Stop trying to control me, Miss Moriarty!

Chapter 30 The Man with the Crooked Lips

Tsk.

Erin pursed her lips.

He was already very restrained; he just pursed his lips.

Just twenty seconds earlier, Neville St. Clair struggled to wake up from his coma and immediately saw his wife by the bedside, her eyes red and her hair disheveled.

Suddenly, the man, who had been on the verge of death not long ago, seemed to be healed by some mysterious force. Completely ignoring the dozens of wounds on his body that had not yet healed, he almost sprang up, opened his arms, and tightly embraced his wife.

What followed was a long, passionate French kiss.

Mrs. St. Clare was initially hesitant because there were other people present, but when her husband's longed-for face was so close, her hand betrayed reason and climbed up the back of his neck.

In short, what a cheesy couple!

Erin looked away from the couple.

Watson very politely shifted his gaze to the window, feigning a keen academic interest in London's gray sky.

Mister Ludwig blushed slightly, her eyes wide as if she were studying alchemy, staring intently at the couple who were passionately kissing.

Holmes's expression remained unchanged; her lake-blue eyes calmly recorded the scene.

Charlotte noticed Erin's gaze and turned her head: "Adler, what is the significance of humans engaging in such behavior during courtship?"

"……I don't know either."

As expected of Sherlock Holmes, he can completely dissipate the romantic atmosphere with just one sentence.

Finally, perhaps due to insufficient lung capacity, the St. Clairs parted ways with reluctance.

The two took a deep breath at the same time, their eyes locked again, and the second round was about to begin...

"Cough cough—"

Erin quickly coughed twice to remind them that there were still people there.

Mrs. St. Clare regained her senses and took two steps back as if burned. The blush on her face quickly spread from her cheekbones to her ears, and even her neck was tinged with a thin layer of red.

She lowered her head, her hands flailing as if unsure where to put them, before finally clutching the lace trim of her inner lining.

Neville seemed to wake up from a dream, blinked, and began to truly look around.

His gaze swept over the hospital bed, the pure white ceiling and walls, and the glass IV drip hanging beside it, finally settling on his own body wrapped in bandages.

"This...this is a hospital?" His voice was hoarse, filled with joy and disbelief. "I'm not in that damned..."

Realizing his wife was there, he quickly changed direction, saying, "Honey, what am I doing here?"

"My dear," Mrs. St. Clair wiped away her tears, "you were swept downstream by the river, and it was these four ladies and gentlemen who saved you."

"what?"

Neville was confused and didn't understand what his wife was saying at all.

He could only follow his wife's gesture and look at the other four people in the room.

"Oh my God!" he exclaimed.

"You're Miss Holmes! And Miss Watson! No wonder, no wonder you were able to pull me out of that..."

He excitedly propped himself up, but this aggravated his wounds.

"hiss--"

The expression of gratitude on his face instantly turned into pain.

"Darling! The doctor said you can't move around too much!" Mrs. St. Clair immediately stepped forward and carefully pressed her husband back onto the bed.

Neville grimaced for over ten seconds before recovering from the excruciating pain.

He turned his gaze to the last two, his eyes widening as if they were about to pop out of their sockets.

WTF?!

He didn't recognize the pink-haired little girl, but wasn't that silver-haired Erin Adler? How could he be with Sherlock Holmes?

He began to doubt whether he was dreaming.

"Mr. St. Clair, we are Miss Holmes's temporary assistants," Erin explained, noticing his confusion.

He then stepped forward: "We have a few more questions that we need to verify with you."

Neville was prepared for this. He glanced at his wife and gently raised his hand.

Mrs. St. Clare immediately grasped his hand in return.

"Darling," he said gently, "would you mind stepping out for a moment? There are some things I need to discuss with these gentlemen and ladies privately."

Mrs. St. Clair nodded, leaned down and gently kissed her husband's forehead, then quietly left the ward.

Tsk.

