Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 167 Sherlock Holmes?

Lionel turned his head stiffly, and there stood Oscar Wilde.

His tall figure blocked the doorway to the ward, casting a deep shadow on the floor.

First to enter was a huge, pale bouquet of lilies in his hand; then Wilde himself gracefully stepped in.

He wore a deep emerald green velvet coat, with exaggerated lace shirt trim peeking out from the collar and cuffs;

A slightly loose tie hung casually around his neck, and he wore a pair of light-colored gloves.

Every detail is out of place with the simple environment of St. Thomas Hospital.

Wilde walked to Lionel’s bedside: “Poor Sorel, I knew it, I knew it!”
London, that savage beast, is ultimately not suited to your refined French soul.

He placed the huge bouquet of lilies into an empty water jug ​​on the windowsill: "Look, only this is worthy of comforting an artist hurt by the ugly reality."

Lionel's face was even paler than when he was admitted to the hospital: "You're too kind—it's just an unfortunate illness, I'll recover soon. There's really no need for such a fuss..."

He could only pray in his heart that this talented man with peculiar tastes would end his visit soon.

Oscar Wilde seemed completely oblivious to Lionel's embarrassment, and settled himself in the chair, crossed his legs, and began his signature, rambling monologue:

"Troublesome? No, it's my inescapable responsibility."

"Do you know what? When I heard the news of your passing, my first feeling wasn't surprise, but a kind of... sorrow that felt like a premonition had come true!"

"When I first met you in Paris, I knew you wouldn't fit in here—London? Oh, London!"

As he spoke, he made a gesture to dispel the stench: "The people here worship the luxury of carriages, the height of chimneys, and the length of numbers in bank accounts."

They build their bodies with steaks and beer, but starve their souls. Their artistic tastes… God, forgive my bluntness, are still at the level of putting a bow on a dog.

He sighed: "Forget about the air, the food here... oh, that's another long torture for the senses, let's not talk about it."

My heart aches for you, my dear friend. You are like a canary thrown into a coal mine.

You're the canary, your whole family are canaries!

But this was just internal monologue; Lionel could only nod weakly at the moment, occasionally echoing with "That's true" or "You're right."

Deep down, he desperately hoped that Florence Nightingale or some doctor would suddenly appear and ask this overly enthusiastic aesthetician to leave.

The lilies emitted an overpowering fragrance in the ward, mixed with Wilde's perfume and the existing smell of disinfectant, making Lionel almost suffocate.

Oscar Wilde was completely absorbed in his own world, giving a full twenty-minute "speech" before he seemed to suddenly remember Lionel's condition.

He stood up and gracefully straightened his coat: "Dear Sorel. An artist's body is a temple, and must be carefully protected."

Please get well soon. Paris needs your wisdom, and the world needs your story.

He reached out his hand, seemingly wanting to offer a kiss, but realizing the occasion was inappropriate, he simply waved it gently instead: "May you escape from here soon."

Goodbye, my dear friend. I will pray for you! I will come again tomorrow, or the day after.

After saying that, he drifted away, leaving behind a room filled with silence and a rich fragrance.

Lionel pounded on the call bell as if pleading for help, and as soon as the nurse entered the room, he begged, "Take this bouquet of lilies away—and open the window."

The smell in this house is worse than the Thames! And please, get Dr. Joseph Bell here right now, I need to be discharged, I need to be discharged…”

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

Lionel's request was not supported by Joseph Bell, who believed that Lionel should rest for at least another week.

However, he also thoughtfully issued a "no-visit order" to the hospital for Lionel to prevent the large crowds that had been gathering over the past two days.

Two days later, Lionel felt much better and took a short walk in the hospital's small garden.

The garden is small, with neatly trimmed hedges surrounding the central lawn and several benches.

Although the air quality is still poor, it is much fresher than the streets.

Lionel strolled slowly, enjoying the long-lost "freedom".

On a bench, he saw a familiar figure—Dr. Joseph Bell. He was wearing only a waistcoat and was leaning back in his chair reading The Times, seemingly taking a nap.

Lionel walked over quietly. "Good afternoon, Dr. Bell."

Dr. Bell looked up: "Good afternoon, Mr. Sorel. How are you feeling?"

Lionel sat down at the other end of the bench. "Much better, thank you. The air here is very helpful."

After a brief silence, Lionel couldn't help but ask curiously, "Dr. Bell, please forgive my intrusion... I've heard that you are not only a highly skilled doctor, but you have also assisted the police in solving cases."

For example… the Chantelle murder case last year? Is that true?

Dr. Bell smiled. "Oh, that case. Yes, the police initially believed that poor Mrs. Elizabeth Chantelle died from accidental gas poisoning."

But they overlooked some details.

His tone was as calm as if he were analyzing a case: "The gas valve in the room was indeed turned on, but the concentration was not high enough to be immediately fatal."

More importantly, I noticed vomit stains on the deceased's pillowcase—gas poisoning would not cause vomiting.

I leaned closer and took a sniff; the smell was sweet with a hint of bitterness—it was tincture of opium… So, the rest was up to Scotland Yard.”

Lionel exclaimed, "Absolutely amazing! Just by observation and...smell. You're even more perceptive than the police!"

Dr. Bell shrugged slightly: "Scotland Yard...they rely too much on experience and lack systematic observation training."

They tend to overlook details or be deceived by appearances.

His tone was tinged with helplessness.

Dr. Bell looked at Lionel: "Actually, a good detective and a good doctor need almost the same qualities."

We are all faced with seemingly chaotic appearances—for police, it's crime scenes and testimonies; for doctors, it's patients' symptoms and self-reports.

Many diseases have very similar external symptoms, but their root causes can be quite different.

Headaches can be caused by overuse of the eyes, a tumor, or even poisoning...

A cough could be caused by a cold, tuberculosis, or even a heart problem…

Dr. Bell set the Times aside: "Patients' descriptions are often vague, subjective, and sometimes conceal or distort information out of fear or ignorance."

Just as a witness might miss crucial details or lie due to nervousness.

Our job is to find the one and only hidden truth from these complex and seemingly plausible clues through careful observation, logical reasoning, and professional knowledge.

For the police, it's the murderer and the motive; for the doctor, it's an accurate diagnosis and the cause of the illness.

As Lionel watched Joseph Bell calmly recount his story, he suddenly realized who the real-life inspiration for Sherlock Holmes was.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

A week later, Lionel was finally discharged from the hospital and walked out of the hospital gate looking refreshed.

Without notifying anyone—he didn't want to be persuaded to stay for another two days—he went straight to Charing Cross station, bought a connecting ticket to Gare du Nord, and left the city that had left such a deep impression on him.

The return journey was equally smooth, and Lionel stepped into the door of 64 Lafitte Street at 8 p.m.

The ground floor manager saw Lionel and immediately came up to greet him: "Welcome home, Mr. Sorel."

I saw your story in the newspaper—damn the English! It's so good to see you back safe and sound!

Lionel thanked him for his concern and then asked, "During my absence, were there any letters or messages from visitors?"

The administrator thought for a moment and said, "Indeed, someone did come looking for you on the third day after you left Paris."

Lionel: "Oh? Who is it?"

The administrator scratched his head: "There were two people in total, arrogant and haughty. They only asked if you were home, without saying who they were or leaving a message."

But they looked like church people to me, even though they were dressed casually..."

(End of this chapter)