Russell stretched slowly, rubbing his eyes, and turned his head to meet a pair of blue eyes sparkling with a soft smile.
"Good morning, Mr. Watson."
Today, Mary wore a finely tailored light blue dress, her long silver hair tied loosely with a ribbon. At this moment, she looked exactly like an ordinary wealthy noblewoman—if one ignored the look she'd given last night that suggested she wanted to tear him apart.
"Good morning, Miss Morstan," Russell yawned, replying listlessly. "Shouldn't you, as the freshman representative, be at the front row urging on the professor?"
"The sunlight is perfect here," Mary smiled. "And whether you want to learn has nothing to do with where you sit, does it?"
"Fair enough," Russell nodded, lying comfortably back and trying to drift off again.
His indulgent laziness seemed to genuinely surprise Mary.
Mary Morstan is a little surprised by your unconventional approach.
A system chime sounded in Russell's head, but he ignored it.
But the scent of white tea and ink didn't fade—it only came closer. Moments later, something hard poked him in the waist.
"Mr. Watson." Mary's voice again, as gentle and smiling as before, but Russell felt a chill up his spine.
"Hm?" Russell mumbled into his arm.
"Did you not sleep well last night?" Mary asked with feigned concern.
"If you had Charlotte Holmes as your neighbor, you wouldn't sleep well either," Russell yawned.
"Oh?" Mary raised her eyebrows, clearly interested.
"Is this about the Nicholas Winter case?"
"How did you know?" Russell was genuinely surprised.
"If anything that happened in London lately could be called a real sensation, it's that," Mary explained. "Winter's paintings were hugely popular among the nobility alive—many are gossiping about this. Sadly, now that he's dead, his final works are being absurdly overvalued."
"Ha! Now they're profiting off Bloody buns," Russell snorted.
"Bloody buns…?"
"Just think of steamed buns as an Eastern type of bread," Russell explained.
"No, I know that. I'm just surprised at the analogy," Mary said, smiling.
"What a cruel yet vivid metaphor."
She cast a glance at the professor still lost in his own world on stage. Satisfied, she turned back.
"Can you tell me more about the case?" Her voice dropped to a lover's whisper, full of curiosity that didn't suit her social status.
Sunshine from the window edged her silver hair in golden light—she looked like a harmless, beautiful statue. But Russell sensed a fierce competitive spirit beneath that gentle exterior.
Again? he thought. As if Charlotte alone wasn't enough—now there was Mary Morstan too. Do all geniuses have this pathological urge to pry into others' privacy?
[Mary Morstan is mildly annoyed by your silence. Malice +10. Reminder: automatic update.]
Russell rolled his eyes internally, putting on a perfectly embarrassed look.
"Miss Morstan, this is internal Scotland Yard information…not something I can just spill," he demurred.
"If it's sleep talk, it doesn't count, right?" Mary redefined 'leak' with a gentle smile.
Russell was speechless for a moment.
"So, she did take on the case after all," she stated rather than asked.
"She must be suffering greatly, isn't she?"
"It's more than distress," Russell, now with an outlet, couldn't help grumbling.
"She played violin all night…you can't imagine how loud—"
Mary seemed to picture it, a deeper smile curving her lips.
"Is Charlotte Holmes that awful on the violin?"
"Not quite, but…at midnight, it doesn't matter."
"Don't bring up Charlotte Holmes," Russell muttered. "Even Paganini would have his limits. Needless to say, she dragged me into discussing the case—she thought she'd found every clue, but the disciple just wouldn't confess."
Scotland Yard had already held him for 24 hours; in another 24 they'd probably have to let the 'killer' go for lack of evidence. That would be intolerable for Charlotte Holmes.
"Killer…" Mary mused. "Why is everyone so sure Edgar Wright is the murderer?"
"If not him, then who?" Russell retorted. "Maybe you don't get it, but I do—at least a little."
Mary half-whispered, as if confiding a secret:
"My father once hosted both master and disciple; Edgar always struck me as deeply respectful of his teacher. Nicholas Winter dedicated his life to painting—never marrying, never having children. Edgar intervened frequently—he seemed to think of Winter as a father."
She paused before continuing:
"And, frankly, he lacks even basic social common sense. He isn't high in emotional intelligence. I got the impression that he sincerely respected and cared for his master—and Winter considered that, otherwise he wouldn't have decided to bequeath everything to Edgar upon retirement."
"Is that so?" Russell perked up a bit. "Never heard that before."
"That's what I heard when they talked with my father—maybe he just hadn't put it in his will yet, but Edgar was certainly there," Mary said.
"So, I really don't think he had a motive to kill his master."
"And what if he was lying?" Russell asked instinctively.
"Impossible."
"Why?"
"His eyes." Mary said, echoing the words Russell had uttered when they first met.
"Eyes don't lie."
…