing down at the sparse lights of Kennington.
In the distance, the Thames River wound through the sleeping city of London like a giant black python.
Within his mind, a three-dimensional architectural blueprint glowing with pale blue light slowly unfolded.
Russell immersed himself in the experience, carefully grasping the structure of the entire building.
Douglas Fairchild (27 years old, unmarried) lived at Fairchild Estate in the Belgravia district.
It was a ducal mansion in London, only two blocks from Buckingham Palace, and heavily guarded.
The main building was three stories above ground, with one basement level, plus an east wing and a west wing. The east wing contained living quarters, while the west wing housed servants' rooms and the kitchen.
The main staircase was in the center. At the end of the east wing was a hidden spiral staircase that led directly to the master bedroom on the third floor—a secret passage prepared for his mistress.
Douglas Fairchild's bedroom was on the east side of the third floor, right next to the stairs.
Russell enlarged the image, memorizing the position of every window, the direction of every corridor, and every corner where something might be hidden.
"It's the typical work of a spoiled child."
He muttered to himself. "The place I sleep is only twenty steps away from an escape route."
The wind fluttered his black trench coat. Russell stood up and stretched his shoulders.
"Let's begin."
The grappling hook shot out silently, carrying his body into the deep darkness of the night.
The streets of Belgravia were unusually quiet.
The light from gas lamps spread across the wet cobblestones, reflecting a hazy, warm yellow hue.
Fairchild Manor stood at a corner of Eaton Place. Its black wrought-iron gates were tightly shut, and its stone walls were covered in ivy.
Russell landed on the roof across from the mansion and crouched there, observing quietly for about ten minutes.
There were two doormen: one dozing at the front entrance, the other smoking at the back door.
A light was on in the east-side window on the third floor, and a vague figure could be seen moving about inside.
The lights in the west wing's servants' quarters had already been turned off.
The patrolling guards moved in pairs with steady footsteps and a fixed route.
Most of the windows in the main building were dark; only a few showed faint light.
Russell waited ten minutes, memorizing the guards' patrol pattern.
In the gap between the two patrol teams, he glided silently like an owl spreading its wings and landed in the shadow of the mansion's backyard.
The garden was spacious, with neatly trimmed shrubs and tall trees providing natural cover.
Russell approached the shadows, his figure melting into the darkness.
He went to the corner of the west wing and looked up. From his pocket, he took out a light, hook-shaped spear.
A steel cable sliced through the night sky, its claw firmly gripping the window frame on the third floor.
Russell checked the rope's strength, then secured it tightly and slid down into the darkness of the night.
The window was unlocked.
He landed silently and slid inside without a sound.
It was a narrow spiral staircase. A thin layer of dust had accumulated on the stone steps, clearly indicating it was rarely used.
Russell climbed the wall, stepping on the edge of each stair.
The door on the third floor was slightly ajar.
Russell peered inside through the gap.
It was a corridor carpeted in deep crimson, with several oil paintings hanging on the walls—portraits of nameless nobles.
At the end of the corridor was a door, from which warm yellow light spilled out, accompanied by faint voices.
It was a woman's voice.
"Douglas, you promised me! You said you'd take me to Paris this month!"
"What's the rush?"
Another voice answered in a languid, alcohol-tinged tone.
"Once this matter is settled, you can go anywhere you like."
"You always say the same thing! Last time it was about that maid, and before that…"
"Shut up."
Douglas's voice suddenly turned cold. "I said it would be over when it's over.
If you keep complaining, get out of here right now."
The woman fell silent.
Russell peered through the door gap and saw a figure stand up from the sofa and stagger toward the wine cabinet.
That was Douglas Fairchild. Twenty-seven years old, hair slicked back, wearing a silk nightgown with the collar open, revealing sparse chest hair.
A young woman in thin clothing with a dissatisfied expression also sat on the sofa.
Russell looked away.
He had no interest in this scene. What he sought was not here.
According to the map, what he needed should be in the hidden compartment in the study.
A swift and decisive victory was required.
If he delayed any longer, he would end up sleeping during class tomorrow.
The study was on the east side of the second floor. Russell quietly descended the spiral staircase along the wall.
At the end of the corridor were a pair of oak double doors with gold-leaf lion-head handles.
Russell pressed his ear to the door, sensing what was happening on the other side. There was silence; not even breathing could be heard.
The door was unlocked.
He slipped inside and casually closed the door behind him.
The study was spacious, carpeted, with bookshelves lining the walls from floor to ceiling. The fireplace still held glowing embers that emitted a faint warmth.
Directly opposite the door stood a massive mahogany desk, with several documents spread across it and a half-finished brandy glass beside them.
Russell did not rush to rummage through the desk.
He stood in the center of the study, closed his eyes, and recalled the structure from the map.
The hidden storage space is on the third shelf of the east-facing bookshelf, between the seventh and eighth books from the left.
It was a hardcover edition of the Encyclopædia Britannica. Though it looked identical to the books beside it, pulling out both at once would loosen the back cover.
Russell opened his eyes, walked to the bookshelf, and ran his fingers along the spines.
Found it.
When he pulled out the seventh and eighth books, a faint "click" sounded from inside the bookshelf.
The panel recessed inward by 0.5 inches (about 1.3 cm).
Russell reached inside. His fingertips touched a cold metal box.
He retrieved the box and placed it on the desk.
The box was made of brass, about the size of a palm, exquisitely crafted, with a beautiful keyhole.
Of course, all that remained was the finishing touch.
Russell casually took out his lock-picking tools and opened the lock in an instant.
When he opened the box, it contained several thick ledgers and a bundle of letters.
Russell picked up a ledger and quickly flipped through the pages.
It recorded various shady transactions Douglas had conducted over the years using his family's power—from land acquisition to smuggling.
The bundle of letters consisted of private correspondence with other nobles, their contents even more explicit, filled with all kinds of illicit dealings.
But Russell was already accustomed to this sort of thing.
He did not even glance at them. He simply stuffed them into his pocket, returned the brass box to its original hiding place, replaced the books, and restored everything to its original state.
The entire process was completed in under four minutes.
Russell turned and walked toward the window.
Just as he was about to leave, footsteps echoed from the corridor.
They were very light, stealthy, and clearly trying not to make noise.
Russell stopped.
The footsteps gradually drew closer and halted in front of the study door.
The doorknob turned.
Russell hid behind the curtains. The heavy velvet curtains, reaching the floor, were tall enough to completely conceal a person.
The door opened.
A figure cautiously peered inside.
She was a young maid in her early twenties, wearing the standard Fairchild uniform, though the apron ties were crooked and the cap brim was tilted.
She held a silver wine bottle in her hand and headed straight for the desk—or more precisely, the wine rack beside it.
Russell observed her from behind the curtains.
The maid opened the wine rack, took out a bottle of red wine, and poured it into a decanter.
Not satisfied with simply emptying the bottle, she opened the cigar box beside it, took out several cigars, stuffed them into her apron pocket, and then returned everything to its place.
She then straightened her posture, clapped her hands with satisfaction, and was about to leave.
But at that moment, new footsteps could be heard from beyond the door.
The moment she heard them, the maid visibly froze.
She suddenly turned around, eyes wide, staring at the door. The color visibly drained from her face.
The hand gripping the flask trembled slightly. The silver body of the flask reflected the deep red glow of the fireplace embers.
It's too late. If I'm caught, it's over.
She frantically searched the study for a place to hide.
At the same time, the footsteps outside the door drew closer and closer, as though about to enter at any moment.
In that decisive moment, the maid's gaze fell on the heavy velvet curtains beside her.
It seemed there were no other options for now.
…