Erin was speechless.

You two, that's enough!

Neville stared at the closed door and remained silent for a while.

"Thank you so much, four people! Not only did you rescue me from prison, but you also kept that shameful and stupid thing from my wife and children."

"Mr. St. Clair, I appreciate your thanks. Now, can we get to the point? The cause and course of this incident, and the secrets you've learned."

Charlotte urged impatiently, her eyes sparkling with a captivating light.

"good…"

Neville organized his thoughts a little.

"...It all started five years ago." His voice was low, as if carrying the weight of memories.

—This case is indeed very different from the original story that Erin knew.

Hugh Boone is a real person; I met him five years ago at a swimming club in St. Clair.

The two were about the same height and had surprisingly similar hobbies, so they gradually became acquainted and would occasionally go to a bar after get off work for a couple of beers to chat about work and women.

Later, Hugh saved a boy.

It wasn't some earth-shattering heroic deed; it was just that one evening on my way home, I saw three thugs surrounding a child who looked to be about ten years old. So I rushed over and unfortunately got slashed in the face, with a deep cut that exposed the bone from my left eye socket to my upper lip.

He spent two weeks in the hospital, suffering permanent damage to his nasal cavity, and was never able to swim again.

But he also benefited from the misfortune and got a brand new job.

The boy's father was the casino manager of the Golden Bird Pavilion. To repay a debt of gratitude, he gave Hugh a job as a croupier, with a weekly wage of twenty pounds, more than ten times that of a postman.

Erin did some mental calculations.

This weekly wage is enough to cover a middle-class London family's living expenses for a whole month, including rent.

This is a job that doesn't require much professional skill; all you need to do is deal cards and smile.

A job that can make anyone pick up any vice.

The same is true.

At first, Hugh would just have a couple of drinks with familiar gamblers after get off work. Later, it was those stimulant powders, and then the drugs that made him feel dizzy and confused.

St. Claire advised him, more than once.

The two even argued and fell silent in Hugh's increasingly messy apartment, finally patting each other on the shoulder and sighing.

Hugh just smiled and said, "It's okay, Nev, I can handle it. That's just how the job is; I have to socialize too."

Until one month ago, St. Clair was in dire straits because of a guaranteed debt of twenty-five pounds.

He endorsed a bill for a friend, but when the bill matured, his friend disappeared, and the creditors went directly to the newspaper office where he worked.

He remembered that Hugh could earn twenty pounds a week, so he went to the apartment to talk to him.

I knocked on the door, but no one answered.

I knocked again, but still no one answered.

He knew that Hugh habitually hid his spare key in a small mechanism inside the shoe rack.

After opening the door, he saw Hugh lying on the sofa with a peaceful expression, even a slight smile. There were three used syringes on the floor.

"My God, I was like that..."

Neville's voice choked, and he swallowed hard. "I made a huge mistake."

"I didn't call the police or notify anyone. I just looked at Hugh's face, at that face split in two by scars, yet still smiling, and then a thought popped into my head."

Twenty-five pounds.

He owes twenty-five pounds.

Hugh's weekly wage is twenty pounds.

if--

"I found the dealer's uniform at his house, bought shaping cream to disguise the scars, and other cosmetics. Then I spent over an hour in front of the mirror, making myself look exactly like him. But I didn't know Hugh's social connections, and I couldn't do my makeup at home, so I came up with this idea: to go to the Goldfinch Pavilion looking like myself, then disguise myself as Hugh and go back downstairs through the window..."

"When I first walked into Goldfinch Garden with Hugh's face, I was trembling all over, thinking that I would be recognized the next second, pinned to the ground, and taken to the police station. But the doorman just nodded at me and called me 'Mr. Boone.' The gamblers waved at me and shouted, 'Hey, crooked mouth, how's your luck today?' I sat at that card table, dealt cards all night, and got a three-pound tip."

