The furnishings inside the ward were very simple: a bed, a table, a chair, and a single window fitted with bars.
A faint smell of disinfectant hung in the air. Charles Brown sat on the edge of the bed, head lowered, his hands unconsciously pinching at the hem of his hospital gown.
At this moment he looked obviously far quieter than he had been in the interrogation room—far more normal, too.
Yet from those small fidgeting movements, one could still tell that he remained in a state of unease.
The instant he heard the door open, and the sound of Vanessa's voice, Charles immediately lifted his head and looked toward the doorway.
Perhaps because Vanessa's care over this period had taken effect, Charles showed no reaction of panic or fear.
He merely sat quietly on the edge of the bed, his gaze coming to rest on Vanessa, then sweeping in turn across every person present.
Charlotte, Lestrade… and last of all, Russell.
In the very instant Charles's eyes met Russell's, his body instinctively froze for a beat.
But very quickly, he returned to normal again.
"You… hello, all of you…" Charles's voice rose from behind the glass, sounding somewhat frail.
"Hello, Mr. Brown." Vanessa spoke, then slowly walked forward, at the same time signaling Charlotte and the others not to move just yet.
"The few people behind me are from Scotland Yard. They won't hurt you—they only have a few questions they'd like you to answer. Is that all right?"
"I… I understand." Charles nodded obediently, behaving like a child.
"Thank you for cooperating." Vanessa gave a gentle smile, then turned her head and nodded toward Charlotte.
"You may go ahead, Miss Holmes."
At these words, Charlotte stepped forward, stood beside Vanessa, looked at Charles across from her, and spoke:
"Hello, Mr. Brown. I've heard that you were once the finest firearms-repair specialist in the army, and a lock-picking expert as well."
Hearing this, a faint glimmer flashed through those clouded eyes of his, but it quickly dimmed away again.
"That's all… all in the past now." He lowered his head, his voice full of dejection.
"I have a tricky problem here, and I'd like to consult an expert." Sherlock paid no mind to his mood and simply went on speaking of her own accord.
"A riddle?" Charles raised his head, a trace of confusion appearing on his face.
"That's right," Charlotte nodded.
"Imagine there's a safe—Swiss-made, with a double-locking structure, and a six-digit code on the dial.
You must have seen plenty of these sorts of things before, haven't you?"
Charles said nothing, only nodded silently.
His breathing seemed to have grown a little steadier than it had been a moment ago.
"Now, here's the question." Sherlock's voice was unhurried, like a teacher patiently guiding a student along.
"I don't know the code, but I do know that these six digits have some special connection to the safe's owner.
It might be his birthday, it might be his wife's birthday, or it might be the number of his house.
In short, it's a string of digits that, to him, is one of a kind."
She paused, observing Charles's reaction.
He remained silent, yet those hands twisting at the hem of his gown had, at some unnoticed point, come to a stop.
"Now, if you were the one picking the lock, Charles, where would you begin trying?"
"...…" Charles fell silent.
He raised his head and looked at Charlotte, those clouded eyes brimming with regret.
"I… I don't do that anymore…" he said, trembling. "I'll never touch those things again…"
"I know, Charles, I won't make you touch those things," Charlotte soothed.
"This is just a hypothetical, understand? Merely a game."
"This… this isn't a hypothetical." Charles shook his head. "I know what lock you're talking about… I've seen it…"
He paused, and only then continued: "At Lloyds Bank."
At these words, Charlotte was somewhat taken aback; she turned her head and exchanged a glance with Russell.
Russell nodded, signaling her to keep pressing the questions, while quietly drawing out paper and pen.
"Then…" Charlotte drew a deep breath, withdrew everything she had originally been about to say, and rephrased:
"Whereabouts exactly in Lloyds Bank was it?"
"The underground storage room… they were everywhere there… all of them this kind of lock," Charles said.
"Mr. Billson had us go and open one of them at the time…"
"Which one?" Charlotte asked hurriedly.
"It was—" Charles stalled for a moment, a look of remembrance surfacing on his face.
"I… I can't quite remember…"
"It's all right, take your time," Charlotte said.
"The Professor drew up a flawless plan for you all, didn't he?
All you had to do was follow what was written in the plan, and everything would succeed.
Now think back—you had already, with the help of an inside man, successfully entered the underground storage room of Lloyds Bank, and taken down all of them, every last one of the security personnel.
So, what were you to do next?"
Charlotte's patiently coaxing voice echoed through the quiet ward, like an invisible thread drawing along Charles's fragile, muddled train of thought.
"Next… next we went to Section A." Charles's voice was very low, as if he were talking in his sleep.
"Where in Section A?"
"Section A-3. The Professor said in the letter that the target was there."
"Very good." Charlotte nodded slightly, while Russell, beside her, swiftly jotted down this number.
"And then?" Charlotte went on. "Did you find that safe?"
"Mm… there were a lot of doors there. Finding that safe… wasn't easy.
But the Professor… the Professor gave a number in the letter…"
"What number?"
"Twelve…" Charles murmured. "Billson said that safe was right behind vault number twelve."
"And then, you found it, didn't you?"
"Mm, we found it, and then started picking the lock."
Charles closed his eyes, as though he had returned once more to that night that had changed his whole life—a night filled with gunsmoke and terror.
"And after you picked the lock open?" Charlotte asked.
"After we picked the lock open, there were so many safes inside… we didn't know which one exactly, so we could only try them one by one…
We entered codes one after another, but it was always… always wrong. The Professor hadn't told us which safe it was, exactly."
"Did you know the code?"
"I did… Billson told me the code. He said I had the best memory."
"Yes, your memory is very good, Charles." Charlotte gave him affirming encouragement.
"So, that string of code—you must still remember it, don't you?"
"I… I remember it…" Charles's voice began to tremble, and the hand pinching the hem of his gown unconsciously tightened again.
"It's right… right there in my head… like a brand seared into it…"
"Tell me," Sherlock's voice softened further, gentler still.
"Tell me, Charles, that one-of-a-kind string of digits—what is it?"
Both Lestrade and Russell held their breath, their eyes fixed tightly on Charles's face, awaiting that all-important answer.
"It's… it's…"
Charles's lips quivered, fine beads of cold sweat seeping out at his temples, as if he were locked in a desperate, life-or-death struggle with some terrible memory in his mind.
His gaze slid away from Charlotte's face and began, unconsciously, to sweep all around—the ceiling, the walls, the glass, Vanessa, Lestrade… Russell.
In that instant, Charles's gaze seemed to freeze in place.
Then, those memories, like a bursting dam, came flooding over his brain.
Numbers, smoke, gunshots, and that face that was melting…
"He… he was right there…"
Charles's voice suddenly turned shrill, and into those eyes—calm enough until now—surged an uncontrollable terror.
"Right there in the smoke… watching me… he was smiling…!"
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