Chapter 28, Chapter 10: Do Not Cross the Boundary
Chapter 10 "No Crossing the Line"
Five minutes from Lauriston Garden Street, there is a nearly unnoticed woodland path.
During the day, this place is rarely visited by idlers.
At night, it felt like a place forgotten by the whole world, even the birdsong fell silent.
However, at the end of this alley, known only to nearby residents, stands a steel-framed, tipping-over trash can.
The bin was never locked; at most, it was covered with a cloth. It was usually used to store large pieces of discarded garbage from the nearby construction area, as well as pruned tree branches. Since there were no security cameras around, residents would secretly throw their extra garbage into it before collection day.
However, not many people actually did that.
That evening, a middle-aged man who looked to be in his fifties or sixties slowly approached, his loose gray casual woolen coat seemingly blending into the night.
He was low-key and calm, seemingly not someone who particularly liked attracting attention. However, contrary to his appearance and demeanor, he was dragging a pink suitcase.
He stopped in front of the tipper bin, looked around to make sure no one was nearby. Then, he bent down and slowly placed the pink suitcase inside. The suitcase made a slight metallic scraping sound, but it was almost swallowed up by the night.
After putting down his suitcase, he didn't glance at it again, merely straightened his clothes, and slowly turned and walked away along the path. The pink suitcase lay quietly in the shadows of the steel, once again covered by a coarse cloth outside the trash can.
Back in the car, in the darkness before starting the engine, he silently took stock.
Up to now, he has basically achieved all his goals.
Sir Jeffery Patterson.
18-year-old Gary Jenkins.
Deputy Minister of Transport, or more accurately, Deputy Minister of Transportation Beth Davenport.
And then there's Jennifer Winson, the businesswoman, tonight.
The list flashed through my mind.
He sat in the driver's seat, without turning on the lights or moving, just sitting quietly, as if deep in thought, reminiscing, or perhaps simply spacing out. Even when someone waved to him from the roadside, he didn't react much.
He was pulled back to reality when his phone rang.
He seemed to wake up from a long nightmare, his fingers numb, and he answered the phone almost instinctively.
He began, "Good evening, Mr. Crime Consultant."
“Mr. Jeff Hope.”
The other person's voice had been processed, sounding both distorted and unusually cold.
The sense of unreality brought Jeff Hope to a clearer state of mind, making him realize that everything happening now was not just a dream.
But this unusual coldness seemed especially warm at this moment.
“If you want to get out of here unscathed right now,” the other person said slowly, “I’ve arranged two train tickets for you. One to Bristol and the other to Edinburgh.”
There was a brief silence on the other end of the phone.
In those few seconds, Jeff Hope could even hear the sound of blood flowing in his ear, which was pressed against the phone.
"As for the other card that wasn't used, we'll handle it to mislead the police."
The other person paused, then added, "If that's necessary."
Jeff Hope did not answer.
He knew very well that the destination of those two tickets was not just the city, but a nursing home.
That place would allow him to disappear from the investigation and have a dignified and safe end in his final countdown as a late-stage aneurysm patient.
Until one day, all his stories will come to an end with his death.
As Jeff Hope thought of this, he felt tears welling up in his eyes.
He kept his eyes tightly closed.
Even though no one would see, he still refused to let his vulnerability spiral out of control. "Thank you, Mr. Crime Consultant, for all your help."
Jeff Hope was indeed very grateful for the other party's help, which continuously assisted him in achieving his revenge and allowed him to have a dignified and undisturbed old age.
But he couldn't bring himself to express his gratitude for their presence in his life.
This made him realize that life had driven him to the brink, and he did something he would never have done in his entire life.
He felt no satisfaction from revenge, but rather a profound sense of loss, pain, and a disorienting weightlessness. It was as if, in this familiar hometown, he had been utterly exiled, becoming a stranger without a home.
The tiny, warm touch that remained on his fingers when his daughter held his hand seemed to be fading away from him.
But the more concrete the darkness before him became, the clearer the cold memory of his daughter's tragic death became.
