1836: I Became a Literary Giant in Great Britain

With the phenomenal success of Bentley's Notebooks, A Study in Scarlet began to permeate every corner of London.

The familiar cheap pub on Lightning Street was filled with the smell of cheap alcohol and a strong odor of sweat.

Old Jack slapped a wet penny on the bar and picked up a glass of cheap beer with his calloused and greasy hands.

He found a corner to sit down, took a big gulp of his drink, and then let out a long sigh of relief.

Feels so good~

The day's fatigue seemed to be completely released in this sip of cool, slightly bitter liquor.

After all, alcohol and tobacco are always the best stress relievers for the poor.

The pub was bustling with noise, a cacophony of workers' laughter, complaints, and the clinking of glasses. This was the background noise of working-class London.

Of course, this is also one of the few relaxing moments of the day for old Jack.

"Tom, anything interesting happened today? What fun stuff was in the paper?"

Old Jack shouted towards the bar.

Tom, the former clerk, was wiping a greasy wine glass.

Yes, Tom not only had to read scripts in the pub, but washing glasses and cleaning were also part of his job.

After all, if he didn't engage in this cutthroat competition, the boss would probably say, "If you don't do it, plenty of others will."

Tom looked up, his face showing a mixture of exhaustion and barely concealed excitement.

"Old Jack, you've come at the right time. Today's story is way more exciting than any two-headed monster fish or the Duchess!"

"Oh?" Many people in the tavern were intrigued and gathered around.

Tom put down his glass and carefully pulled a magazine from his pocket, instead of his usual crumpled penny newspaper.

The magazine's cover was brightly colored, making it stand out conspicuously in the cheap pub.

"This is 'The Bentley Notebook,' and everyone in London is scrambling for it today! It's a valuable item, two shillings and six pence a piece!"

Tom's voice had a hint of showing off.

The people in the tavern immediately became interested. They came here to hear stories, firstly because they were illiterate, and secondly, naturally, to save money.

After all, newspapers and magazines are both a considerable expense.

Drinking while listening to stories – isn't that wonderful? That's one of the biggest advantages of Lightning Street Tavern.

"Can you guess who the author is?"

"Who is it? Tell me quickly!"

"That's Mr. Michel, the author of 'The Last Leaf,' 'Thirst,' and 'Sorrow'!"

Seeing everyone's agitated state, ready to smash their glasses at him, Tom dared not keep them in suspense any longer and revealed the answer directly.

"It's him!" Old Jack perked up and sat up straight from his chair.

The tavern became much quieter instantly.

Michelle's name holds extraordinary significance for these workers struggling at the bottom of society.

He wasn't one of those aloof lords; he was a writer willing to speak out for people like them.

"What did he write this time?" a young worker asked in a low voice.

"A completely new story, called *A Study in Scarlet*!"

Tom cleared his throat and opened the magazine. "And it's a long story; today is only the first part."

"A long story?" The group was somewhat disappointed; they preferred short stories that could be listened to in one go.

"Don't rush," Tom said with a mysterious smile.

"This is absolutely a story you've never heard before..."

"I guarantee that once you hear the beginning, you'll want to listen to the rest."

God knows how long he'd been under the spell of *A Study in Scarlet* after receiving this magazine today...

After saying that, he began to read aloud by the dim light of the butter lamp.

"In 1831, I received my Doctor of Medicine degree from the University of London..."

The story doesn't begin with any earth-shattering events; it's just a mundane narration by a military doctor.

The tavern became a little noisy again, and people started talking in hushed tones.

But when the eccentric Sherlock Holmes appeared, everyone's attention was drawn back.

"Beating corpses with sticks in the autopsy room? Just to see bruises?" A burly man who looked like a butcher grinned, finding the idea both novel and frightening.

"He can tell at a glance that Dr. Watson came back from Afghanistan? How is that possible? Is he a wizard?"

As Tom continued his narration, the air in the tavern seemed to freeze.

The sound of chewing peanuts disappeared, the drinking stopped, and everyone held their breath, listening intently, afraid of missing any detail.

They seemed to follow in Watson's footsteps into the mysterious room at 221B Baker Street, where they saw the strange man playing the violin, conducting bizarre chemical experiments, and whose sharp eyes seemed to see right through people.

When "The Haunted House on Lauriston Garden Street" appeared, the entire pub was so quiet that only breathing and Tom's voice could be heard.

A body without any wounds, the pervasive smell of blood in the air, and the word "RACHE" written in blood on the wall.

The intense suspense, like an invisible hook, gripped every listener present!

"What does 'RACHE' mean?"

"Who is the killer? Why did they kill him?"

Tom's tone also became tense. Although he had read it beforehand, he was once again immersed in the story.

When he read that Holmes, after examining the scene, confidently announced that he knew the victim's height, age, and clues about the murderer, a suppressed gasp erupted in the tavern.

However, just as everyone was expecting Holmes to reveal the answer, Tom's voice suddenly stopped.

Then he closed the magazine.

"That's it?" Old Jack's eyes widened, and he was the first to realize.

"That's all." Tom shrugged, a look of mixed feelings of love and hate on his face.

That's all for this episode.

The deathly silence in the tavern lasted no more than three seconds.

Then, things completely exploded.

"That's it?!"

"Damn! I took my pants off and this is what you show me?"

"Tom! Did you hide half of it and not read it? Take it out now!"

"I swear, that's really all!" Tom raised his hands, looking completely innocent.

"This is a long-running series; the next part won't be available until next month!"

"Next month?!" An impatient worker almost jumped up.

"By next month, the daylilies will be too cold!"

For a moment, the tavern was filled with complaints and curses.

They vented their frustrations to Tom, to the magazine, and to Michel, the author they had never met.

This feeling of waiting is so agonizing!

It's like someone who's been starving for three days is presented with a plate of fragrant roasted meat; the plate is snatched away the moment they smell it.

But soon, the cursing turned into a heated discussion.

"I think 'RACHE' is a person's name, definitely the killer's name!"

"No, the newspaper says it means 'revenge' in German! This must be a revenge murder!"

"That Sherlock Holmes is amazing! How did he figure it out?"

The workers huddled together, analyzing the case with great enthusiasm, each of them becoming a temporary detective.

They argued heatedly, as if they were at the scene of the crime and had just witnessed the murder.

"Tom," old Jack said, pushing his glass towards him.

"Read it again, from the beginning. There were a few parts I didn't hear clearly."

"Yes! Read it again!" the others chimed in.

Tom looked at the agitated crowd, smiled wryly, and rubbed his throat.

He knew he wouldn't be getting any peace and quiet tonight.

However, the author named Michel is probably being cursed a thousand times over by readers all over London.

After all, the story does have a strange magic that makes it hard to put down.

It's absolutely toxic!

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