Russell slowly straightened up, rubbed at his eyes, and turned his head—only to meet those sea-blue eyes, smiling faintly.
"Good morning, Dr. Watson."
Mary was dressed in a tailored pale-blue dress today, her silver hair loosely tied back with a ribbon. In this light, she looked like an ordinary, well-bred young lady of means—
If one chose to ignore the fact that she'd looked ready to dismantle him piece by piece the night before.
"Morning, Miss Morstan." Russell yawned, answering lazily. "Shouldn't the student representative be sitting in the front row, making the professor feel appreciated?"
"The sunlight is perfect back here." Mary smiled. "And besides—whether you want to learn has nothing to do with where you sit, does it?"
"Fair point." Russell nodded, then—without the slightest guilt—folded back down onto his desk to continue his sacred mission of catching up on sleep.
His righteous, shameless slacker routine seemed to catch Mary off guard.
[Mary Morstan is slightly surprised by your refusal to behave normally.]
The system chime rang in Russell's mind. He couldn't be bothered to respond.
But the scent of white tea and ink didn't drift away. If anything, it came closer.
Then something hard prodded him in the small of his back.
"Dr. Watson," Mary spoke again—still warm, still smiling—yet Russell felt an inexplicable chill creep up his spine.
"Hm?" Russell buried his face in his arms and replied with a muffled sound.
"Didn't sleep well last night?" Mary asked with gentle concern.
"If your neighbor is Charlotte Holmes," Russell yawned, "you won't sleep well either."
"Oh?" Mary arched a brow, clearly interested now. "Is this about the Nicholas Winter case?"
Russell actually lifted his head this time, glancing at her in surprise. "How do you know about that?"
"If there's any truly sensational case in London lately, it can only be that one." Mary explained. "A number of people in society have been talking about it—Nicholas Winter's paintings were beloved among the aristocracy."
"And now that he's died, the value of his remaining works has been inflated to an absurd degree."
"Heh. Feeding on a corpse." Russell curled his lip.
"Feeding on a corpse…?"
"Call it an Eastern expression." Russell waved vaguely. "Something like… 'blood bread.'"
"No, I know what you mean." Mary said. "I'm only surprised by how concise that summary is."
"It's cruel," she added softly, "and vividly accurate."
She paused and glanced toward the professor at the front. The elderly man remained fully immersed in his own lecture, oblivious to the quiet conversation unfolding in the back row. Only then did Mary look back.
"Tell me about the case."
Her voice dropped low—like a lover's whisper—carrying a curiosity that didn't quite match her identity.
Sunlight poured through the window, edging her silver hair with a warm, golden rim. She looked harmless and lovely, like a classical statue carved to appear gentle.
Yet in the depth of those blue eyes, Russell caught something that didn't belong to statues.
Competitive fire.
Again?
He grumbled inwardly.
Charlotte Holmes was already enough. Now Mary Morstan too.
Did all geniuses have some pathological hunger for other people's private affairs?
[Mary Morstan is slightly impatient with your silence — Malice +10]
Oh, great. Even comes with auto-prompting.
Russell rolled his eyes internally, then put on a perfectly appropriate expression of hesitation.
"Miss Morstan, that's Scotland Yard's internal material… you understand. I can't just tell anyone."
"If it's sleep-talking," Mary said with a smile, "then it isn't 'telling anyone,' is it?"
Russell fell briefly speechless.
"So she really took the case," Mary continued.
It wasn't a question.
"Then she must be… quite troubled right now?"
"Troubled?" Russell found an outlet and poured his grievances out without restraint. Since she already knew, he might as well lean into it.
"She played the violin all night. You have no idea how loud that is."
Mary seemed to picture it; the smile in her eyes deepened.
"Charlotte Holmes plays badly?"
"Not exactly." Russell sighed. "But it was the middle of the night."
"Charlotte Holmes or not—even if Paganini himself came back from the grave, there's such a thing as timing."
"And she dragged me into discussing the case. She thinks she's found every clue and nailed every piece of evidence, but the apprentice still refuses to confess."
"Scotland Yard's held him for twenty-four hours already. In another twenty-four, they'll have to release him for lack of conclusive proof."
"And to Charlotte Holmes," Russell added, "that seems like an unacceptable outcome."
"The murderer…" Mary murmured, thoughtful. "Why are you all so certain Edgar Light is the murderer?"
"Who else could it be?" Russell shot back.
"Perhaps you don't know him," Mary said evenly, "but I know a little."
She cleared her throat, then lowered her voice, speaking with an intimate, conspiratorial warmth—like she was sharing a secret meant only for him.
"My father hosted the master and apprentice once. My impression of Mr. Edgar Light was that he truly respected his teacher."
"Nicholas Winter devoted his entire life to painting. He never married—let alone had children."
She paused, then continued.
"And he lacked… basic social awareness."
"In short: he had poor emotional intelligence. And whenever that became a problem, Mr. Edgar Light was the one who stepped in."
"I could tell," Mary said, her tone quiet but firm, "that Edgar's respect was genuine. He treated his teacher like a father."
"And Nicholas Winter saw that. Otherwise he wouldn't have said he intended, after retiring, to leave everything to Edgar Light."
"That happened?" Russell's attention sharpened. "I didn't hear any of that."
"It came up in conversation between Nicholas Winter and my father," Mary explained. "Perhaps he hadn't written it into a formal will yet—but Edgar Light was certainly present when it was said."
"So I don't believe he had any reason," Mary concluded, "or any motive, to murder his teacher."
"What if it was an act?" Russell blurted instinctively.
Mary refuted him almost immediately.
"Impossible."
"Why?" Russell frowned. "Based on what?"
"His eyes," Mary said.
She looked at Russell—and smiled as she repeated the very words he had once used on her.
"Eyes don't lie."
-------
My : pat*eon*com/RuneA
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