Stop trying to control me, Miss Moriarty!

Chapter 37 Intersection

earlier.

Surrey Police Station.

Brad Street sat behind his desk, his expression even more somber than the London skyline outside his window.

His collar was loose, his uniform was wrinkled, and his sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, revealing his wrists covered in blue veins. He lit who knows how many cigarettes he had ever smoked.

"Waltz, tell me, was I wrong?"

Two confessions lay spread out on the table, the ink not yet completely dry, emitting the distinctive stench of cheap ink.

During his time in the Whitechapel district, the mole within the police department was found: two veteran officers with over ten years of experience.

The reason they would collude with the scum of the Golden Bird Pavilion is simple: the other party would pay them twenty pounds a week, more than five times the basic weekly wage of three pounds for a first-class police officer.

Young officer Waltz stood ramrod straight across the desk. He immediately shook his head vigorously: "No, Chief! Please don't say that. They broke their oath!"

Brad Street's expression softened slightly.

He stood up, walked around the desk, stood in front of Waltz, and patted him on the shoulder: "Want to grab a couple of drinks after get off work? My treat..."

But then he remembered something else, and his slightly relaxed brows furrowed again instantly: "I forgot, not today."

Waltz knew exactly why.

He couldn't help but say, "Chief, the Ripper incident wasn't your fault or anyone else's. You have absolutely no responsibility for it."

The results of today's survey are the same as those of the previous four days.

Neither they nor anyone else gained anything.

"Jack the Ripper" seemed to blend into the fog; the wandering residents, the homeless hustlers in the alleys, the prostitutes and drunkards on the street—no one saw him. At most, a few thugs who were obviously there to scam money would come up and tell some outrageous false information.

"yes."

Brad Street sighed deeply: "But those vermin don't care about any of that."

His gaze drifted out the window; he could already see figures moving about and occasional flashes of light at the police station entrance, where reporters were already adjusting their spotlights.

"They only knew that this was a good opportunity, a great opportunity to greatly increase newspaper sales."

He glanced at the clock on the wall; the hour hand was about to reach the number VII.

It's almost seven o'clock, and the vultures' patience is almost worn out.

He turned his head: "Waltz, tell everyone to go home after get off work. Remember to use the back door. I'll deal with those bedbugs."

"But! You're all alone..." Waltz clearly wanted to say something more.

"You don't need to worry about me." Brad Street smiled, a smile that seemed somewhat incongruous on his fierce face.

"If you really dismiss me, there will be no one to do the work. At most, I'll just be fined a few months' salary. Besides, obeying orders is one of the basic qualities of a police officer!"

Waltz stared at him for a long time, then finally put his heels together and straightened his back.

"Yes, sir!"

He turned and strode out of the office.

Brad Street stood there, watching his subordinates leave one by one through the glass window via the back door.

Their figures disappeared into the night, like a flock of night herons scattered.

The entire police station was plunged into darkness as the last officer turned off the magic light switch with a soft "click".

Besides this office.

The lights here are still on, like a lonely lighthouse on an island.

He stretched, his joints cracking, and muttered to himself in the empty office, "Now, time to deal with those vultures. Hopefully, they won't eat me too clean."

Brad Street smiled bitterly.

What I just said to Waltz was just to comfort him.

He knew very well that even if he had done nothing wrong, public opinion would still spread through the newspapers, and when that time came, the three ministers would still be forced to dismiss him under pressure.

The position of police chief is coveted by many.

But it doesn't matter, he still has money for retirement.

He straightened his uniform in front of the mirror and retied his tie to make himself look less haggard.

I pushed open the office door and walked into the dark corridor.

The sound of shoes striking the ground echoed in the empty police station, like a lonely rhythm, giving him a momentary illusion of returning to the battlefield.

Walk through the corridor and push open the door—

Outside the door, flashes of light rained down like a storm.

He squinted and subconsciously raised his hand to cover his eyes.

Then he froze.

The expected bombardment did not materialize.

Because everyone's eyes and the flashlights were all focused on a petite girl.

Charlotte Holmes.

She stood motionless in the eye of the storm, unmoved by the flashing lights and cacophony of questions, only the hem of her coat swaying gently in the wind.

"I'm sorry, Chief." Charlotte removed her deerstalker hat, bowed slightly apologetically, and said in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, "I failed to fulfill your request to find the true identity of 'Jack the Ripper'."

The spotlight blazed, and a flood of questions returned.

"Miss Holmes! How long has your investigation lasted?"

Do you think the killer will strike again?

"What support did the Surrey Police Department provide in this investigation?"

……

Charlotte raised her hand: "Please be quiet! I will answer your questions one by one!"

Her actions and words instantly silenced all the noise.

