"Madman... he's a madman through and through!" Henry cursed with abandon, yet the grin splitting his face was one of pure, unhinged elation. "But... he's also a genius! A marketing genius!!"
He snapped his head up, those ravenous, wolf-hungry eyes locking back onto Russell.
"Is that all? He said nothing else?"
"Nothing else, sir." Russell shook his head, his expression the very portrait of harmless, guileless sincerity.
"I really must be going."
"Wait!" Henry's hand shot out and clamped down on his shoulder with a grip that could have crushed bone. "Will you be seeing him again over the next few days? If — I mean, if he has any new instructions, you must come to me first. We can discuss the price!"
"I couldn't say, sir. He came to me, after all — not the other way around." Russell unhurriedly lifted Henry's hand from his shoulder and set it aside.
"And now I really do need to leave. I have several more letters to deliver."
"What do you mean?" Henry blinked. "Isn't this letter for The Times?"
"Evidently not," Russell said, shaking his head — and then drew a dozen identical envelopes from his pocket.
"I — I'll buy them all. Every single one. A hundred pounds each — no, two hundred. I'll take the lot!"
Henry blurted this out and spun on his heel, already calling out for someone to raise the funds. But Russell cut him off before he could get a word in.
"I'm afraid not, Mr. Henry. No matter what you offer, these aren't for sale."
"Why not?" Henry wheeled around, staring at him. "You want money — I'm offering you money."
"Mr. Moriarty feels that one ought to give other newspapers a chance now and then," Russell said, his expression perfectly earnest. "Those are his wishes."
The moment those words landed, the feverish excitement on Henry's face froze solid.
He looked at Russell. He looked at the dozen identical envelopes in his hands. He looked at the genuine, open smile on Russell's face. His mind raced.
Moriarty's wishes?
What on earth was that madman trying to do?
An exclusive performance published solely in The Times would have been seismic enough to make all of London take notice. And yet he had chosen to let every paper on Fleet Street sound the alarm at once.
He didn't want a solo. He wanted a chorus — one that would sweep the entire city.
Henry could already picture it: tomorrow morning, as London's citizens plucked their papers from the hands of paperboys, what sight would greet them. Whether The Times or The Guardian, whether the Daily Telegraph or the Morning Post — every front page, every headline, carrying the same advance notice from the Phantom Thief.
This was no longer a simple headline.
This was an unprecedented, city-wide proclamation — directed and staged by Moriarty himself.
"Damn it..." Henry swore under his breath. The fist he'd clenched slowly opened again.
He understood now.
What Moriarty wanted was not a sales spike for any single paper. What he wanted was panic and anticipation — across the whole of London. He wanted every soul living in this city, regardless of class or station, to become an audience member in his grand performance.
[Henry Scott, consumed by fierce frustration and fury at losing the exclusive. Malice Points +50]
"Very well," Henry said at last, drawing a long breath, forcing down his resentment, and arranging his face into a smile that looked worse than a grimace. "Since these are Mr. Moriarty's wishes, we will naturally comply."
He paused, then continued: "If... if Mr. Moriarty has any new developments, I hope you'll think of The Times first."
"I'll keep it in mind," Russell said.
"A pleasure doing business, Mr. Henry."
With that, he gave Henry no further opportunity to detain him, turned, and walked out through the doors of The Times. His figure dissolved quickly into the perpetual blaze of lights along Fleet Street.
Henry Scott stood where he was, watching the direction in which Russell had vanished, and did not move for a long while.
His mind was running at full tilt.
He had spent half his life scrapping his way through Fleet Street, and he understood the subtext of Russell's words almost instantly.
Lloyds Bank had lied.
And The Times had been turned into the Bank's mouthpiece — an instrument for deceiving the public. An accomplice.
"Damn it," Henry ground out through clenched teeth.
"Editor-in-Chief?"
"Everyone," Henry snapped, spinning around. In those bloodshot eyes, the feral, newsman's fire had reignited in full. "Drop every story you have. Reset the type! Largest font we've got. I want all of London to know — something big is coming!"
After leaving The Times, Russell didn't linger. He made his way along Fleet Street at a steady pace, an indefatigable creature of the night, calling one by one upon every newspaper office still burning bright.
The Guardian's editor-in-chief was a man named Edgar — younger than Henry, and considerably more ambitious.
Upon reading the letter's contents, his first reaction was to demand to know why Russell hadn't sold the exclusive to them instead.
To this, Russell replied in a tone of mild provocation: "Mr. Moriarty believes one shouldn't put all one's eggs in the same basket. And besides, he's rather curious to see — whether The Times has the louder voice, or whether The Guardian has the sharper pen."
Those words ignited Edgar's competitive instincts on the spot.
He agreed to the terms immediately, paid the hundred-pound information fee, and threw in an extra fifty pounds as a consultation fee — hoping Russell might let slip some detail about Moriarty that differed from whatever he'd told The Times.
Russell accepted this with a gracious smile, then satisfied him with a few carefully ambiguous remarks that said everything and nothing.
What followed was more of the same.
Russell moved like a midnight postman — except the deliveries he made were not blessings but tickets.
At every paper, without exception, the moment the letter's authenticity was confirmed, the same feverish mania took hold — identical in kind to what had seized Henry and Edgar.
They all knew it: a news storm the likes of which London had never seen was about to descend on the city, and every one of them was both witness and engine driving it forward.
By the time Russell delivered the last letter and stepped out of the Morning Post building, the cash in his pocket had grown from its initial hundred pounds into a rather handsome sum.
He glanced at the hands of Big Ben in the distance. It was nearly midnight.
The streets had grown sparse. Only the heavy-laden carts still moved through the night, their wheels grinding out a monotonous rhythm against the cobblestones.
Russell turned up the collar of his jacket against the cold night air, tucked his hands in his pockets, and made his unhurried way in the direction of Baker Street.
Tonight was only the beginning.
He could hardly wait to read the morning papers.
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