Fifteen minutes later.
Russell gazed, a bit embarrassed, at the man standing in the doorway.
Greg Lestrade. Scotland Yard inspector. After receiving Charlotte's phone call, he rushed over immediately to get to the bottom of things.
Why didn't he just ask on the phone? Because as soon as Charlotte finished speaking, she hung up.
"Good afternoon, Inspector Lestrade…" Russell extended his hand.
"Hello…" Lestrade shook it. "And, you are…?"
"My name is Russell Watson. I'm Holmes's neighbor… and, I guess, also partly her assistant."
"Ah, I see…" Lestrade gave a knowing look and, with a trace of sympathy in his eyes, studied Russell. Clearly, he too had suffered from Charlotte's unpredictable personality.
"So, what's this about a suicide, according to Charlotte?"
Lestrade dropped his voice as if they were discussing secret rendezvous.
"To be honest, Edgar Wright hasn't been mentally stable lately."
"Uh…" Russell rubbed his nose, considering whether to repeat Mary's excuse. But arguing about art and faith with a no-nonsense policeman like Lestrade would be casting pearls before swine, he thought.
Before he finished sorting out his own ideas, Charlotte's usual commanding tone rang out from inside the room.
"Come in already. Stop whispering at the door like a pair of basset hounds who've lost their owner."
Lestrade's face twitched, but resigned, he pushed open the door and went in. Russell followed.
Charlotte was standing in front of a photograph of an unfinished painting, pinned to the wall.
"Nicholas Winter didn't die by murder, nor by suicide," she said without turning. "He died by art."
Lestrade's face mirrored exactly the same expression Russell wore yesterday when he heard about martyrdom.
"Charlotte, could you say that so I can actually understand it? I'm only a police officer, not an art critic."
"Tch." Charlotte clicked her tongue impatiently, spun around, glanced at Lestrade with gray-blue eyes, then at Russell.
"Explain it to him, Watson," she commanded.
Russell paused for a moment, then turned to Lestrade.
Fine, considering how much ill will you've accumulated, take this as my way of paying you back.
He decided to abandon Mary's metaphysical talk about martyrdom and stick to a more practical explanation, one that fit police logic.
"Well, it's like this, Inspector Lestrade," Russell began to translate.
"Holmes says that Mr. Winter knew he didn't have much longer to live. At the end of his life, he wanted to complete his greatest work."
"So he killed himself?" Lestrade was still confused. "What does that have to do with being poisoned by paint?"
"It's very relevant." Russell pointed to the photograph. "Look at that painting. The colors are incredibly vivid, almost unnaturally so."
Lestrade looked closer and nodded. "Yeah… It does look like it's burning."
"Exactly. That paint contained something that got him… excited." Russell switched to a more logical explanation. "Prussian White itself is a highly toxic substance, possibly stimulating the nerves."
"Mr. Winter deliberately and obsessively used this toxic pigment in pursuit of ultimate creative inspiration."
"Don't ask me why. Most artists, more or less, are like that."
Lestrade frowned, as if trying to comprehend this maddening conclusion.
"What about Edgar Wright? Why didn't he stop it?"
"Because he couldn't." Russell sighed. "Or rather, he was persuaded to compromise and became an accomplice at the master's request."
"He helped prepare the paints, handled daily necessities, and could only watch helplessly as his mentor took one step after another toward death."
"That's why he felt such deep agony. That's also why the master left—to pursue his art.
Because, for them, this wasn't murder. It was a grand, mutually agreed sacrifice."
A silence fell in the room.
For the first time, a look of shock appeared on Lestrade's face.
Charlotte listened to Russell's explanation, leaning against the wall, a faint glimmer of approval in her gray-blue eyes.
This guy's sharper than he looks. He's distilled the metaphysical idea of 'martyrdom' into the more mundane logic of 'drug-induced creativity'—a perfect explanation for the whole case.
Granted, it doesn't leave the best impression of Nicholas Winter. But that didn't seem to bother Lestrade at all.
"So… You're saying, he helped Winter commit suicide?" Lestrade asked.
"That's right," Russell nodded.
"...Madness. Everyone's mad." Lestrade pinched his temple, as if his head was splitting.
"So, what should we do? Just leave him be?"
"No idea," Russell shrugged. "That's a legal matter."
Lestrade turned to Charlotte.
"I'm not a lawyer. If you want a legal opinion, try calling Mycroft," Charlotte flatly refused to get involved.
"Alright." Lestrade sighed. "Well, at least the case is closed." He hesitated, then looked at Russell with genuine gratitude. "Thank you, Mr. Watson. Your explanation was… very helpful."
"You're welcome. Think of it as compensation."
"Compensation?"
"Don't worry about it." Russell smiled innocently.
Lestrade shook his head, trying to clear his mind of all this talk of art and madness. From his trenchcoat he took out a flat, silver flask, unscrewed the cap, and took a long swig.
The burning whiskey gave him the courage to face this absurd world.
"In any case, thank you. Leave everything else to Scotland Yard."
And with a mixture of shock and relief, Lestrade left 221B Baker Street.
Once again, only Russell and Charlotte remained in the room.
After basking for a moment in a sense of accomplishment, Russell felt a wave of exhaustion crash over him. Dealing with these geniuses was utterly draining. All he wanted now was to collapse on his bed and catch up on the sleep he'd missed.
"Well, that's it, problem solved." Russell yawned, heading toward the door. "I'll get out of your hair, Holmes."
Charlotte didn't stop him. When Russell left, she picked up the violin from the sofa and began to play.
Yet, for once, the melody didn't sound so grating.
…