A week later, he paid off his debts and resigned from his job at the Shipping Gazette.

Two weeks later, he was already able to mimic Hugh Boone's face, skillfully smiling, dealing cards, collecting tips, and even learning how to subtly ingratiate himself with wealthy gamblers at the poker table.

By the third week, he had completely gotten used to his identity as Hugh, and would start having a few drinks with gamblers or colleagues after get off work.

"That's a den of demons!" Neville covered his face. "It's not because you'll die if you go in. It's because once you're inside, you find that living is easy, and happiness is simple, so you never want to come out again."

Until last Thursday.

That day, as Neville was about to enter the Goldfinch Pavilion, his wife happened to pass by, and he instinctively ran away.

In that instant, his love for his wife brought him to his senses. He realized that if he continued like this, he would eventually succumb to temptation and follow in Hugh's footsteps.

He decided to resign.

That evening, he went to the casino manager to prepare to submit his resignation.

The office door was open, and just as he was about to enter, he heard people talking.

"Goods", "Transportation", "Buyer".

"Young age" and "high price".

"Rare", "subhuman".

The meaning behind these words is self-evident.

Perhaps he bumped into something, or perhaps his heart was beating too fast, Neville couldn't remember exactly what happened.

In short, the conversation inside came to an abrupt end, clearly indicating that he had been discovered.

He ran away.

However, the gates of Jinque Pavilion were sealed off, and all those entering and leaving were subject to inspection.

He remembered the room on the third floor and rushed up. In his haste, he cut his hand on the window. He ran all the way to the riverbank, jumped into the Thames, and escaped.

“Their men were searching the streets, and I hid for three days.” Neville’s voice trembled violently as he recounted the experience. “Until yesterday morning, I finally found an opportunity. I first sent a letter to my wife, and then ran to the nearest Surrey police station to file a report.”

Erin and the others already knew what happened next.

"Well, that's the end of it," he said. "If you don't want your wife and children to be hurt because of this, from today onwards, there is no such person as Hugh Boone."

"I swear to the Lord!" Neville raised his right hand. "He will never appear again!"

"As for the human trafficking in Jinqueting," Erin said, "you don't need to worry, we will find a way to notify the police."

"...I am extremely grateful." Neville seemed to have finally unloaded a huge burden.

He repeated, "Really, I'm extremely grateful."

The matter has been resolved satisfactorily, and Erin has no reason to linger any longer.

"The three of you, I'll take my leave now."

Mistilts said "Oh, goodbye," Holmes nodded slightly, and Watson simply ignored him.

As he stepped into the corridor filled with the smell of disinfectant, the calm on his face vanished, replaced by a somber expression.

Human trafficking.

Still a child.

He recalled the historical materials he had read for the sake of this game.

In late 19th-century Britain, tens of thousands of children went missing every year.

Some were sold into factories as child laborers, working sixteen hours a day, and receiving no compensation even when their fingers were severed by machines; others were sold into brothels, where they learned how to please adults before they could even learn to read and write.

Some simply went into dark, windowless basements, and died the next time they saw the sky.

What was it said again?

I remembered

—"Characteristics of the Victorian Era" and "The Growing Pains of Social Transition"

Labor pains.

Yes, contractions.

The historical Jack the Ripper killed five prostitutes, causing fear throughout London.

The tragic lives of tens of thousands, even hundreds of thousands of children can only be left behind by this one word.

He stopped in his tracks.

As evening approached, the fog in London thickened again, severely reducing visibility.

But what's amazing is that the huge chimneys of several metal refineries in the distance are clearly visible, endlessly spewing exhaust fumes into the sky.

Erin looked down at the shadow cast by the magic lamp at her feet.

He unexpectedly found himself to be a suitable accomplice, as a trip outside the house could provide Moriarty with some amusement.

He raised his right hand, ready to send a message.

"Adler, where are you going?"

An unexpected, yet perhaps predictable, voice rang out from behind him.