Speaking of "A Study in Scarlet," Norman McLeod's eyes were practically glowing:
"Yesterday's sales figures have just been tallied!
Reprint! The third reprint! Still can't meet demand! All the bookstores and newsstands are pressing for more stock!
Manchester, Birmingham, Edinburgh... My God, even orders from Dublin are flying in like snowflakes!
I dare say, this issue's sales are definitely going to break the record previously set by 'A Study in Scarlet' itself!"
He picked up the latest issue of "Good Words" from the table and emphatically slapped the pages containing "The Detective's Code":
"This is the key, Lionel, this is the key!
You are a genius! The moment this 'Code' was published, those crudely made pirated counterfeits immediately became garbage in the gutter!
No one is talking about that fake who only knows how to shoot guns and fool around with women anymore!
Now everyone is discussing cigar ash, everyone yearns to become a 'Great Detective'!"
His face flushed red, filled with the joy of victory.
Lionel wasn't concerned with the sales figures he mentioned, but instead asked:
"What about Scotland Yard? What was their reaction?"
Norman McLeod wore a gloating expression:
"Haha! Just imagine the faces of those idiots at Scotland Yard now! I went and saw it with my own eyes yesterday!
Their reception area was packed with citizens, all demanding to know if they had 'Mr. Holmes's criminal database'!
That arrogant fellow, Howard Vincent, must be like a cat with its tail stepped on, raging in his office but utterly helpless!
A bunch of ignorant bureaucrats! They deserve it!"
Norman McLeod grew more agitated as he spoke, as if releasing all the pent-up frustration he'd felt before:
"They thought denial and debunking could solve the problem?
Times have changed! Now is the era of knowledge, the era of logic! Readers voted with their feet, choosing something smarter and more interesting!
Scotland Yard? Hmph, they only deserve to eat dust behind our Holmes!"
He leaned back triumphantly in his chair, as if he had already achieved a complete victory over Scotland Yard.
Only then did Lionel slowly speak:
"My dear Norman, please arrange a meeting for me with this 'Howard Vincent'."
Norman McLeod almost jumped up at the words:
"A meeting? Is there something wrong with my ears?"
Lionel's face still held a smile:
"Norman, your ears are perfectly fine. I do indeed want to meet him."
Norman McLeod grunted for a moment before squeezing out a sentence:
"Can you tell me why?"
Lionel deliberated for a moment, then explained to him:
"If we truly want 'Sherlock Holmes'' influence to endure, to make it transcend merely being a novel—
Then we shouldn't be content with merely mocking and belittling Scotland Yard, making it a joke."
Dr. McLeod looked at Lionel, perplexed, as if he hadn't quite heard what he was saying.
Lionel met his gaze and calmly repeated:
"Please make the appointment for me. We'll go together then."
Norman McLeod opened his mouth, but eventually nodded:
"Alright..."
——————
In a small club near Whitechapel, East London.
A group of young men, no fewer than thirty or forty, were secretly plotting something in the living room.
Among them, the most conspicuous was Arthur Conan Doyle, dressed in a respectable suit, standing in the center of the crowd.
"Gentlemen!"
Conan Doyle began, his voice not loud, but it immediately silenced the murmurs.
He looked around at everyone:
"I bring words from Mr. Lionel Sorell."
At the mention of that name, all the young men's eyes lit up.
Conan Doyle said:
"Mr. Sorell has learned about what happened at the pub last time—he is very displeased!"
A chorus of dejected sighs rose, and several people almost buried their heads under the table.
To be disapproved of by someone they admired felt far worse than being disciplined by the school.
Conan Doyle's tone softened a little:
"Mr. Sorell believes that violence runs contrary to the spirit of reason represented by Sherlock Holmes.
Holmes always solves problems with his mind, not his fists. He hopes you can direct your energy towards a more appropriate path."
A silence fell in the corner, the young men crestfallen, like a group of scolded schoolchildren.
Just then, Conan Doyle changed his tone:
"But!"
Everyone looked up.
Conan Doyle's voice grew louder:
"But, he also saw your energy! He believes you can truly help 'Holmes' in other ways, to achieve a great undertaking!"
A young student couldn't help but ask:
"A great undertaking? Such as, Mr. Doyle? What should we do?"
Conan Doyle didn't answer directly, but instead counter-asked:
"Have you read the latest 'The Detective's Code'?"
Everyone replied in unison:
"Of course!"
Their faces glowed with renewed enthusiasm.
That article had practically opened the door to a new world for them, elevating their reverence for "deductive reasoning" to a new level.
Conan Doyle lowered his voice and began to entice them:
"Lionel hopes... that together, we can build a real, comprehensive 'criminal database' for 'Holmes'!"
"A criminal database?!"
This phrase made all the young men hold their breath.
Wasn't this precisely the temple of knowledge they had imagined, existing only in novels, symbolizing the ultimate rationality?
Conan Doyle nodded affirmatively:
"Exactly! This doesn't mean you have to venture out to investigate crimes.
Instead, it's about utilizing your convenience and knowledge as medical students to collect and organize the basic information that forms 'traces'!"
He directly jumped onto an empty chair, like a general issuing a mobilization order:
"Think about it, gentlemen!
In the dissection room, in the pathology lab, in the pharmacy... what can you come into contact with?
You can record the forms of wounds left by different knives on different tissues!
Record the subtle symptoms of experimental animals under different dosages of various poisons!
You can collect soil samples from different areas of London, analyze their color, texture, and composition, and draw a 'London Mud Map'!
You can record the unique calluses, scars, and deformities left on hands by different professions! Carpenters, blacksmiths, typesetters, violinists...
Their hands are their resumes! You can study the forms of different fibers and dust under the microscope!
Record the smells and properties of various paints, oil stains, chemicals! Even... the patterns of different types of bloodstain spatter!"
Conan Doyle spoke eloquently, listing the various directions for information collection that Lionel had discussed with him.
With each item mentioned, the young students' eyes grew brighter.
These were no longer ethereal fantasies, but scientific practices they could personally participate in!
This was a thousand times more meaningful than fighting in a pub!
The world depicted in "The Detective's Code" seemed to be opening its doors to them through Conan Doyle's words!
Enthusiasm reignited on their faces, more fervent than before.
Seeing that the iron was hot, Conan Doyle threw out the final, and most tempting, promise.
Before the words even left his mouth, he had already anticipated the medical students' reaction...
(End of Chapter)