Lestrade's expression turned ugly.
"But this boy is the first witness…"
"First witness?" Charlotte chewed on her lollipop, sounding lazily unimpressed. "Why do I feel like you're about to grab a scapegoat again? Is your case-closure efficiency upheld entirely by 'he looks like it'? Let go of this pathetic goldfish. Just looking at him like this is embarrassing."
Lestrade's face flushed the color of pig liver.
A few suppressed snickers rippled through the constables.
Charlotte ignored him and strode straight into Craig's office.
She circled the body once, bent down to smell the air, lifted the overturned teacup for a closer look, then checked an opened letter and a tin of mints.
Six minutes later, she walked out.
"Digitalis glycoside poisoning. Time of death: no more than twenty minutes ago. The toxin entered through two routes—letter paper and mints. Onset after two hours. The killer must have medical knowledge, access to the victim's personal items, and familiarity with his daily habits."
She grabbed Lucian's right hand, flipped it over, and held it up to the lantern light.
"Old ink staining on the middle finger. A writing callus on the index finger. A cheap fountain pen cut at the web of the thumb. You can't even afford a proper quill."
She let go, then leaned in close again.
Close enough that he could hear her breathing.
"Pupillary constriction normal. Respiratory rate elevated. Heart rate—"
Her hand suddenly pressed flat against Lucian's chest.
"Fast as a frightened rabbit."
Lucian went rigid.
Not from fear.
From the fact that Miss Holmes's hand was genuinely cold.
"I think I saw this goldfish earlier today." Charlotte stepped back. "Classic hypoglycemia plus neural weakness from long-term malnutrition. This kind of goldfish probably panics about getting overcharged just buying meat at the butcher's. No nerve to kill a chicken, let alone this. Accusing him is about as ridiculous as claiming a hamster planned the Battle of Waterloo."
It was viciously cutting.
Several constables looked at Lucian with sympathy. Lestrade coughed awkwardly, feeling that this young lady had absolutely no concept of saving anyone's face.
But to Lucian, her cruelty sounded like angels singing.
Done.
Once Holmes branded you as mediocre, it was the finest talisman in the world.
Lucian glanced at the system's limited-time Radiant-side banner.
[(Limited UP) John H. Watson (SSR): The perfect assistant—the best antidote to Moriarty's side effects.]
If he was going to act, he might as well go big.
A direct "thank you" would be too fake. Someone publicly humiliated wouldn't thank their humiliator.
An indignant rebuttal would be too stupid—and would invite attention.
So what was the most fitting reaction for a poor student?
To be crushed… and transmute that into worship of the strong—cringing flattery mixed with naked opportunism.
"Miss Holmes!"
Lucian suddenly looked as if holy light had struck him. He lurched up from his kneeling position, hands trembling as he reached toward the hem of her coat—only for Charlotte to dodge with quick annoyance.
"Goddess! You are the incarnation of Athena herself! Praise be to you! Praise be to the Muse of Logic!"
"Huh?" Charlotte's lollipop nearly fell out of her mouth.
"So precise! So incisive! You not only saw through my innocence—you saw through the mediocrity and weakness buried in my soul!"
Lucian babbled, voice shaking with manic excitement, as if the fear from moments ago had fermented into pathological adoration.
"You're right! I am a goldfish! A goldfish drifting helplessly in the muddy Thames! And you— you are a beam of logical light piercing the fog, illuminating my narrow world in an instant! In that moment just now, I felt as if the gates of Truth opened to me!"
The corridor went dead silent.
Lestrade gaped, his pipe nearly dropping onto his own boot.
The constables stared at each other, wondering if the boy had been frightened into madness—or if he'd written too many novels and finally snapped. Someone even took a discreet step back, as though this level of groveling might be contagious.
Disgust crept across Charlotte's face.
She'd seen this kind before.
The motive was painfully obvious.
Greed. Climbing. Seeking advantage.
With a motive that shallow, what was there to "study"?
"Stay away from me, you slimy mollusk."
"No! Please, listen!"
Lucian ignored the looks around him and pulled a crumpled notebook from his pocket, holding it up with both hands.
"I'm a writer—third-rate, as you said—but I've always longed to record a true legend! Your reasoning just now, that flash of brilliance… it made my soul tremble!"
