Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 267 More money is needed!
In the nineteenth century, the symbol of the intellectual class was not merely knowledge of literature and art, or skill in accounting and investment, but more importantly, whether they possessed trivial knowledge that others did not understand.

Previously, it was the year of Bordeaux, France; it featured patterns on Chinese porcelain; it depicted the weaving techniques of Persian carpets; it showcased the assembly craftsmanship of Swiss pocket watches…

Now, we turn to the various clues in "A Study in Scarlet".

Amidst the swirling smoke of cigars, people held magazines, carefully studying every detail described in the articles.

"I agree with Holmes's deduction about the horseshoe!"

A country gentleman exclaimed, “The marks of new horseshoes and old horseshoes are certainly different, especially on muddy ground.”

I have over twenty fine horses, I know that! That's something the Scotland Yard guys might really overlook.

So everyone else in the club knew that this newly joined gentleman was a true tycoon.

Another lawyer countered, "But what about the flushed face and long fingernails? That's completely unfounded! Unless he saw other traces left by the killer."

For example... for example, the residue of a drug that only people with ruddy complexions would use? Or scratch marks from long fingernails? I've handled similar cases..."

Then everyone learned that this lawyer had once saved a man who was almost hanged, and had him acquitted.

A young university teacher tried to join the discussion: "Perhaps it's a psychological inference? A person eager for revenge might have a flushed face from anger, or they might be too stressed to trim their nails?"

Ha, now everyone knows he understands "psychology"—but it's the most useless thing.

"Come on, these are all just guesses! The author will definitely reveal the reason in the next issue; he's just keeping us in suspense!"

Discussions often end with similar remarks.

But everyone involved got what they wanted—they flaunted their wealth, hinted at their seniority, and demonstrated their knowledge…

This is far more subtle and natural than other methods, it won't offend people, and it can also demonstrate one's "rationality" and "logic".

What better medium could there be than Sherlock Holmes?
The Times published an article exploring the impact of A Study in Scarlet, concluding that:
In Britain today, 'deduction' has become a way of life!

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21B Baker Street, London.

Arthur Conan Doyle was cautiously lifting a corner of the curtain to peek at the scene below.

It was nearly noon, and the streets should have been relatively quiet, but there were still thirty to fifty people gathered outside 21B.

Some of them were well-dressed office workers or businessmen, while others were clearly idle citizens, and of course, there were also reporters mixed in.

They were like a flock of pigeons waiting to be fed, occasionally looking up at the window with anticipation and curiosity on their faces.

Conan Doyle drew the curtains, scratching his hair in frustration: "My God...don't they need to work or eat?"

However, the thought of his name appearing right after Lionel Sorel in the Good Words magazine sent a surge of warmth to his cheeks.

But pride comes at a price—he was practically a fish in a tank, trapped in the house.

Since being recognized by reporters and given the nickname "Dr. Watson," 21B Baker Street has become London's newest tourist hotspot. He can hardly move an inch; whenever he shows his face at the entrance, he is bombarded with intense stares and a barrage of questions.

Now, only before dawn does Conan Doyle dare to wrap himself tightly in his coat, pull his hat down, and sneak out of the house while the thick fog is still thick.

This nocturnal lifestyle made him feel like he was living like a mouse.

"Sigh..." He sighed and walked to his desk.

The materials he had recently collected were spread out on the table. He tried to focus on his work and forget his troubles.

Just then, the sound of a key turning in a lock came from downstairs, followed by Mrs. Hudson's heavy footsteps and even heavier complaints.

Her voice was clearly impatient: "I've had enough! It's been a nightmare! Mr. Doyle, are you upstairs?"

Conan Doyle quickly responded, went down the stairs, and came to the small foyer on the first floor.

Mrs. Hudson had just returned from shopping when she slammed her shopping basket on the ground and launched into a barrage of complaints: "Look outside! How many days has it been?"
Do these people have nothing better to do? I just went to the street corner to buy some potatoes and beef, and I was stopped by two reporters!
The endless stream of questions—"What new case is Mr. Holmes investigating lately?" "When will Dr. Watson publish his new memoir?" "Can you reveal the meaning of the blood-written words on the wall?"...

Good heavens, how would I know any of this! I'm just a poor old widow! —Oh, by the way, this is your letter!

She handed a letter to Conan Doyle, but kept talking: "As soon as I opened the door, they craned their necks to look inside, as if I were hiding some monster!"

If I had known that renting a house would cause such a big problem, I would have paid only £2 a week... no, £3!
"I won't agree to go along with your schemes! £1 a week in rent? Looking back, it's a complete rip-off! My peaceful life is ruined!"

Conan Doyle could only force a smile and try his best to comfort the poor woman caught in the eye of the storm.

Mrs. Hudson was still angry, but her tone softened slightly: "Mr. Doyle, you are a good-natured young man, I wasn't angry at you."

But life has to go on, right? How am I supposed to live with so many people surrounding me every day?
Even Mrs. Smith next door came over today to ask me if I was planning to turn my house into a museum and charge admission! This is simply…

She continued to complain incessantly about the strange looks from her neighbors and the various inconveniences of daily life.

Conan Doyle responded absentmindedly, "Yes, Mrs. Hudson," "I understand, it is indeed very bad."
He tore open the envelope and began reading it eagerly.

The letter was signed "Lionel Sorel," but the address was not Paris, but Rome, Italy.

As he read the letter, a look of surprise gradually appeared on his face. After a while, his brows furrowed slightly, as if he was digesting the contents of the letter.

Mrs. Hudson continued to complain: "...That's why I say, at least 10 more shillings a week is needed to make up for my losses!"
Mr. Doyle, don't you think? You should have a good talk with your friend..."

Conan Doyle took a deep breath, turned around, and interrupted the landlady's incessant chatter about the rent: "Mrs. Hudson."

His tone was so formal that Mrs. Hudson paused, stopped talking, and looked at him with a puzzled expression.

Conan Doyle waved the letter in his hand: "I have... um... something very important that I'd like to discuss with you."

Mrs. Hudson asked warily, "A proposal? What proposal? What do you want me to do this time? Well, let me make it clear beforehand, it'll cost extra!"

Conan Doyle asked slowly, "Mrs. Hudson, would you like to sell this house? Someone is willing to offer a very fair price..."

(End of this chapter)