Fifteen minutes later.
Russell found himself awkwardly holding eye contact with the man standing at the door.
Greg Lestrade.
An inspector from Scotland Yard.
The moment he'd received Charlotte's call, he'd rushed over almost immediately—determined to get a clear explanation.
As for why he hadn't asked over the phone?
Because Charlotte had said her piece and hung up.
"Hello, Inspector Lestrade…" Russell extended a hand.
"Hello…" Lestrade shook it. "And you are…?"
"My name is Russell Watson," Russell said. "Holmes's neighbor—and… to some extent, her guardian."
"I see…" Lestrade's expression shifted into sudden understanding, and the look he gave Russell contained a trace of sympathy.
He clearly suffered from Charlotte's unpredictable temperament as well.
"So," Lestrade lowered his voice like they were conducting a clandestine exchange, "what exactly is this 'suicide' Holmes was talking about?"
"Honestly, Edgar Light's mental state isn't great right now."
"Well…" Russell rubbed the bridge of his nose, wondering whether he should trot out Mary's whole theory.
But on second thought, discussing art and faith with a practical, boots-on-the-ground policeman would be like lecturing a brick wall on poetry.
Before he could organize his words, Charlotte's voice snapped from inside the room—carrying that familiar, imperious tone:
"Come in. Stop whispering at the door like two basset hounds who've lost their owner."
Lestrade's face twitched, but he resigned himself to the situation and pushed the door open. Russell followed him in.
Charlotte stood before a photograph of the unfinished painting, pinned to the wall with thumbtacks.
"Nicholas Winter didn't die from murder," Charlotte said without turning around. "Nor did he die from suicide."
"He died from art."
Lestrade's expression mirrored Russell's from yesterday—when he'd first heard the word martyrdom.
"Can you say that in a way I can understand, Charlotte? I'm a police officer, not an art critic."
"Tch." Charlotte clicked her tongue in irritation, then turned and swept her gray-blue eyes over Lestrade—then over Russell.
"Explain it to him, Watson," she ordered.
Russell froze for a beat, then turned to Lestrade.
Fine. Considering how much "malice" he'd farmed off this man, Russell supposed he owed him something.
A little appreciation for a generous sponsor.
He decided to ditch Mary's lofty "martyr" framing and translate it into something more grounded—something that fit a policeman's logic.
"Ahem. Inspector Lestrade, here's what Miss Holmes means," Russell began his interpretation.
"Winter knew his time was running out.
"So he wanted, at the end of his life, to complete his greatest work."
"So he killed himself?" Lestrade still looked lost. "What does that have to do with him being poisoned by paint?"
"It has everything to do with it." Russell pointed at the photograph on the wall.
"That painting—look at the colors. They're extremely intense. Almost… unnaturally vivid."
Lestrade leaned in and studied it. He nodded. "Yeah. It's got this… burning feel to it. Like it's on fire."
"Exactly," Russell said. "Because the paint was mixed with something that made him 'feel' more alive."
He offered an explanation that sounded more plausible to ordinary ears.
"Prussian white is toxic. It's the kind of substance that can stimulate the nervous system.
"Winter, in pursuit of an extreme creative state, voluntarily—and repeatedly—used that toxic pigment while painting.
"And as for why… don't ask. Artists are like that. At least some of them."
Lestrade's brow furrowed as he tried to digest a conclusion this insane.
"Then what about Edgar Light? Why didn't he stop him?"
"Because he couldn't," Russell sighed.
"Or rather—he was persuaded. Under his teacher's request, he compromised… and even became an accomplice.
"He prepared the paint for him. Took care of him. Watched him walk toward death, one step at a time.
"That's why he's in so much pain. That's why he keeps saying his teacher 'went to pursue his art.'
"Because in his mind, it wasn't murder.
"It was a great sacrifice—agreed to by both sides."
Silence fell over the room.
For the first time, shock appeared on Lestrade's face.
Charlotte leaned back against the wall, listening to Russell's "translation." A faint, almost imperceptible note of approval flickered through her gray-blue eyes.
The man was smarter than he looked.
He'd cleanly stripped away the metaphysical concept of martyrdom and replaced it with a more worldly logic—"chemical stimulation for creativity"—and he'd made the entire case comprehensible, start to finish.
It might make Nicholas Winter look less admirable, sure.
But Lestrade didn't care about that.
"You mean… assisted suicide?" Lestrade said at last.
"Exactly." Russell nodded.
"…Madmen. All of them." Lestrade rubbed his temples as if his skull had started to ache.
"So what am I supposed to do? Just let him go?"
"I couldn't tell you." Russell shrugged. "That's a legal question."
Lestrade turned his gaze toward Charlotte.
"I didn't study law," Charlotte said flatly. "If you want that answered, you're better off calling Mycroft."
She made it abundantly clear she had no intention of picking up this mess.
"All right." Lestrade sighed. "At least it's resolved."
Then he looked at Russell again, sincerity plain on his face.
"Thank you, Mr. Watson. Your explanation… helped a great deal."
"You're welcome," Russell said. "Consider it compensation."
"Compensation?"
"It's nothing," Russell said with an innocent smile. "Don't worry about it."
Lestrade shook his head as though trying to fling the whole knot of art and madness out of his mind.
From the inner pocket of his coat, he pulled out a slim silver flask, twisted off the cap, and took a long swallow.
The burn of whisky seemed to give him the courage required to keep operating in a world this absurd.
"In any case, thank you. Leave the rest to Scotland Yard."
With lingering shock—and palpable relief—Greg Lestrade left 221B Baker Street.
The room was quiet again, with only Russell and Charlotte remaining.
After the brief rush of accomplishment, a heavy fatigue washed over Russell.
Dealing with geniuses was exhausting in a way that went past simple tiredness. He wanted nothing more than to collapse into bed and reclaim the sleep he'd lost.
"Now that it's settled," Russell yawned, already drifting toward the door, "I won't disturb you any further, Miss Holmes."
Charlotte didn't stop him.
After Russell left, she picked up the violin she'd abandoned on the sofa and began to play.
Only this time, the melody was no longer unbearable.
-------
My : pat*eon*com/RuneA
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