"The investigation lasted three days. From the moment the first body was discovered, the Surrey police and I devoted all our efforts to it."

"As for whether the killer will strike again, that's not a question I can answer. But I can tell you that the Surrey Police Department has increased its presence in the Whitechapel area as much as possible and is determined to catch the Jack the Ripper you're talking about."

"Furthermore, Chief Brad Street established a special task force on the day of the incident, assembling twelve senior detectives. He himself didn't sleep for three consecutive days, personally leading the team to visit every corner of the crime scene. We should absolutely not criticize these dedicated gentlemen and ladies because of one criminal!"

……

Brad Street stood in the doorway and opened his mouth.

What is this little one saying? Why is she helping me?

He wanted to interrupt, to correct her, to tell the reporters "don't listen to her nonsense."

But I couldn't get a word in edgewise.

Charlotte's Q&A session with the reporter continued like a flowing stream, and she deftly deflected every tricky question.

During the conversation, she mentioned Brad Street's name no less than five times, each time accompanied by praise such as "dedicated," "hands-on," and "working tirelessly."

Finally, the last question was asked, and the last spotlight went out.

The reporters dispersed in twos and threes, their footsteps and chatter gradually fading into the night.

Charlotte only turned around again after the last reporter had disappeared from sight.

Her voice returned to its haughty indifference: "Director, it's over."

Brad Street looked at her with a complicated expression.

At this moment, the famous detective who had once made him grit his teeth and caused his blood pressure to spike countless times actually looked surprisingly pleasing to the eye under the streetlights.

Moreover, it must be said that she is quite cute.

How come we didn't notice this before?

"Miss Holmes, why are you helping me?"

"It's simple," Charlotte said, holding up three fingers. "There are three reasons."

"First, I caused you some trouble when I first became a detective, so consider this my apology for what I did back then; second, I really don't want to see a dutiful and good police officer fired for an irrelevant incident and replaced by a useless coward; finally, Lestrade is not in Scotland Yard, and I'd like to know where she is now."

"I see." Bradstritter bowed slightly. "First of all, I want to thank you for your help, but as for Miss Lestrade's whereabouts..."

Charlotte shook her head, interrupting him, her tone firm: "Chief, I am a detective, you can't fool me. Even if Lestrade is special, you should have a way to find her."

After a moment of silence, Brad Street sighed.

He took out a palm-sized disc of gold-plated device from his pocket. Its surface was covered with dense runes, and a crystal was embedded in the center, with a green dot inside the crystal slowly flashing.

"Based on this, as long as she is still within the London area, you can find her."

He handed the device to Charlotte, "Remember—"

Before he could finish speaking, Charlotte had already snatched the device from his hand.

"I will return it to you tomorrow, Mr. Chief."

She turned and left.

Brad Street watched her figure disappear into the night.

What an impolite girl.

He smiled.

However, I still wish you all the best in what you're about to do.

Charlotte quickly flagged down a carriage by the roadside.

Before the driver could even speak, she tossed him a gold coin: "From now on, follow my instructions. Can you do that?"

The coachman glanced down at the gold coin, his voice trembling with excitement: "No problem! Your Excellency! You can even ask me to perform horseback riding!"

Charlotte jumped into the carriage and closed the door: "No need for that. Alright, let's go! To St. George's Avenue!"

The carriage began to run.

Charlotte stared at the alchemical device in her hand, the green dot on it moving at an astonishing speed, seemingly without any pattern.

But she had already mapped out Lestrade's movements, and according to her calculations, she would meet her on St. George Avenue in about seventeen minutes.

That place happened to be near Lestrade's house.

She closed her eyes.

Everything that happened today began to flash through my mind.

Erin Adler.

In the Golden Bird Pavilion, she realized that Adler might have something in common with her.

Although it was only for a brief moment, joy and anticipation did appear in his eyes—the excitement of facing an unsolved case.

That's why I chose to invite him, and he accepted almost without hesitation.

Later in the square—

"If you're so capable, then come and stop me, and then kill me."

Charlotte clutched her chest.

The heart is beating.

Faster than usual.

After he finished speaking, Adler gave a look that seemed to be a provocation.

It was at that moment that an unnamed stirring arose in her heart.

Adler's acting was flawless, and there were no logical flaws in his words. Anyone would probably think he was a vicious villain trying to overthrow the country.

But Charlotte knew very well that it was a complete lie.

Because she possessed outside information—Adler was nearing his end.

Two or three years, at most two or three years.

Under such circumstances, everything he said would be ruthlessly overturned, and in such a cruel timeframe, it would be impossible to accomplish something like "building a criminal empire".

Therefore, the one who truly wants to overthrow this country is definitely someone else.

