Had Charlotte discovered the truth through some inhuman power of observation?
A dusting of magnesium ash too fine for the naked eye on his cuff, perhaps?
Lucian could feel the tremor returning—an aftershock of last night's Retinal Fraud side effect.
The spoon in his tray tapped against the porcelain with a bright, humiliating clink that sounded even louder in the sudden silence.
Charlotte walked straight up to him.
Too close.
Close enough that Lucian could smell the girl—lemon-candy sweetness mixed with the cold bite of chemical reagents.
She didn't speak at once. Instead, she circled him once, nostrils flaring ever so slightly like an animal scenting prey.
"Literature faculty?" she asked.
"Yes," Lucian answered. "Lucian Grey. Good morning, Miss Holmes."
He lowered his voice, sanding it down into something as ordinary as possible.
"Good morning? It's twelve fourteen," Charlotte said flatly. "That greeting suggests your circadian rhythm is in a state of extreme disorder."
Then, without warning, she seized Lucian's left wrist—the one holding the tray—and yanked it up for everyone to see.
"Thick ink staining along the side of your middle finger. A writer's callus on the index knuckle. The cheap ink smell on your cuff that won't wash out. And that glassy stare—born from staying up late indulging unrealistic fantasies…"
Charlotte leaned closer. So close Lucian could hear her breathing.
He could even see himself reflected in those blue-green pupils.
"You write novels. And not good ones—a third-rate hack who survives by feeding vulgar magazines incoherent 'detective' rubbish dressed in sensational titles to trick housewives into tears. Correct?"
Lucian blinked.
That, unfortunately, was true.
The editor at The Strand did, in fact, call his manuscripts trash.
But this level of deduction, for Holmes, was merely stretching before exercise.
"But what matters most," Charlotte continued, releasing his wrist and pointing downward, "is your shoes."
She indicated Lucian's worn leather shoes, speckled with mud.
"In the seams of the soles there's chalky soil unique to Hampstead Heath. You tried to clean it, but when that sticky earth dries, it leaves a distinctive gray-white granularity. After last night's freezing rain, only that district in London would produce this exact texture."
Shoes.
After leaving Mary's place last night, he had cut along the edge of the heath to avoid the cordons.
He should have borrowed Henry's boots.
"And finally," Charlotte said, stepping in again, "your scent."
Her nose nearly touched his collar.
"It's faint—buried under this atrocious fried-fish stench—but I can still smell sulphur, potassium perchlorate, and the aftertaste of some metallic oxide. Like coal ash that didn't fully burn in a hearth… or magnesium powder combusted on Regent Street last night."
"Once metal dust that fine touches the oils secreted by human skin, it seeps into the grooves of your fingerprints. No amount of scrubbing will remove it completely within seventy-two hours."
Hampstead soil.
Chemical residue.
Two lines of evidence overlapped neatly—enough to make the man in front of her a plausible suspect for Phantom Thief Moriarty.
Around them, students whispered, astonished.
"My God… the novelist… could he be—"
"Is Miss Holmes suspecting him?"
Charlotte lifted her head and stared straight into Lucian's eyes, patiently waiting for her prey's reaction.
At that knife-edge moment—
Lucian didn't argue.
He didn't run.
He simply let the hand that was already shaking from the side effect… shake even harder.
He amplified the tremor deliberately.
Clatter—crash!
In a performance of "overwhelming terror" and "physical collapse," the spoonful of green pea mush spilled out of control—
And splattered directly onto Charlotte's black knee-high boot.
"I'm sorry!"
Lucian's face went pale. He reached to wipe it, but his shaking was so severe he nearly flipped the whole tray onto her.
"I didn't mean to—Miss Holmes, I only… I only went there to help carry—"
Charlotte snapped back a step, dodging the second contamination. Her brows knit tight.
She looked at the stain on her boot, then locked onto Lucian's hand—trembling at an absurdly high frequency.
The keen light in her eyes flickered… then dimmed rapidly.
Those tremors were too real.
