Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 261 Yes, sir!

The atmosphere was somber inside the Metropolitan Police headquarters at 4 Whitehall.

The police officers were annoyed by the newspaper reports over the past few days, and almost every one of them had been harassed by reporters.

The heavy oak door to the director's office was tightly shut, but a low growl could be faintly heard coming from inside as one passed by the doorway.

"Fool! Utter fool!" Sir Charles Warren, the highest-ranking officer of Scotland Yard, slammed the crumpled copy of the Trivia newspaper to his feet.

His rough face flushed red: "Look! Look at what these damned newspapers have written!"
Scotland Yard's incompetence, its cover-up, and the need for a private investigator to clean up its mess!
Vincent, is this the impression your CID has left on the public? Is this the 'professionalism' of the London Police?

Colonel Howard Vincent attempted to explain: "Sir, that statement was to clarify the facts and avoid any misunderstanding among the public..."

Officer Charles Warren interrupted him: "Your 'clarification' is like pouring oil into a stove; instead of putting out the fire, it has set all of London ablaze!"
The whole city is talking about that damned 'letter in blood' and that empty house! They're all laughing at Scotland Yard for being a clumsy actor whose lies have been exposed!
Before you released this statement, didn't you consider that it would only make those fools who are obsessed with detective stories even more convinced that what's written in the novels is true?

He strode up to Howard Vincent and said, “I don’t care what method you use, Vincent, stop this farce right now!”

I never want to see 'Sherlock Holmes' and 'Scotland Yard' on the same page in any newspaper again!
Unless it's a report about how we personally arrested this charlatan—if such a person even exists!

And that ghostly empty house, send someone to investigate it thoroughly and find out who is playing tricks on me!
I want a definitive report, not more speculation and rumors! Do you understand?

Howard Vincent straightened his back: "Yes, sir! I'll get right on it!"

------

Back in the CID director's office, Colonel Howard Vincent finally found an outlet for his pent-up anger.

He ripped his hat off and threw it on the coat rack, yelling at the door, "Avery! Get in here!"

The person who answered the call was a man in his thirties who looked quite shrewd.

He was Colonel Vincent's secretary, named Edgar Avery.

Edgar Avery wore his usual obsequious smile: "Colonel, what is it?"

Howard Vincent pointed his finger at him: "It was all your brilliant idea! To publish a statement in the newspaper to 'set the record straight'?"
Look at the result! We've become the laughingstock of all of London! Sir Warren just summoned me and gave me a thorough dressing-down!

It's all because of you, you self-righteous idiot!

Edgar Avery stammered in defense: "Colonel, I...I just wanted to get rid of the negative impact of that novel as quickly as possible..."

Who would have thought that those reporters and citizens would be so...so unreasonable..."

Howard Vincent interrupted him impatiently: "Incomprehensible? You're just being arrogant! It's no use saying that now!"

Go and make arrangements immediately. Send the most discreet person to seal off that empty house in Somerley Lane right now! Not a single mouse is allowed in without my order!

Then have the on-site investigation team bring the best equipment and thoroughly inspect me inside and out!
I need to know what the hell is written on that wall, and what happened in that room! Hurry!

Edgar Avery straightened his back: "Yes, sir! I'll take care of it right away!"

He didn't dare to delay for a moment and practically scrambled out of the office.

------

Less than an hour later, a team of experienced police officers arrived at Somerley Lane in the Brixton district.

They dispersed the curious onlookers and reporters who were still peering around the house, and set up a prominent cordon around it.

However, the formal intervention of the police did not dampen people's enthusiasm; on the contrary, it provoked an even greater reaction.

"Look! The Scotland Yard men are here!"

"They're really feeling guilty! Are they trying to destroy the evidence?"

"Look, they brought an investigation kit. Are they going to reinvestigate?"

"I knew this case was real! Even the police had to come!"

……

The crowd did not disperse; instead, it grew larger and larger.

Reporters, like sharks smelling blood, documented every detail of the police cordoning off the scene. The senior police inspector leading the team frowned as he looked at the surging crowd.

He tried to maintain order, loudly announcing that unauthorized personnel were not allowed to approach, but his voice was quickly drowned out by the clamor of the crowd.

The crowd surged forward, pushing the police line to the brink of collapse. The police officers had to link arms to form a human wall to barely hold them back.

The police inspector muttered to his assistant, "This is a nightmare! I'd rather deal with a bunch of drunken rioters in the East District than face these novel-obsessed lunatics here!"

Meanwhile, an investigation team composed of the CID's most experienced detectives and coroners entered the empty house.

They carefully turned on the gas lamp, illuminating the dim room.

The scene inside the house took even these seasoned detectives by surprise.

As described by Jackson, a reporter for The Trivia, the room's layout does indeed bear some resemblance to the description in A Study in Scarlet.

The worn-out carpet, a few simple pieces of furniture... their gaze finally focused on the shocking word on the wall—"RACHE".

The coroner leaned closer to examine it closely, even gently touching the dark red mark with his finger, before frowning.

The detective in charge asked, "How is it?"

The coroner straightened up, a look of bewilderment on his face: "It's not blood, at least not human blood."

It's probably just ordinary paint, but the effect of mimicking blood coagulation and flow is incredibly realistic..."

The detectives looked at each other in bewilderment.

They then carefully inspected every corner of the room.

On the ground, someone had clearly outlined a rough human figure with white chalk.

The silhouette and posture were just like the dead person described in the novel—"fists clenched, arms outstretched, legs crossed."

Beside the outline, there was even a rather cheap-looking brass ring, plain in style and without any special features.

They searched the entire house but found no signs of a struggle, no blood, no weapons…

In short, there is no evidence to prove that any violent crimes have ever occurred here.

There was only dust and a musty smell in the air, not a trace of blood.

A young detective pointed to the fireplace in the corner and reported, "Sir, there's a small amount of ash in the hearth. It burned completely and isn't worth much."

The detective in charge took a deep breath and concluded: "This is not a crime scene at all."

This is more like… more like an elaborately staged performance, a set built to imitate that damned novel.

The detectives then searched the area around the house in an attempt to locate the homeowner.

The neighbors' accounts were largely the same: Stan Murdoch was a reclusive, poor painter who rarely left his home and made a living by illustrating for cheap magazines.

About a month ago, he suddenly became wealthy, not only paying off his overdue grocery store bills but also moving away quickly, his whereabouts unknown.

Nobody knows where he suddenly got a large sum of money from.

This clue further convinced the detectives that Stan Murdoch's sudden move was directly related to the "transformation" of the house.

It's very likely that someone bribed him to cooperate in this charade.

By the time the exploration work was completed, it was nearly dusk.

The detectives left Somerley Lane with the evidence they had collected.

The crowd outside the police cordon stirred again when they saw the police come out.

Reporters held up their notebooks, attempting to conduct interviews, but were refused by the police with expressionless faces.

(End of this chapter)