Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 299 Cheap Reward

Emerging from Scotland Yard, the two climbed into Norman MacLeod's four-wheeled carriage.

Dr. Norman McLeod looked at Lionel across from him and finally asked the question he had been holding back all the way:

“My dear Lionel, my friend, I must confess, I am somewhat... somewhat confused.”

Lionel turned his gaze to Norman McLeod.

Norman MacLeod continued, "Aren't you being a little too 'enthusiastic' about Scotland Yard and this Colonel Vincent?"

You're practically painting a blueprint for the future of policing for them, which goes far beyond simply protecting our interests.

I don't understand why! They were so sarcastic and mocking when I asked for help before!

Lionel didn't answer, but gazed at the gray streets of London before slowly speaking: "Norman, what is the purpose of my writing these stories?"

Norman MacLeod paused for a moment, then instinctively replied, "Literature has its noble value; it enlightens the mind and reflects society..."

Lionel gave a helpless look: "Can't you be more realistic? I only wrote this because you promised me £10 per thousand words."

Otherwise, I have several other projects in my writing schedule that take much longer than 'Sherlock Holmes'.

Norman MacLeod chuckled awkwardly: "Money is certainly a factor, but the value of literature goes far beyond that; it can also influence society..."

Lionel chimed in: "That's right, it has an impact on society. Especially genres like 'crime novels'."

It depicts darkness and exposes the ugliness of human nature. But it always carries a certain hidden danger; it is a double-edged sword.

Norman McLeod frowned: "A double-edged sword?"

Lionel nodded: "Yes. It may lead some people to imitate the crimes in the book, or it may inspire others to challenge authority and flaunt their intelligence."

They would see the detectives in the book as adversaries, and committing the perfect crime as an 'achievement'.

Norman MacLeod gasped; he had never considered the issue from this angle before: "You mean... our *A Study in Scarlet* might..."

Lionel waved his hand: "No, I'm not criticizing our own work. I'm thinking about the 'genre' itself."

Any work depicting crime and investigation carries this risk to some extent.

My original intention in creating 'Sherlock Holmes' was not to ridicule police incompetence, nor to provide a textbook for criminals.

Norman McLeod suddenly realized: "So we need to work with Scotland Yard to share the results of 'deductive reasoning' with real law enforcement officers."

This will help them better maintain order and protect citizens in reality, thereby mitigating the potential risks posed by crime novels.

That's why you devoted so much space in "A Study in Scarlet" to describing the problems within the Mormon community!
This isn't just about serving the plot; it's also an attempt to observe society and critique reality.

Lionel nodded: "My 'Sherlock Holmes' is more than just a puzzle-solving machine. He focuses on the motives behind the cases and the corners that are often overlooked."

He doesn't live in an ivory tower; he's a 'social realist' detective!

Norman MacLeod murmured the unfamiliar word repeatedly: "Socialism...Socialism..."

Then he seemed to remember something and a strange smile appeared on his face: "Speaking of 'rewards', Lionel, the 'rewards' you're 'demanding' are too cheap, aren't they?"

Just to ask them to change the address of 21B Baker Street to 221B Baker Street when it's possible in the future? That's...that's too lenient with them!

We could certainly ask for more, such as having them step in to combat piracy, or…

Lionel interrupted him with a laugh: "Norman, believe me, this is absolutely worth every penny."

————— The carriage soon returned to the Sussex Hotel where Lionel was staying. After saying goodbye to Norman McLeod, Lionel went into the lobby.

Just as he passed the front desk, a waiter called out to Lionel: "Good evening, Mr. Sorel. A gentleman left you a message this morning."

As he spoke, he handed over a neatly folded notepad.

Lionel thanked him, took the note, unfolded it, and found that a reporter named Robert Downston Stephenson wanted to interview him.

Lionel frowned slightly.

He came to London without informing anyone except Norman MacLeod and Conan Doyle.

He didn't want to be bothered by unnecessary social engagements and interviews, and especially didn't want Oscar Wilde to come knocking on his door again.

Based on what I heard at the Paris Salon, this guy has already become quite famous in London's underground clubs.

He stuffed the note into his pocket and went straight upstairs to his room.

He needed to rest, and that evening he would go to Baker Street to see Conan Doyle and ask him how the "Boys of Holmes" were going.

However, he underestimated Robert Downston Stephenson's persistence.

In the afternoon, as Lionel stepped downstairs into the hotel lobby, a figure quickly got up from the sofa in the lounge area, strode up to him, and blocked his way.

He was a middle-aged man, thin, with disheveled hair and a pale face.

The man spoke up: "Mr. Sorel! Mr. Lionel Sorel! Please forgive my intrusion!"

"I am Robert Downston Stephenson, and I left you a message this morning!"

Lionel stopped and looked at the uninvited guest before him: "Mr. Stephenson, I saw your message."

However, my schedule is currently very full, and I'm afraid I cannot give an interview. Thank you for your kind offer.

He tried to walk around him, but Stephenson nimbly moved a step and blocked his way again: "Just half an hour! No, twenty minutes will do!"
Mr. Sorel, I focus on writing investigative journalism about police investigations and urban crime, and I absolutely love your *A Study in Scarlet*!

I admire you immensely! Truly! Your insightful understanding of criminal psychology and your grasp of investigative details make reading feel like I'm actually there!

Seeing that he couldn't shake off this person's entanglement, Lionel asked a question first: "How did you know I lived here? Don't tell me it was a chance encounter."

Robert Stephenson smiled smugly: "I've been staking out Baker Street these past few days, hoping to get some exclusive news or an interview with Mr. Doyle."

But he's too cunning, I can never catch him... The other day you went through the back alley, but I just happened to wander over there! It was a completely unexpected find!

Lionel: "..." He finally understood why Conan Doyle had told him to sneak out through the back alley and never go to the main road.

Now he could only helplessly say, "Okay, ten minutes. I can only give you ten minutes. But I have one request!"

Robert Stephenson nodded repeatedly: "Please go ahead and say it."

Lionel said, "This report will be published at least two weeks later."

Robert Stephenson looked troubled, but finally gritted his teeth and said, "Okay, no problem."

Lionel then moved to an empty seat in the rest area and said to Robert Stephenson, "Let's begin."

Robert Stephenson was overjoyed and snapped his fingers at the waiter in the lounge: "Two Assam glasses, please!"

　罗伯特·唐斯顿·斯蒂芬森（1841年4月20日—1916年10月9日）
　　A journalist and writer with a deep interest in the occult and black magic, specializing in newspaper columns about police cases. Before the Jack the Ripper murders, he was a patient at Whitechapel Hospital and left shortly after the killings. He was listed as a suspect by newspaper editor William Thomas Stead, writer Mabel Collins, and her friend, Baroness Victoria Clemens.

　　
　
(End of this chapter)