At the same time, he was also grateful.
Without their help, Jeff Hope might have felt even more lost, more pained, and more convinced that his hometown had betrayed him, leaving him to live a life of malice with nowhere to appeal or escape.
At that moment, the feeling of weightlessness reached its peak, about to throw him back into nothingness from his car seat.
He had to grab onto something, even if it was just a red-hot iron bar.
"Mr. Crime Advisor"
Jeff Hope spoke again, his voice noticeably hoarse from being suppressed, as if something was pressing down on it.
He paused, pressing his tongue against the roof of his mouth until it ached, before finally managing to pry open the rest of his sentence: "I don't know if you remember, but I once said, 'They committed a crime, they killed two people. A father and a daughter.'"*
There was no response from the other end of the phone.
Jeff Hope whispered, “My daughter is dead. And my soul died on that day. All that’s left is a shell filled with her laughter and the white flowers at her funeral.”
In the brief silence, his eyes flashed with the dimples forever frozen in his daughter's photograph. Then, the curve of that smile twisted and finally settled into the cold signature at the end of the news article—Charles Milverton—that "packaged his daughter's death as a public consumer narrative."
"I haven't given up on my fifth target for revenge: Charles Milverton."
At this point, his voice was devoid of any hesitation, leaving only an almost calm, cold resolve: "Please, help me kill him."
He lowered his gaze, still clutching a remnant of poison in his hand.
This is Jeff Hope's last card, and his last escape route.
If the crime consultant is reluctant to continue providing assistance because of Charles Milverton, he will swallow the poison the crime consultant gave him tonight and end his life without any regrets.
Meanwhile, Fred, who was on the other end of the call, was fully aware of this.
He certainly wouldn't let him die like that.
His gaze briefly swept over the three Moriarty brothers before turning to Moran.
In that silent and tacit atmosphere, he lowered his head slightly and replied in a low voice, "I understand."
Jeff Hope: "..."
Make sure you haven't been rejected.
This confirms that the road still exists.
His hand slowly loosened, then clenched again. The feeling of weightlessness that had been tormenting him ever since he discarded the pink suitcase finally subsided, like a drowning person grabbing onto a piece of driftwood.
It wasn't that he wanted to live, but rather a complex and subtle obsession that briefly dragged him back to the surface.
He knew this path was extremely difficult, but it was the path he was taking, the narrow gate leading to the depths of his own heart.
On the other end of the phone, the five people exchanged glances, but none of them spoke first.
Because they all knew that Jeff Hope was a pitiful man.
He was driven to the brink of despair step by step, which led him down this path of no return.
And it was precisely because they also knew that Charles Milverton was by no means an easy man to kill.
If he fails, Jeff Hope will likely live out the rest of his life with hatred and regret.
More importantly, they do indeed have a channel to get close to Milverton.
If planned properly and that fleeting opportunity is seized, it may not be impossible to strike a fatal blow.
But that's precisely the problem: Milverton was too smart and too vigilant.
If they make one wrong move, given Milvolton's current resources and power, the cost of failure won't fall solely on Jeff. Similarly, for them, getting close to Milvolton again will be virtually impossible.
But they did not refuse to help Jeff Hope.
For them, there is no need for any additional reason to stop someone from committing suicide.
Moreover, this wasn't the first request they'd received to kill Milvolton.
Moran was astonished when he received the data.
Almost every day, hundreds of eyes throughout London were watching Charles Milverton's every move, waiting for the right moment to strike.
Amidst this impenetrable killing intent, Milwaldton remained completely untroubled by the worries of daily life.
He was at ease, like a fish swimming peacefully in a pool marked with his own name.
As the backbone of the team, Professor William Moriarty looked at Moran, who had spent the most time with Milverton, and said, "Moran, in your observation, what kind of person is Milverton?"
Moran is not good at pretense and speaks his mind: "I haven't been in the situation where he deals with the blackmail target. But if I didn't know he was Milverton, I would think he was actually a very easy-going boss, even if his personality is a bit eccentric."
This is precisely what makes Moran uncomfortable.
