Detective Mary

Chapter 32

Fortunately, the powder from the Devil's heel had not had time to burn completely before Holmes had rushed in. The drug had evaporated completely and Henry Decker had quickly regained his senses.

He was tied to the table in five pieces and groaned as he woke up, "...... Mary? Dawson? What are you guys doing tying me up, and why am I here if I'm not home resting?"

Mary and the Irish workers looked at each other in disbelief, and it was Mr. Holmes who paced forward and explained, "You have been poisoned with some kind of hallucinogenic drug, and have just gone berserk, and it was your friends who held you down."

"Frenzy?"

Henry Dyke exuded a confused color, his eyes rolled, as if recalling a scene he had seen in a hallucination not long ago, and shivered violently:I thought I had a nightmare, those eyes ...... God, it s really too terrible."

Mary spoke out in relief, "That was all a hallucination, not real, sir, please settle down."

But that said, Mary's expression was one of concern: since no one could be sure that the hallucinogens had lost their effect, Henry Decker's testimony had no legal significance by twenty-first-century standards without medical proof.

But ......

without further ado, Holmes understood Mary's concern, and he nodded coldly, "Never mind."

Mary was inexplicably relieved.

Henry Decker took a deep breath, "Thank you ...... but who are you?"

With that said Henry's eyes landed on Mary, dressed as a lady, revealing a suspicious look, "With all due respect, ma'am, this is not the place for you."

Mary: "......" she had heard this a million times since she walked into the neighborhood!

The redhead saw that Mary was speechless and instantly lost her voice in laughter.

As she untied Henry, she explained, "Miss Mary and Mr. Holmes are here to help you."

She gave a short and succinct account of how the two of them came to the door. Henry Dyke's eyes lit up when he heard the name "Sherlock Holmes".

But when it became clear that they had come for the factory, Henry Dyke's expression dimmed again.

"Count me unlucky," he muttered, "to hear what I shouldn't."

"Heaven forbid," counseled Mary, "since the factory owner fires his workers for such things, it is evident that his factory is not a place worth staying in for long."

Henry gave Mary a deep look.

Apparently in his eyes, Mary Bennet was nothing more than a single lady with a good heart but no understanding of human suffering, and hearing her words, the Irish laborer just let out a long sigh and shook his head.

"How easy it is to talk about, miss," he said, with no intention of dwelling on the subject; "I will tell you what I know, not to sink my teeth into the matter, but only not to involve more innocent people in it."

Sherlock Holmes, who had been silent, spoke up, "I will find out the truth."

Henry: "I believe you, detective, no one in all of London doesn't."

With that he changed his stance and rubbed his wrist, "I had not long left the factory after work that day when I suddenly realized that I had left my hat next to the machine, so I parted from my friend for a while and turned back to retrieve mine."

Holmes: "I think you happened to stumble upon Mr. Hamp meeting with the bystanders."

Henry: "Yes."

No one forgets the moment they were fired, and Henry remembers it well, "I heard Hamp arguing with someone in his office, and looking through the window, it was an officer - Hamp was a man who was mean, but he maintained his decency extraordinarily well. Even when confronted with workers, he was always courteous, and I never heard of any one having a quarrel with him, so I stopped and listened a little longer."

"So that's how you heard the secret?" Mary asked.

"It seemed to me," Henry told him truthfully, "that it wasn't much of a secret at all. Hamp called that officer 'Captain Carter,' a young man by the look of his back, but his tone was rather unkind to Hamp, who had reached middle age, yelling things like 'The professor is very unhappy now, and look what you've done!' Something like that, I could hear it through the door and window."

Mary froze.

Professor? What professor?

She subconsciously turned her head to Holmes, the lean detective still looking as normal as ever, unable to tell what he was thinking about.

Hearing Henry's words, he just nodded slightly, "Continue."

Henry, who had received approval, continued, "Then Hamp, who had always been polite in his speech, even got angry and argued that the professor had not told him so, he just wanted his partner to join as well."

This partner was necessarily Mr. Bentley. Hearing this, Mary had understood the general idea: her own second guess was right; Mr. Hamp and Captain Carter were acquainted, but they did not have the same purpose!

It sounds like Mr. Hamp is trying to get Mr. Bentley to join him - for what, I'm afraid, even Mr. Bentley doesn't know. Captain Carter, on the other hand, was trying to stop Mr. Hemp, so it seems that he was indeed trying to destroy evidence by stealing the contract.

"And then," said Henry, speaking on his own without waiting for the bystanders to ask, "Captain Carter yelled angrily to shut up, and then said something, something about 'he' had noticed, and that the professor didn't intend to let 'he ' notice so much!"

The redhead couldn't help herself at last when she heard this, "What professor what him, what are you talking about, Henry, where does Hamp know so many mysterious guys?"

Mary: "......"

