Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 295 The Minister's Attention

The reaction to "The Rules of the Detective" far exceeded anyone's expectations.

On the afternoon of the same day the new issue of "Good Words" was released, the reception desk of Scotland Yard Criminal Investigation Department was thrown into chaos.

It wasn't a horrific crime, nor was it an angry protest by citizens; it was just a group of ordinary people with an excessive amount of curiosity.

Holding brand-new copies of "Good Words" magazine, they blocked the doorway, bombarding the police officers with all sorts of ridiculous questions.

A bespectacled man squeezed to the window and pointed at "The Rules of a Master Detective": "Officer, do we at Scotland Yard have a 'database'?"

Like the kind that 'Mr. Holmes' possesses?"

The duty sheriff paused for a moment, then said, "Database? Sir, we have our own filing system..."

Another voice interrupted: "No, no, not just any ordinary file! It's the kind of database that can instantly identify a cigar brand just by looking at the ash!"

There are even databases that can determine the origin of something based on soil analysis, and deduce the killer's height and weight from footprints... Do you have such databases?

The sheriff's face flushed slightly: "Sir, we rely on rigorous investigation and evidence to solve cases..."

Someone in the crowd sighed in disappointment: "So that means there's nothing left?"
"It seems Mr. Holmes is indeed far ahead of us..."

"Officer, may I see your cigar ash sample record? Just for a glance!"

"Don't be silly, they certainly don't have as many as Mr. Holmes!"

The police officers were overwhelmed and exhausted.

Their explanations were weak and their attempts to disperse the crowd lacked justification—these people had not broken the law, but were simply overly enthusiastic and naive.

A sense of absurd powerlessness permeated the foyer of Scotland Yard.

This trend even affected internally.

In the Criminal Investigation Bureau's office area, several young detectives couldn't help but huddle together, flipping through the circulated copy of "Good Words."

A detective nudged his colleague with his elbow: "My God, look at this, 'Bahia cigar, dark gray ash, loose texture'..."

"Hank, is this what the ash looks like on that cheap cigarette you smoked yesterday?"

Detective Hank rubbed his nose: "Shut up... But if this thing is real, wouldn't it actually help narrow down the search area if cigarette butts are found at crime scenes in the future?"

"Dream on! You'd need to have the money to buy all those cigars and smoke them all, plus set up a lab! What can our meager salaries possibly cover?"

A sense of envy and frustration lingered among the detectives, who felt completely overshadowed by the fictional detective.

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.

The atmosphere inside Colonel Howard Vincent's office was even more somber than outside.

He felt a nameless fire burning in his chest.

He walked to the window and looked down at the bustling crowd in Whitehall Square, as if he could hear their whispers.

Just then, there was a knock on the office door, and his secretary poked his head in: "Colonel, the director requests your presence."

Howard Vincent's heart sank—what's coming will come.

He straightened his uniform, took a deep breath, and headed toward Sir Charles Warren's office.

But unlike his previous outburst, Sir Warren appeared remarkably calm today.

He sat behind his large desk, holding the latest issue of "Good Words" magazine in his hand.

He didn't look at Vincent, but instead focused intently on turning the page of "The Rules of Detectives".

After a long while, Sir Warren finally spoke: "Vincent, sit down."

Howard Vincent sat down as instructed, his back ramrod straight, but inwardly he was extremely surprised—

This was the first time he had received this treatment since Sherlock Holmes appeared.

Sir Warren pushed the magazine in front of him: "Take a good look at this."

Howard Vincent pursed his lips: "Sir, this is just a sensationalist piece..."

Sir Warren interrupted him: "I'm asking you, do we even have this thing?"

Howard Vincent paused, startled: "You mean..."

Sir Warren's tone was calm: "Detailed records of cigar ash? Soil characteristics from different regions? Or, to broaden the scope further, a 'criminal database' like the one touted here?"
Answer me, Vincent, do you have a CID? Do we at Scotland Yard have one?

Colonel Howard Vincent felt his cheeks burning.

He began with difficulty, “Sir, we have some archival records, but… but such classification and research… are not yet available.”

This requires a lot of funding and professional personnel…

Sir Warren concluded the same way the citizens did: "That means there isn't any!"

He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest: "A figment of a French novelist's imagination has now become the yardstick by which citizens measure the capabilities of our police force."

And we can't even produce anything to prove we're not incompetent.

He stared into Vincent's eyes: "This afternoon, I was summoned by the minister, who also asked me the same question."

He found this 'deductive method' very interesting and 'scientific.' He wondered why Scotland Yard couldn't be more 'scientific.'

Howard Vincent couldn't help but defend himself: "Sir, solving a case isn't just about theory! What we need is on-the-ground investigation, witnesses, clues..."

Sir Warren waved his hand: "I know! But I need you now, Vincent. Stop complaining about the novel; you need to think!"
The public has seen a more 'advanced' illusion, and whether it is real or not, we must respond.

Now, public expectations have been raised, and if we can't keep up, we'll forever live in the shadow of this damned 'Sherlock Holmes'!

He pointed to the book "Good Words": "Go and study it, see how much of it is feasible and how much is exaggerated."

Let's see if we can learn from their ideas. I don't want to be the only person who can answer "no" next time someone asks me if I have a 'criminal database'!

Colonel Howard Vincent fell silent, enveloped by a deep sense of humiliation.

But he could only stand at attention and reply in a deep voice, "Yes, sir. I will take care of it."

------

Meanwhile, the atmosphere in the living room at 21B Baker Street was much more relaxed.

However, despite the open window, the room was still filled with a strong smell of cigar smoke.

Lionel stood up, picked up his coat, and said, "I should go back to the hotel. I have to go to 'Good Words' tomorrow."

Conan Doyle quickly placed the half-smoked cigar on the ashtray and began to plead, "Oh, Leon, stay a little longer!"
We can have dinner together and talk more about that special mixed-breed dog! It's absolutely adorable..."

Lionel declined: "No, Arthur. You need time to process what we just discussed, and I need to gather my thoughts. Besides..."

He looked up and sniffed: "Seriously, you should smoke fewer cigars."

Conan Doyle scratched his thick curly hair, chuckled twice, and didn't refute.

The two walked down the stairs together, and Mrs. Anderson came up to them: "Mr. Sorel! Are you leaving already?"

I bought some excellent lamb chops and am just about to roast them! It's so lonely for Mr. Doyle to eat alone!

------

After declining Mrs. Anderson's offer to stay, Lionel left 21B Baker Street and stood on the sidewalk.

The streets of London were still bustling in the evening, with horse-drawn carriages coming and going and pedestrians hurrying by. The air was still bad, but much better than when I visited last summer.

Lionel was somewhat relieved that he had arrived in London early last year and hadn't encountered the "poisonous fog."

This disaster lasted for three months, from Christmas 1879 until March 1880.

It was during the peak winter coal-burning season, and factory chimneys and residential fireplaces were emitting large amounts of soot and sulfur dioxide...

These toxic substances accumulated under conditions of temperature inversion and calm weather, forming a dense, irritating fog that killed thousands in London.

If I had fallen ill at that time, I might have been sitting in a coffin when I returned to Paris.

However, it is currently autumn to winter, and the cold winds blowing from Beihai are fierce, so large-scale heating has not yet begun.

Lionel instinctively wanted to wave for a horse-drawn carriage, but the unpleasant experience from last time instantly came flooding back.

His gaze then fell upon a building in the distance that served as the entrance to a classical arcade.

He decided to take the subway today!

(End of this chapter)