He lifted his head. His sincerity was so intense it made the skin crawl.
"Miss Holmes! Please allow me to write your biography!"
"I want to record your genius—every deduction, every performance—so the whole world will know that at the University of London there exists a detective beyond mere mortals! I'll make The Strand Magazine open a special column for you! I already have the title—The Adventures of Holmes! What do you say? Please! Give me this chance! It'll sell for a fine price—oh, no, I mean—live forever in glory!"
Lestrade covered his face in pain.
This was unbearable.
To curry favor with that antisocial little menace, the boy had thrown his dignity straight into the sewer.
And she wasn't the sort to fall for this, either.
"Absurd."
Charlotte turned to leave.
But at that very instant—
A memory flashed through her mind: yesterday, after failing to honor her bet and leaving Montague Street, that infuriatingly plump face of Mycroft Holmes, and his dripping mockery.
"Charlotte, the reason you can't catch the phantom thief is because you're too smart. You can't comprehend ordinary mediocrity—so you can't comprehend the malice hiding beneath it. Three months at university as punishment? Don't make me laugh. I doubt you can even hold a normal conversation anymore."
Charlotte looked back at Lucian—the man practically prostrating himself for the chance to write and make money.
Mediocre.
Money-grubbing.
Cowardly.
Able to flatter without shame just to survive.
Wasn't this exactly the standard "ordinary specimen" Mycroft had described?
She could analyze the motive—yet she still couldn't understand why someone would willingly live like this.
Which only proved she needed more sample data.
If she wanted to understand the malice beneath mediocrity, perhaps starting by observing this exceptionally standard goldfish wasn't a bad choice.
The disgust in Charlotte's eyes faded. She shoved the lollipop back between her lips and spoke through it, indistinctly:
"Since you're so persistent… I'll give you a chance, on account of you being one of the first discoverers of this case."
"A-a chance?" Lucian stammered.
"Be my 'normal human' observation subject. When I deduce, you stand beside me and display the appropriate confusion level of average intelligence. Only for as long as I'm here."
Charlotte lifted her chin and tapped Lucian's forehead with a finger.
"Remember: this isn't because I approve of you. It's purely because your mediocrity is statistically standard—standard enough to be a useful reference sample. And your metaphors are atrocious."
"Yes! Understood, Miss Holmes! I will correct myself!"
Lucian sprang to attention on the spot, wearing a sycophantic grin. Under everyone's gaze, he solemnly wrote a line in his notebook, muttering as he wrote:
"Chapter One: When I was still a student wasting away in the literature faculty, I believed the world was driven by emotion—until that night, when I met Miss Charlotte Holmes…"
Charlotte couldn't care less about his muttering. She turned to Lestrade.
"Who's on duty tonight in the medical faculty?"
"Mary Morstan," Lestrade answered. "A returning medical freshman. She was the first to run and call campus security."
"Bring her up."
A few minutes later, Mary was escorted upstairs, her face slightly pale.
Charlotte went straight to it. "What time did Craig arrive at his office tonight? Did anyone visit him in between?"
"I'm not sure…" Mary said softly. "I spent most of the time in the duty room…"
"Then what do you know?"
"During shift handover, an upperclassman mentioned that Professor Craig drinks tea every night… and eats mint candies…"
Charlotte gave a small nod. That matched her deduction.
"Who has access to the medical faculty's dispensary?"
"Professors and graduate researchers with clearance… I don't know the exact list…"
Charlotte glanced at Lucian again. "If I'd known to just ask the duty person, I wouldn't have wasted five minutes listening to a goldfish stammer through a self-defense speech."
Lucian gave an awkward smile and wisely shrank farther back.
"You'll stay with us for now," Charlotte told Mary. "I may have more questions."
Mary nodded timidly, her gaze flicking across Lucian.
For some reason, Lucian felt an odd sense of familiarity from her—yet he'd never met her before last night, and had only seen her once this afternoon.
But more than that—
Lucian was worried about something else.
The nightwear under the coat rack was still there.
As long as nobody checked deliberately, it shouldn't be discovered.
Shouldn't.
But in front of Charlotte Holmes, the word "shouldn't" had never been reliable.
-------
My : pat*eon*com/RuneA
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