OMG.

The Irish girl was confused, but Mary understood.

Back at Netherfield Manor, Sherlock Holmes had said two things: first, that he was not here for the contract, but for the larger case behind it; and second, to keep quiet and not notify the sheriff, so as not to frighten them.

That is to say, there was no one else pursuing the case now but Mr. Holmes - Mary, of course, didn't count - and there was no one else!

The "he" of which Captain Carter spoke was, I am afraid, Sherlock Holmes himself.

More to the point, whatever the motives of Mr. Hamp and Captain Carter, it is clear that they are both following the orders of one person, that is, the "Professor".

Who in heaven's name is a "professor" connected with Sherlock Holmes?

Not that Mary wondered, but as soon as she realized it, the name of one person came almost instinctively to her mind.

That was the detective's greatest nemesis, the man behind the scenes hiding in the shadows of all of Europe, Professor James Moriarty.

Assuming it was him, Mary figured everything out at once.

Attempting to manipulate the cotton textile industry of the entire world, stirring up the order and rhythm, and prompting the market to collapse. With ambitions this big, with strokes this big, who else but Moriarty himself could do it so quietly?

"Sir," Mary spoke worriedly to the detective, "it sounds like this 'professor' behind this is coming for you!"

Holmes did not respond.

A few traces of thought flashed in his sharp eyes, and after a long time had passed, until Mary saw the contemplative look he had withdrawn, she went on to ask, "What is to be done?"

Holmes: "No amount of suspicion will help until there are clues and evidence, you and I should rightly look to the present moment first, and, miss, I think Mr. Bentley's side of the story should have got the first word from Hamp."

That meant return.

Too, Henry Dyke was out of other clues, so he might as well go and hear what kind of talk Mr. Bentley had extracted from Mr. Hamp, and then make his plans.

And look at Mr. Holmes, he seems to ...... not surprised at the "Professor" this action.

Before leaving, the Irish workers changed the cold and guarded look, the red-haired girl politely sent Mary and Holmes out of the alley.

"Thank you, detective," said the redhead, looking back to Mary, "and thank you, Miss Mary."

"I will do my best to help Mr. Holmes pursue this matter," Mary said earnestly, "and will be sure to clear Henry's name."

The redhead smiled, "I believe you."

How nice.

Though she hadn't known her long, Mary found the girl who shared her name extraordinarily likable. Seeing that Mr. Holmes hadn't lost his patience yet, she drew a little closer to the redhead, "I have a favor to ask, do you have any extra old clothes?"

The redhead froze, "Old clothes?"

Mary: "Yes. Mr. Holmes is unpretentious when he's on a case, like now, and he's made a point of changing into old clothes to blend in with you guys. But after bringing me along, that act was for naught, and I think I need to have a few less conspicuous outfits on hand as well, so that I can facilitate things."

"That's the idea."

Hearing Mary's words, the redhead took another look at Mary's clothing, "You do look too conspicuous in this, in our place, but ......"

"But?"

"But, miss," she looked at Mary with a smile, "where do we get extra clothes when we don't live as richly as you do?"

"......"

Mary's face immediately became hot.

She had even privately mocked Miss Bentley before about why she didn't eat meat loaf! Now it seemed that she wasn't much better.

In the end, it was Longbourn's carefree and slow-paced life that blinded Mary's eyes. Even with the knowledge and eyesight of the twenty-first century, without seeing it with her own eyes, Mary had never realized what the gap between rich and poor was like in reality.

She knew that the Victorian poor were very poor, but only now did she truly understand that the workers in London, to fight for food and warmth is already a luxury, and she even had the audacity to ask for "extra clothes"?

The redhead, who shared her name, was kind enough not to scoff or take offense.

"Let's do it this way," the red-haired girl naturally saw Mary's embarrassment, she neither felt inferior nor got angry, instead, she was generous enough to make a proposal, "You give me the raw material money and wages, I will help you make two sets of cotton dresses and skirts, it doesn't matter if they are clean, what is the decency of a young lady's family to wear dirty clothes? If you go out and say you're a maid, people won't look at you differently."

Are you an angel!

Mary was touched that the redhead was too nice. She didn't get cocky about her poverty, and she didn't make fun of Mary's naiveté.

If Mary was only slightly favorable to her before, now she has already made up her mind to make friends with her.

"Well then," Mary agreed dryly, "I'll tell you my present address, and you'll come and see me some other time, how about it?"

"No problem."

The redhead wasn't too polite, "My full name is Mary Morstan, remember to let your maid know ahead of time, I'm afraid she won't let me come to the door."

Mary: "Ok uh ......"

And so on.

What did she say her name was, Mary Morstan?

Wasn't that the name of Dr. John Watson's wife? In this one short day she had not only learned of Professor Moriarty's existence, but had met the future Mrs. Watson?