Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 255 I am Sherlock Holmes!
Suppressing his doubts, Conan Doyle followed "Mrs. Hudson" into the house.

The house was more spacious inside than it appeared from the outside. Mrs. Hudson, who lived downstairs, led Conan Doyle to a living room/bedroom on the second floor.

Mrs. Hudson explained, “The agent prepaid a year’s rent and asked to reserve this house for you.”

He said you might need to do some 'literary studies' and 'drama practice' here..."

Although her eyes were full of curiosity, she knew her limits and didn't ask any more questions.

The room was furnished comfortably and warmly, complete with a fireplace, bookshelves, a writing desk, and an armchair.

However, what attracted Conan Doyle's attention most was a set of clothes neatly laid out on the bed:
A brand-new deerstalker hat, a thick British-style cloak, and a long pipe.

There was also a letter next to it, with his name written on the envelope. He immediately recognized it as Lionel's handwriting.

After Mrs. Hudson left, he eagerly opened the letter.

In his letter, Lionel first welcomed him to London and expressed his hope that the accommodation would suit him well.

Then, the letter turned to the main topic:

"...Dear Arthur, you must have already seen the eye-catching cover of 'Good Words.' Yes, that is the public's glimpse of 'Sherlock Holmes.'"

However, the mystery needs to be maintained; the clothes and pipe on the bed are the 'costumes' I've prepared for you.

You don't need to play a role all the time. Just occasionally—very occasionally—in the evening or early morning, after A Study in Scarlet begins its serialization, you can briefly walk past the window of this house facing the street, wearing a cloak, a hunting hat, and a pipe in your mouth.

Note that only a blurry, fleeting silhouette is needed, allowing curious onlookers to catch a glimpse of it. Remember, public opinion needs guidance, and legends need hints.

Your actions at this moment will blur the line between fiction and reality in the image of "Sherlock Holmes." This is not deception, but rather an intriguing duet between author and reader...

In addition, a new list of documents is attached to this letter...

After reading the letter, Conan Doyle remained silent for a long time, then looked down at the "Sherlock Holmes" outfit on the bed.

Absurd? Excited? Incredible? A mix of emotions swirled within him.

He finally understood Lionel's plan—albeit only the tip of the iceberg.

From the mysterious cover of "Good Words" to the non-existent "221B Baker Street" address, and then to his role as the assistant to the "ghost Sherlock Holmes"...

All of this is part of a grand narrative, designed to bring the character of Sherlock Holmes to the world in the most spectacular way.

He picked up the deerstalker hat and put it on his head, then put on the cloak, put the pipe in his mouth, and walked to the dressing mirror.

The young man in the mirror instantly gained a more mysterious and mature air.

He looked at himself in the mirror and kept repeating, "John H. Watson? No, I am Sherlock Holmes!"

A smile gradually appeared on his lips.

He never imagined that he would eventually participate in literary creation in this way, or even become the shadow of a fictional character.

He walked to the window, looked down at the cars and pedestrians on Baker Street, and imagined that soon, perhaps someone would really look up at this window, searching for a detective who didn't even exist...

A sudden shiver swept through Conan Doyle's body, almost making him groan softly...

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Just as Conan Doyle settled down on Baker Street and began gathering information for his list, another project by Lionel was underway in Brixton, across the Thames.

Brixton, located in south London, is a rapidly expanding but poor suburb filled with cheap rentals and new immigrants.

At the end of one of the secluded streets, there stood a solitary two-story brick house. The house looked quite old, with peeling paint and dim windows. Separated from its neighbors by several plots of wasteland, it appeared particularly desolate.

The atmosphere here inexplicably matches all the imaginings people have of a place where "something bad might happen".

The owner of this place is a poor, eccentric painter named Stan Murdoch, who barely makes a living by illustrating for cheap magazines.

One day in late June, Stan Murdoch received an unexpected visitor.

A well-dressed middle-aged man arrived in a heavily concealed carriage and knocked on his door.

The visitor got straight to the point, proposing to rent Murdoch's house for six months at a price far above market value—a full £50—and demanding that he move out within three days and take all his personal belongings with him.

The only requirement is that a very strict confidentiality agreement be signed, during and after the lease term, and that no information about the house be disclosed to anyone.

Otherwise, not only will the rent be completely recovered, but a penalty of up to two hundred pounds will also be required.

For the impoverished Murdoch, this was like a windfall.

Fifty pounds was a huge sum of money for him, enough for him to find a better place to live in central London for a while, and even to live a carefree life for some time.

Although he was puzzled by this strange request, he signed the agreement almost without hesitation under the lure of money.

Having received the money, Stan Murdoch quickly packed up his meager belongings and moved out of the house the very next day.

No sooner had Murdoch left than another group of people arrived.

These people were taciturn and efficient. They entered the empty room with various tools and materials and began to work strictly according to a sketch in their hands.

They replaced the old, worn-out carpet in the room with a new one of a specific color and degree of wear.

They rearranged the furniture and even replaced some of it;
They created specific stains and mottled marks on the walls;

They carefully sprinkled a specific type of ash into the fireplace...

Most importantly, they carefully painted that word on one of the walls using a special dark red pigment—

"RACHE"

Every detail is meticulously recreated, as if a bizarre and terrifying murder had truly occurred here.

They worked in silence, and left in silence after they finished, as if they had never been there.

Immediately afterwards, the entire house was quietly sealed off, awaiting the arrival of a specific moment.

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Norman McLeod sat in the editor-in-chief's office, listening to his assistant Will's report while absentmindedly gazing at the hazy sky outside the window.

On his desk was a newly translated proof of Part One of A Study in Scarlet, delivered by Humphreys, the chief translator of Good Words.

This was Dr. Norman McLeod's requirement that no one else, except himself, Humphreys, and the typesetters at the printing press, should have access to the translation.

After Will left, he murmured to himself the words from Lionel's letter: "Let all of London become a part of this novel..."

Norman MacLeod stood up, walked to the window, and looked down at the Thames flowing below, and at the hurried pedestrians and carriages—

"Very well, Mr. Sorel, let all of London join you in this celebration!"

(Three chapters tonight, I'll make up for it tomorrow, I can't take it anymore)
(End of this chapter)