The repercussions triggered by "The Detective's Code" far exceeded anyone's imagination.
On the afternoon of the very day the new issue of "Good Words" was released, the reception area of Scotland Yard's Criminal Investigation Department plunged into chaos.
It wasn't a sensational crime, nor angry citizens coming to protest, but rather a group of ordinary people with an excess of curiosity.
Holding their brand-new "Good Words" magazines, they blocked the entrance, posing all sorts of comical and absurd questions to the police officers.
A man wearing glasses squeezed to the window, pointing at "The Detective's Code":
"Officer, does Scotland Yard have a 'database'? The kind Mr. Holmes possesses?"
The duty sergeant was stunned for a moment:
"Database? Sir, we have our own archive system..."
Another voice interrupted:
"No, no, not ordinary archives!
It's the kind of database that can instantly determine a cigar brand from ash!
And analyze the origin from soil, deduce the killer's height and weight from footprints... that kind of database!
Do you have it?"
The sergeant's face turned a little red from holding his breath:
"Sir, our investigations rely on rigorous inquiry and evidence..."
Someone in the crowd sighed in disappointment:
"So you don't have it?
"It seems Mr. Holmes is indeed far ahead of us..."
"Officer, can I see your cigar ash sample records? Just a quick look!"
"Don't be silly, they definitely don't have it as complete as Mr. Holmes!"
The officers were exhausted trying to cope, overwhelmed.
Their explanations were weak and powerless, and they lacked a reason to disperse the crowd—these people weren't breaking any laws, merely being overly enthusiastic and naive.
A sense of absurd helplessness permeated Scotland Yard's front hall.
This trend even affected the internal workings.
In the Criminal Investigation Department's office area, several young detectives couldn't help but huddle together, leafing through the circulated copy of "Good Words."
One detective nudged his colleague with his elbow:
"Good heavens, look at this, 'Brazilian Bahia cigar, dark grey ash, loose texture'... Hank, was the ash from that cheap cigar you smoked yesterday like this?"
Detective Hank rubbed his nose:
"Shut up... but if this stuff is real, if we find a cigarette butt at a crime scene in the future, could it really narrow down the possibilities?"
"Dream on! You'd have to have enough money to buy all these cigars and smoke them, and then set up a lab! What can we do with our meager salaries?"
Feelings of envy and frustration flowed among the detectives; they felt completely overshadowed by the fictional detective.
————
In Colonel Howard Vincent's office, the atmosphere was even heavier than outside.
He felt an unnamed fire burning in his chest.
He walked to the window, looking at the bustling crowd in Whitehall Square below, as if he could hear their whispers.
Just then, a knock sounded at the office door, and his secretary poked her head in:
"Colonel, the Commissioner requests your presence."
Howard Vincent's heart sank—what was coming would always come.
He straightened his uniform, took a deep breath, and walked towards Sir Charles Warren's office.
But unlike his previous fury, Sir Warren appeared very calm today.
He sat behind his large desk, holding the latest "Good Words" magazine.
He didn't look at Vincent but instead focused on flipping through the page with "The Detective's Code."
After a while, Sir Warren finally spoke:
"Vincent, sit."
Howard Vincent sat as instructed, his back ramrod straight, but internally he was extremely surprised—this was the first time he had received such treatment since Holmes had appeared.
Sir Warren pushed the magazine towards him:
"Take a good look at this."
Howard Vincent pursed his lips:
"Sir, this is merely a sensationalist..."
Sir Warren cut him off:
"I ask you, do we have this stuff?"
Howard Vincent was taken aback:
"You mean..."
Sir Warren's tone was calm:
"Detailed records of cigar ash? Characteristics of soil from different regions?
And to expand the scope, a 'crime database' like the one boasted about here?
Answer me, Vincent, does your CID have it? Does Scotland Yard have it?"
Colonel Howard Vincent felt his cheeks flush.
He spoke with difficulty:
"Sir, we have some archive records, but... but such classification and research... we don't have currently. This would require substantial funding and specialized personnel..."
Sir Warren's conclusion was the same as the citizens':
"So that means no!"
He leaned back in his chair, hands crossed over his chest:
"Something conjured up by a French novelist has now become the yardstick by which citizens measure our police capabilities. And we can't even produce a corresponding item to prove that we are not incompetent."
He stared into Vincent's eyes:
"This afternoon, I was summoned by the Minister, and he was asking the same questions. He finds this 'deductive method' very interesting, very 'scientific.' He wants to know why Scotland Yard cannot be a bit more 'scientific.'"
Howard Vincent couldn't help but argue:
"Sir, solving crimes isn't just theory! What we need are on-site investigations, witnesses, clues..."
Sir Warren waved his hand:
"I know! But I need you now, Vincent. Stop complaining about this novel; you need to think!
The public has seen a more 'advanced' phantom, and whether it's realistic or not, we must respond.
Now, public expectations have been raised, and if we can't keep up, we will forever live in the shadow of this damned 'Holmes'!"
He pointed at "Good Words":
"Go and study it. See how much of it is feasible and how much is exaggerated. See if we can learn from some of the ideas. I don't want to just say 'no' the next time someone asks me if we have a 'crime database'!"
Colonel Howard Vincent fell silent, a deep sense of humiliation enveloping him.
But he could only stand to attention and reply in a low voice:
"Yes, sir. I will get to it."
——————
Meanwhile, the atmosphere in the sitting room at 21B Baker Street was much more relaxed.
However, despite the open windows, a strong smell of cigar smoke still permeated the room.
Lionel stood up, picking up his coat:
"I should head back to the hotel. Tomorrow, I still need to go to 'Good Words.'"
Conan Doyle quickly placed the half-smoked cigar in the ashtray and began to persuade him to stay:
"Oh, Lion, stay a bit longer! We can have dinner together and discuss that special mixed-breed dog in more detail! It's absolutely fascinating..."
Lionel gently declined:
"No, Arthur. You need time to digest our recent discussion, and I also need to organize my thoughts. And..."
He looked up and sniffed:
"Honestly, you should smoke fewer cigars."
Conan Doyle scratched his thick curly hair, chuckled twice, and offered no rebuttal.
As the two walked down the stairs,
"Mrs. Anderson" came forward: "Mr. Sorell! Are you leaving already? I've bought some excellent lamb chops and was just about to roast them! How lonely Mr. Doyle will be eating by himself!"
——————
After politely declining "Mrs. Anderson's" invitation to stay, Lionel left 21B Baker Street and stood on the pavement.
The London streets in the evening were as busy as ever, carriages moved ceaselessly, pedestrians hurried along, and the air was still poor, but much better than when he had visited last summer.
Lionel felt somewhat fortunate that he had come to London early last year and hadn't encountered the "Great Smog."
This disaster, spanning from Christmas 1879 until March 1880, lasted a full three months.
It was during the peak winter coal burning season, with factories and residents' fireplaces emitting vast amounts of soot and sulfur dioxide...
These toxic substances accumulated under conditions of temperature inversion and no wind, forming a stinging, dense fog that killed thousands in London.
If he had fallen ill then, perhaps his return to Paris would have been in a coffin.
However, it was now the transitional season between autumn and winter, with fierce cold winds blowing from the North Sea, and widespread heating had not yet begun.
Lionel instinctively wanted to hail a hansom cab, but his previous unpleasant experience instantly sprang to mind.
So, his gaze fell upon a building with a classical arcade entrance in the distance.
He decided that today—he would take the underground!
(End of chapter)