The lecture dragged on to its close amid a fog of dry theory and tedious calculations.
The moment the bell rang — that blessed sound of liberation — Russell's head came up almost before the last note had faded, every trace of sleep gone from his eyes.
He took the notebook Mary slid across to him with brisk efficiency, slung his satchel over one shoulder, and stood.
"Let's go," he said.
They walked out of the lecture hall side by side. The last of the evening sun spilled across the open ground in front of the building, laying a long carpet of gold across the pavement.
They talked in the easy, unhurried way of people with nowhere urgent to be, and before long arrived at the fork in the path where the building's front walk split in two.
"Right, then. See you tomorrow." Russell came to a stop.
"See you tomorrow." Mary stopped as well. She looked at him — the low sun stretched her shadow out long behind her, nearly long enough to fold over his.
"Don't forget Saturday," she added quietly.
"As if I could," Russell said, with a small smile. "I might forget when the finals are, but I will never forget Afternoon tea."
That answer seemed to satisfy her entirely. She turned and headed off in the direction of the dormitories.
When Russell pushed open the door of 221B Baker Street, a rich wave of tobacco smoke and coffee hit him square in the face.
He followed the smell and found Charlotte standing before the information wall.
She had a coffee cup in one hand and a long, slender pointer in the other, tapping at the enormous map of London as she muttered to herself. The fire in the hearth was burning well, throwing her focused profile into shifting light and shadow.
"Progress?" Russell came to stand beside her, eyes sweeping over the map, which by now had been reduced to a bewildering tangle of coloured threads and sticky notes.
"Lestrade sent over a pile of rubbish," Charlotte said, setting down the pointer and taking a sip of coffee, her tone carrying zero effort to conceal her contempt.
"Better than nothing, though."
"Did he find Billson?"
"No." Charlotte shook her head.
"He only managed to track down the last few places Billson had been staying, and wrung some descriptions of his appearance out of the landlords."
She tapped the pointer against a pencil sketch pinned to the wall.
It was a face with distinctly Eastern European features — prominent cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and a gaze that carried something cold and predatory.
"A wanted notice has already gone out. Every constable in London is looking for him now."
"What about Charles?" Russell asked.
"Still locked in the asylum, still repeating the same nonsense." Charlotte clicked her tongue, impatient.
"So — no progress whatsoever." Russell poured himself a coffee.
"We don't even know if Billson is alive or dead. What if the Professor's already had him silenced?"
"Then we'd just have to chalk it up to bad luck," Charlotte said. "And pray Charles recovers his wits sooner rather than later. Lestrade is half out of his mind as it is."
"What's wrong with him now?"
"Scotland Yard's telephone has not stopped ringing since this morning." Charlotte took another sip of coffee, her voice rich with schadenfreude.
"Moriarty's little announcement has the aristocracy in a complete panic. They've been leaning on Lestrade non-stop — haul Moriarty in, or lean on the papers to stop giving his performance all this advance coverage and fanfare."
"Can Lestrade's arm really reach that far?" Russell raised an eyebrow.
"Obviously not," Charlotte said, "which is precisely why he's climbing the walls." She shrugged.
"On one hand, the business with the Professor cannot be made public — the panic it would cause doesn't bear thinking about. So as far as anyone out there is concerned, the Lloyds Bank affair is closed and done with, and the present nuisance is Moriarty.
"On the other hand, Lestrade can hardly be expected to abandon his investigation into the Professor just to deal with a thief. So..."
She left the sentence unfinished. Russell had already understood her meaning.
Since around midday, System notifications had been surfacing in his head in a steady stream — irritating enough that he'd simply muted them. Only now, while Charlotte was talking, had he found a moment to glance at them, and discovered that Lestrade had been generating quite a respectable quantity of Malice Points on his behalf.
"Right. I imagine Lestrade must absolutely loathe Moriarty at this point."
"Half of London loathes him," Charlotte said. "Lestrade's just one more name on a very long list."
She tossed the pointer onto the table and turned her gaze back to the information wall, as though she could stare the phantom known as the Professor into existence through sheer force of will.
Seeing that, Russell said nothing more.
Once Charlotte entered this state, she was like a woman possessed. Even Mrs. Hudson couldn't necessarily pull her attention away, let alone him.
Which was, frankly, a good thing. She had something to occupy her. She wouldn't be watching him.
After exchanging a few more words with Charlotte, Russell retreated to his own room.
When the sky had gone fully dark, he slipped out through the window and vanished into the night streets of Baker Street, the faint sound of a violin fading behind him.
Compared to the stately grandeur of Kensington District, the architecture of Mayfair ran considerably more modern.
This was London's highest tier of wealth — the beating heart of the social season.
Russell stood on the rooftop of one of its buildings, looking out across the whole of Mayfair.
Wherever his eye fell, there were only mansions. Not a scrap of the ordinary or the affordable had managed to find purchase here.
The police patrols on the streets below had visibly multiplied — a constable every hundred metres or so, and some of them accompanied by dogs.
The announcement letter had clearly made its mark.
"Yes. Exactly as it should be." Russell leaned against the railing, letting the night breeze wash over him, his tone entirely unbothered by the heightened security.
This was precisely what he had wanted to see.
The tighter the tension, the more weaknesses it exposed.
His gaze passed over the long rows of extravagant mansions and came to rest on a building a little way off — one that looked rather more commercial than residential.
To be precise, it wasn't a house at all. It was a club. A private club.
In Mayfair, such establishments were hardly unusual.
Entry was restricted to those with the proper credentials, and what went on inside was nobody's business but the members'.
On the surface, what the Romandy Club offered was unremarkable enough — billiards, drinks, food, entertainment. But more often than not, somewhere between the clink of glasses and the crack of a billiard ball dropping into the pocket, a deal would be quietly done and sealed.
That was the face beneath the first mask.
But a mask beneath a mask is not necessarily a true face. Sometimes it is only another mask.
Russell dropped from the rooftop, landing in the narrow gap between two buildings.
When he reappeared, the phantom thief's costume was gone.
In its place: a yellow high-visibility workman's vest, a battered old toolbox in one hand, and a folding ladder propped over his shoulder.
The most sophisticated infiltration, in the end, always comes down to the simplest disguise.
____
________________________________________
If you want more chapters, please consider supporting my page on (P). with 50 advanced chapters available on (P)
👻 Join the crew by searching Leanzin on (P). You know the spot! 😉