That kind of high-frequency muscular vibration couldn't be faked. It wasn't just fatigue; it was classic severe hypoglycemia—paired with neural weakness from long-term malnutrition.
The phantom thief from last night couldn't be like this.
That "Moriarty" had executed triangular leaps within 0.1 seconds and moved across a thirty-meter height as if on level ground. That required high-density muscle fibers, perfect neuromuscular control, and elite balance.
He would have to be someone well-fed, ruthlessly disciplined—possibly even military-trained.
And this man…
His cerebellar balance was poor.
Just standing here required constant micro-adjustments in his thighs to keep his center of gravity. The posture screamed of chronic poverty, irregular meals, and overwork.
If you forced him to do last night's level of parkour, he'd probably black out mid-jump from insufficient glucose supply.
As for the chemical smell and the soil—
Charlotte's conclusion arrived with a click.
"You went to help the chemistry department dispose of experimental waste," she said coldly. "For a few pennies."
In Victorian London, poor literati risking their lives for scraps of living money were as common as sewer rats—hauling chemical refuse for rent, wallowing in the heath for "field research" to write novels.
It fit the brutal logic of the city's lower strata perfectly.
Charlotte had seen plenty on Montague Street.
"Yes," Lucian said, head lowered. "If I don't do that, I can't pay rent. And I truly didn't mean to dirty your boot. I can pay for cleaning—"
"Goldfish."
Charlotte spoke the word with casual contempt.
A creature with no memory, no intelligence—empty-headed, blowing bubbles, easily frightened.
And, for Charlotte Holmes, the highest compliment she ever gave to ordinary mortals.
"What?" Lucian asked.
"I said you're a goldfish." Charlotte pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, wiped the pea stain from her boot, then tossed the cloth into the nearby grass without a second thought.
"Since you're writing novels, spend more money on food. The way your tray hand trembles—like a hundred-year-old with Parkinson's—means your hypoglycemia is already affecting your cerebellum."
She put the half-finished lollipop back between her lips and started toward the lecture building, leaving only a silver-haired, arrogant back view.
"Stop risking your life carrying materials for those chemistry goldfish. Stop wallowing in mud on the heath for your so-called 'research.' With that time, read more logic. Maybe your third-rate stories will sell for two more pennies."
A boring, bookish goldfish, crushed by life.
That was Miss Holmes's verdict on Mr. Lucian Grey.
Congratulations.
In that moment, poverty and weakness became Lucian's most perfect disguise.
Because in London, men like him were everywhere—rats in the gutter, worthless, not worth suspecting.
"Um… thank you for the advice, Miss Holmes. I'll remember it," he said to the back that was already disappearing.
He bowed deeply.
Humble. Grateful. Without a trace of pride.
The correct reaction for an ordinary man wrongly suspected and then cleared—
Not what an actual culprit would do.
After all, Holmes's observation was infamous. The slightest arrogance could revive suspicion from dead ashes.
Only when the silver figure vanished entirely into the far end of the corridor did Lucian finally hear two students whisper behind him.
"Hey, did you hear? Miss Holmes only came here because she lost a bet with her brother."
"A bet? About what?"
"They say she bet she could catch Moriarty within three days. She failed last night, so her brother—Mr. Mycroft—stripped her privileges and ordered her back to school to 'experience life' for three months. No wonder she's so irritable today—she snaps at everyone…"
So that was it.
Lucian adjusted his glasses, the corner of his mouth lifting in an angle no one could see.
No wonder the young lady had appeared on campus so suddenly—and vented that much fury at a stranger.
After all, the culprit who caused her this humiliation—forcing her to mix with "goldfish" at school—
Had been standing right in front of her.
And she had personally judged him harmless.
Lucian carried his half-cold fried fish and vanished into the bustling noon crowd of students.
As for those claims about sexual repression, maternal deprivation, and never holding a woman's hand—
Miss Holmes was right about all of it.
She was the sharpest mind in London, after all.
It was just that sometimes…
Even the smartest people trip over their own intelligence.
-------
My : pat*eon*com/RuneA
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