The image of the young female professor, whom Charlotte had only met once in the office, came to mind.

Jessia Moriarty.

She had investigated the other party's background and found that his resume was very clean, with no criminal record whatsoever.

Charlotte never speculated.

Because guessing is a very bad habit; it is detrimental to logical reasoning.

But this time, her intuition told her that Moriarty was the mastermind behind everything.

And the reason why Adler, even though he was nearing death, still chose to do everything he could to help her...

Is it because of "love"?

Charlotte frowned as soon as the thought crossed her mind.

My heart was beating faster, and I felt a strange sense of irritability.

What's wrong with me?

Why does my proud rationality gradually lose its effectiveness and become inefficient and vague every time I encounter Adler?

Even though she knew it was a lie, she was still excited by it and accepted his provocation.

Strange, unfamiliar, and annoying...

She shook her head, banishing these emotions from her mind, and then looked at the alchemical artifact in her hand.

The key right now is still to find Lestrade and then use her power to thwart Adler's plans.

Although it was unclear what Adler was specifically planning to do, there was no doubt that his goal was the same as his own: to resolve this human trafficking incident.

Therefore, we must speed things up.

.

"parking!"

Charlotte caught a glimpse of the figure.

Patricia Lestrade.

She ran wildly through the street at an abnormal speed, like a gray lightning bolt, her long hair flying behind her like a torn battle flag.

"Lestrade!"

Charlotte waved and shouted.

The figure suddenly stopped.

Her movements were so fast that there was a kind of tearing delay between her body and inertia. Her upper body stopped, but her legs were still moving forward, and she fell forward.

But she managed to regain her balance and then turned around.

Charlotte jumped off the carriage before it had come to a complete stop, causing the coachman behind her to gasp in surprise.

She landed steadily on the ground and ran towards Lestrade.

"I need to speak with you urgently—"

After recognizing the old acquaintance's face, she stopped talking.

Her light gray hair was loosely draped over her shoulders, like a clump of weeds blown about by the wind. Her brown eyes were almost entirely bloodshot, with dense patches of color on the whites of her eyes.

Her once beautiful face was now haggard, her dark circles were so heavy they looked like they'd been smoked, and her empty eyes were filled with a fury that was about to erupt.

"What's wrong with you?" She unconsciously changed the subject.

"Charlotte, thank you if you're here out of concern for me. But I'm sorry, I'm busy right now."

Even her usual gentle, almost annoying tone of voice had completely disappeared.

Charlotte felt that Lestrade was like a strange longsword, with an incredibly sharp blade, but one that could shatter at any moment.

"It's something very important—"

"Even important things won't work, I really don't have time." Patricia coldly rejected her again, turned her head back, and was about to take a step.

"Listen to me, there's a human trafficking case going on right now..."

Before she could even utter the word "case," Patricia trembled violently, turned around abruptly, her face filled with excitement, and grabbed Charlotte's shoulder.

The force on her shoulder was astonishing; Charlotte could even feel her shoulder blade groaning softly.

"Where? Please tell me, please! Charlotte! Please!"

Lestrade's face was so close that he could even count the number of blood vessels in her eyes.

The emptiness in those eyes disappeared, replaced by a frantic anticipation.

"Charlotte!"

Not right.

It's not right.

What exactly happened?

Charlotte's mind raced.

Just tell her first: "25 High Street, Whitechapel District".

As soon as she finished speaking, Patricia immediately released her grip.

There seemed to be tears welling up in his eyes, but they didn't fall.

"Thank you, Charlotte. But I really don't have time right now, I'll have to thank you another time—"

Patricia's last syllable was drawn out.

Because she has disappeared.

The air suddenly exploded, producing a piercing bang.

The ground shook violently, and where she had just been, cracks in the floor tiles spread outwards like a spider web, sending pebbles flying and dust billowing.

Charlotte coughed twice, and when her gaze refocused, Lestrade was already dozens of meters in the air.

The next second, she leaped again, and her figure vanished instantly.

A look of surprise crossed Charlotte's face.

Is this really the physical strength that humans can possess?

She then got to work and made her way to Lestrade's apartment building.

The suite on the left side of the fourth floor.

The light is not on.

Subhuman, young age, human trafficking...

Fragmented clues quickly pieced together a coherent form in her mind.

So that's how it is!

Oops!

She quickly flagged down another carriage: "25 High Street, Whitechapel! Hurry!"

Upon hearing the address, the driver instinctively wanted to refuse.

Going to that place at this time is practically suicide, isn't it?

But the two gold coins flying through the air silenced him.

"Miss, please get in the car quickly, we're about to leave!"

"drive--!!!"

The carriage shot into the night like an arrow released from a bow.