Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 281 Another Version of Sherlock Holmes (Thanks to the Alliance Leader of Dark Ash Chaos)

In September 1880, London citizens, besides the fresh air, were most eager to read the latest issue of the magazine "Good Words" as soon as possible.

Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective living at 221B Baker Street, has become a “sweet” torment.

After finishing the latest installment, countless readers write to *Good Words*, their requests simply being that the magazine publish more chapters.

[Please, editor-in-chief, I'm so itchy! Just one more chapter, please...]

There were also suggestions to change "Good Words" from a bi-monthly to a weekly publication, or even to publish it daily like other newspapers.

In London clinics, some patients with strange symptoms appeared—some were hyperactive and would talk incessantly about the “traces” they saw on anyone they met, and the conclusions they deduced from those traces;
Others appeared listless and dull-eyed, and this always occurred within two to three days after the latest issue of "Good Words" magazine was released.

The newspapers called this the "Sherlock Holmes syndrome".

Just then, as if in response to this anxiety, a poorly bound, unusually cheap booklet suddenly appeared on the market.

The cover is printed in bold black lettering: "A Study in Scarlet (Complete Edition)".

……

At Hawkins' newsstand on the Thames River docks, Mr. Hawkins, the owner, frowned as he looked at his increasingly bleak business.

A regular customer, George Wilson, an insurance company employee, squeezed his way to the stall while flipping through the brochure he had just bought.

George's voice was filled with unbelievable excitement: "Mr. Hawkins, look at this! A complete edition of A Study in Scarlet! Only sixpence!"

No need to wait for "Good Words" anymore!

Mr. Hawkins took the book; the rough paper and ink quickly stained his fingers black.

He quickly flipped through the pages; the first half was almost identical to the already serialized version of "Good Words."

But when the plot moves into the Mormon community, the tone suddenly changes.

“What…what the hell is this?” Mr. Hawkins muttered to himself.

George Wilson, however, was already watching with great interest, and even couldn't help but read it aloud: "Hey, listen to this part—"

Holmes was no longer the gentleman who relied solely on his intellect; like an enraged lion, he drew his Webley revolver from his waist and fired, 'Bang! Bang! Bang!' The bullets, hot as they were thrown, grazed the Mormon elder's ear and shattered the eye of the icon behind him...

"My God, this is so exciting!"

Another man dressed as a worker leaned over and grinned, saying, "There's something even more exciting!"

Look behind us, when Holmes is investigating that widow Ruth…

At this point, he let out a knowing laugh: "Hehe... I didn't expect this detective to be such a master!"

Mr. Hawkins snatched the booklet, flipped to the back, and a few lines of text caught his eye:
"...Mrs. Ruth, dressed in her nightgown, the candlelight outlining her voluptuous figure, looked at Holmes with teary eyes: 'Sir, I'm afraid...they won't let me go...'"

Sherlock Holmes was no longer the cold, calculating machine; his deep gray eyes flashed with pity and love, as well as an intensely burning flame.

He approached her, took her trembling hand in his; it was icy cold. He gently pulled her into his arms, feeling her softness and shivering.

"I will protect you until I find out the truth." His voice was deep, carrying an unprecedented tenderness.

"How can we protect him?" Mrs. Ruth raised her tearful eyes and looked up at his sharply defined, cold face.

Holmes did not answer, but sealed her question with a passionate kiss.

The flickering candlelight cast two intertwined shadows on the wall; a sleepless night...

Mr. Hawkins was so angry his beard was trembling: "Nonsense! This is utter nonsense!"

This was not written by Mr. Sorel! This is an insult to Sherlock Holmes!

George Wilson and the worker exchanged a smile. The worker said nonchalantly, "Old Hawkins, who cares who wrote it? As long as it's entertaining! The original Sherlock Holmes was good, but he was too... too much like an ethereal angel."

This version is so much better! Gunfights, women—that's what a real hero is like! Sixpence, totally worth it!

Mr. Hawkins' eyes lit up: "Where did you buy this book?"

……

Such conversations take place in countless pubs, workshops, and even the living rooms of some middle-class families in London.

For many readers who couldn't wait for the serialization of "Good Words" or who were simply seeking excitement and didn't care much about literary quality, this pirated book was cheap, "complete," and full of hot and erotic scenes—a real lifesaver.

Although most people knew perfectly well that this was a common trick used by underground booksellers—hiring cheap ghostwriters to write popular serials—it didn't stop them from reading with great interest and thoroughly enjoying it.

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.

In East London, an office with a sign that reads "The Whispers" on the outside is filled with smoke.

Mark Eric was comfortably leaning back in his leather executive chair, his obese body almost filling the entire chair.

He also held a newly printed pirated copy of "A Study in Scarlet" in his hand, a satisfied smile on his lips.

The office door was gently pushed open, and his trusted valet, Madour, carefully carried in a stack of account books.

Maddell placed the ledger on the table: "Boss, these are the first batch of sales figures, and the response... is quite enthusiastic!"
In just three days, we sold nearly five thousand copies from vendors in the East District and the dock area.

Mark Eric tapped the table with his stubby fingers: "Enthusiastic? I guess it's more than just enthusiastic."

Those dockworkers and apprentices, seeing this, probably wouldn't even want to go to work anymore, right? Haha!

He laughed triumphantly, his fat jiggling.

He casually flipped through the pirated book, found a passage he had "instructed" the ghostwriter to add, and read it with great interest:

...In the abandoned shipyard, the final showdown arrived. The murderer, Jefferson Hope, like a wild beast cornered, brandished his dagger and charged at Holmes.

He roared, "For Lucy! For revenge!"

There was no fear in Holmes' eyes, only the calm of a hunter locking onto his prey.

He dodged the fatal thrust by sidestepping, and his pistol fired again.

This time, the bullet pierced Hope's heart with pinpoint accuracy.

Hope staggered a few steps, looked down in disbelief at the blood blooming on her chest, and collapsed heavily to the ground.

At this point, Lestrade and Gretchen arrived late with their Scotland Yard troops.

Holmes didn't even glance at them, but simply blew away the smoke from the gun barrel with an elegant gesture.

Then he holstered his pistol, pulled up his trench coat collar, and disappeared into the night and mist, leaving the police with only a legendary silhouette...

After reading it, Mark Eric burst into laughter: "See? This is what readers want to see! A satisfying revenge! Hands-on punishment!"

Instead of the old, indifferent guy who handed criminals over to the law and stood by solving the mystery himself! The law? Hmph, what good is the law?!

Maddal listened quietly, neither agreeing nor refuting. He knew that what his boss needed was not opinions, but listening.

Mark Eric put down the brochure, took a smug puff of his cigar, and exhaled a thick smoke ring: "Print another 5000 copies!"
Also, be careful not to give them any leverage over you!

Madour said "yes" and respectfully left the office.

After a while, Mark Eric suddenly remembered something and shouted towards the door:
"Pierre, you idiot, get in here right now!"

(End of this chapter)