1:00 a.m., the meeting room.
Charlotte sat with a lollipop between her lips, flipping through the dispensary's access logs.
"Digitalis glycoside," she said flatly. "It was in both Craig's teacup and his mint tin—double dosing. The killer wanted absolute certainty."
Beside her, Lestrade frowned. "Anyone who can get their hands on that kind of drug…"
"The dispensary records show seven people entered and exited in the past week," Charlotte cut in, eyes on the paper. "Three professors, two graduate researchers, two on-duty students. Miss Morstan—your name is on that list."
Mary's shoulders stiffened.
"I only went to collect lab consumables…"
"I didn't say you were the murderer," Charlotte replied without looking up. "I'm stating a fact."
Lucian kept his head down and took notes. His wrist was steady, his handwriting neat.
Should he speak up for Mary?
Too risky.
They'd only met last night—jumping to defend her now would immediately draw Charlotte's suspicion.
But Lucian wasn't really a goldfish.
"Um… Miss Holmes." He raised a hand timidly. "May I ask a question? Purely for the sake of recording—if I write this clearly, it'll feel more 'real' to the readers."
Charlotte glanced at him.
"Ask."
"Miss Morstan only returned to school and enrolled yesterday, right?" Lucian scratched his head, looking genuinely confused. "She probably doesn't even know Professor Craig. If I were writing this as a story, readers would ask: what's the suspect's motive? I don't know how to explain that…"
It was a sufficiently stupid question.
And yet it hit the key point perfectly.
The corner of Charlotte's mouth lifted.
"A goldfish used its brain for once—but you missed something," she said lightly. "Poisoning can be prepared in advance. Miss Morstan submitted her re-enrollment application two weeks ago. That's more than enough time."
Lucian put on an expression of sudden enlightenment and hurriedly scribbled in his notebook.
"So that's how it is… Miss Holmes is incredible. I never would've thought of that detail."
Mary bit her lower lip.
"I really don't know anything…"
Charlotte ignored her and pulled out a sheet of paper.
"Found in Craig's desk drawer."
Lestrade leaned in. "What does it say?"
"No signature," Charlotte said. "Just one line: 'She's dead—did you know?' The paper is a prescription sheet from the medical faculty. The ink is a brand discontinued three years ago."
"'She'?" Lestrade echoed.
"If someone has ink from three years ago, it suggests they were already in the medical faculty back then." Charlotte flipped open another file. "In Craig's complaint records, three years ago there was a teaching assistant named Edwin Pratt. He accused Craig of plagiarizing his paper. The appeal was rejected, and he resigned. The file note says that shortly after Pratt resigned, his wife died of illness."
Lestrade frowned harder. "He's been gone three years. How would he poison him now?"
"Gatehouse logs," Charlotte answered, "show that in the last two weeks he's been frequently entering and leaving the medical faculty using an alumni visitor pass—always at dusk. Exactly when Craig drank tea alone."
"Time, motive, and opportunity all match," she concluded.
"But there's still one question," Lestrade muttered. "He waited three years—why act now?"
"That's why we go to his residence and ask." Charlotte grabbed her coat, then looked at Lucian and Mary. "You two are coming."
Mary froze. "Me? But I—"
"You're still one of the suspects," Charlotte said, voice indifferent. "Until this case is over, I want you where I can see you."
Lestrade hesitated. "Miss Holmes, the East End isn't very safe at this hour. Should I send a few men with you?"
"No need." Charlotte's gaze flicked across Lucian. "My Bartitsu is enough to handle ten goldfish like him—let alone one and a half."
Lucian shrank his neck and muttered under his breath, "How do you even calculate 'half'…"
"One for you, you money-grubbing goldfish," Charlotte said without turning around. "Half for Miss Morstan. Move."
…
The carriage rattled along London's midnight streets.
The cabin was cramped. Gaslight filtered through the windows, casting wavering shadows across each face.
"Goldfish," Charlotte said suddenly, eyes still closed.
"Yes?" Lucian beamed, flattered beyond measure.
"That question you asked earlier wasn't bad," she continued.
Lucian's smile brightened further. "Really? Thank you, Miss Holmes! I was just thinking—if I can write your reasoning process clearly, readers will definitely—"
"But next time you want to speak up for someone," Charlotte cut him off, "improve your acting. When you asked that question, your eyes kept drifting toward Miss Morstan."
Lucian's smile froze solid.
"That's because… because I was thinking about how to describe her expression while being suspected…" he stammered. "Writers have to observe details…"
"Is that so?" Charlotte's tone gave nothing away. "Then what did you observe?"
"Uh…" Lucian scratched his head. "Nervousness? Fear? And… a bit of grievance?"
"Not bad. At least your eyes still function." Charlotte leaned back. "But don't bother hiding that little scheme in front of me. You met her yesterday and today you're already rushing to help her—either you're blinded by a pretty face, or you're stupid. I choose to believe you're just stupid. After all, you can even give yourself a stomachache from lunch."
That was an act! Lucian screamed internally.
…Though the fried fish at noon really had been questionable.
Wait—wrong focus.
The carriage continued to jolt.
Lucian glanced at Mary.
She was sitting with her head lowered, hands twisted together, shoulders trembling faintly.
Charlotte's suspicion wasn't necessarily bad news for Lucian.
But for Mary, it absolutely was.
"Miss Morstan," Lucian said softly, "don't worry too much. Pratt's suspicion is stronger. Once we meet him, everything should become clear."
Mary looked up. Her eyes were slightly red, but she still forced out a small smile.
"Thank you, Senior Grey."
Charlotte interjected blandly, "Can the two of you stop acting out this cheap little warmth play in front of me? My lollipop is getting sickeningly sweet. One suspect, one witness, comforting each other—looks like accomplices. Of course, two goldfish huddling for warmth is also normal."
Lucian shut his mouth in embarrassment—then stole a glance at the lollipop in Charlotte's mouth.
Strawberry.
One of the sweetest flavors in all of London.
So who, exactly, was making whom sick with sweetness?
The carriage stopped.
At the edge of London's East End, the air was thick with coal smoke and the stench of sewers.
"Miss Holmes…" Mary's voice trembled. "This place is frightening."
"If you're scared, wait in the carriage."
"No," Mary said, swallowing. "I'll follow you."
Lucian stepped down and—without thinking—positioned himself at Mary's side to block the alley's cold wind.
Charlotte glanced at him, saying nothing.
The three entered an apartment building.
Pratt lived on the third floor.
The staircase was old and poorly maintained; every step groaned with a long, wooden squeal.
The corridor was piled with clutter. Plaster peeled from the walls.
Mary covered her nose and slowed.
"Are you okay?" Lucian asked quietly.
"I'm fine… just a little afraid."
"Stay close to Miss Holmes," Lucian said. "She said her Bartitsu can beat ten of me. That sounds impressive."
Mary couldn't help laughing once.
"Senior Grey, you're really good at comforting people."
"Am I? I'm just telling the truth."
Charlotte spoke coldly from ahead. "Can you two hurry up? I don't have time to wait for goldfish chatting."
"We're coming, we're coming."
The door wasn't locked.
Charlotte pushed it open and stepped inside.
-------
My : pat*eon*com/RuneA
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