He wasn't actually interested in being a driver; he only stayed by Moriarty and Milwaldton's side to maintain their connection.
That is why he never deliberately showed respect to Milverton, or even fawned over him.
During the ride, he would play his favorite songs as usual, and sometimes even hum along, which carried a somewhat probing meaning, as if he was testing the other person's patience limit.
The result was completely unexpected.
Milverton showed no displeasure whatsoever; on the contrary, he enthusiastically helped him choose songs.
Moran added, "He's very approachable."
Albert's voice rang out first, "This is just a facade he's wearing. Don't be easily misled, and don't even think about becoming friends with him."
Moran quickly defended himself: "I never thought of that."
William glanced at Albert before his gaze returned to Moran.
“You, your brother, and Fred have all already shown up in front of him.”
His tone was steady, yet carried an undeniable weight.
"Moran's behavior at Milverton is the same as the rest of us. Don't leave any openings for him to decipher until we are fully prepared."
“I understand,” Moran nodded.
At this point, as if deliberately drawing a line, he added, "Also, Milverton was alone today. He was asked to meet someone, and I've already told him I won't be giving him a ride."
Moran paused to make sure everyone had heard him clearly: "Although they said they would provide transportation, Milverton rarely rides in the car of someone he's just met, as it would put him at a disadvantage. He might get out of the car himself."
"Should we let Jeff Hope try it now?"
At this moment, his voice was calm and businesslike.
William thought the chances were slim, but not impossible. "If they call Moran, we can have Jeff Hope give it a try."
However, no one expected that it would be Albert who ended up driving to pick him up.
Milwald is too good at understanding people's hearts.
A casual remark like "You won't come here for nothing" is enough to make someone hesitate.
Albert had actually parked his car near Whitehall, the agreed-upon location, long ago. But he didn't show up immediately; instead, he stood at a distance, observing coldly, wanting to see if Milverton would give up and call a car to leave on his own.
The night wind was cold.
Milford stood by the roadside and instinctively withdrew his hand.
At that moment, Albert still stepped on the gas and stopped the car in front of him.
After getting in the car, Albert waited for the other party to reveal information while paying attention to every detail. However, what Milverton handed him was money.
"..."
Anger at being mocked made Albert almost without hesitation raise his hand and throw the money to the pedestrians on the side of the road.
The next second, Milwald smiled.
"Just kidding."
"This is for you."
Milverton's voice lowered, and the layer of frivolous cynicism faded for a moment, revealing a kind of genuine gentleness that made Albert freeze instantly.
What landed on the seat was a piece of richly fragrant milk chocolate.
Albert instinctively wanted to look at Milverton's expression, but forcibly suppressed the movement. He didn't want Milverton to read any emotion in his mind, and simply reached out and grabbed the chocolate.
For a moment, he felt he couldn't see through Milverton.
He sensed the other person was harmless, but countless facts proved that he was utterly wicked, driving the poor man to the brink of despair.
If it weren't for his own powerful influence, which would cause a huge uproar if something happened to him, he wouldn't be alive today.
"Get in the car."
In any case, Albert knew that Milverton's "harmlessness" would not have any real impact on their relationship.
They will never be friends.
After all, some lines, once crossed, can never be crossed back.
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The author says: "They committed a crime, killing two people. A father and a daughter."* from Arthur Conan Doyle's *A Study in Scarlet*.
After reading the first Sherlock case, I felt the killer's motive wouldn't apply to my situation. So I'll make some changes, changing it from the original story's revenge for a lover to revenge for a daughter.
20 random small red envelopes will be given out. Please get some rest! Please recommend this site if you like it! Your comments are my motivation to write! [cheering][cheering]
I also have a similar story, "The Good Neighbor at 221B Baker Street Through Comics," which tells the story of a math major in England who lives at 221B Baker Street. Her personality is completely different from Milverton's story; she's very obedient and loves hoarding things. It has mystery and slice-of-life elements. I think my slice-of-life writing is pretty good; you can check it out if you're interested! [Pleading]
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