On June 15th, the new mid-month issue of The Good Word appeared as scheduled in London's major newsstands and on the reading tables of gentlemen's clubs.
Unlike its usual simple, elegant covers, this issue's cover was visually striking:
A man's silhouette in profile, wearing a deerstalker hat, a cape draped over his shoulders, and a long pipe held in his mouth, with smoke curling upwards, blurring his outline.
The entire silhouette seemed to lurk in the shadows, not only mysterious but also conveying a subtle sense of danger.
Below the cover image was a striking line of capitalized text:
"THIS MAN—WHO IS HE?"
The content of this issue of The Good Word was as eclectic as ever: there were commentaries on imperial overseas policy, introductions to new scientific discoveries, gossip from high society, and serialized romance novels and travel notes.
However, flipping through the entire magazine, not a single article, story, or illustration corresponded to the image of the mysterious man on the cover.
The editorial department had left no editor's note or preview to explain this cover.
Readers were first confused and then became intensely curious.
In clubs, in coffee houses, and at family breakfast tables, people discussed animatedly:
"Look at this, it's utterly bizarre! What is The Good Word up to?"
"He's dressed like a gamekeeper, but shouldn't he be holding a hunting rifle?"
"Who is it? The protagonist of a new serialization? But there's nothing inside!"
"Perhaps it's some important figure? Or an advertisement for a new product?"
"I think it's just a gimmick to grab attention."
Regardless of the conjectures, the enigmatic silhouette successfully captivated people's attention.
Newsstand owners found that this issue of The Good Word sold exceptionally quickly.
Many people, upon buying it, immediately searched for information related to the cover.
To their disappointment, they only became more preoccupied with the mysterious silhouette.
"This man, who is he?" briefly became a small topic of conversation in London's social circles.
The suspense did not last too long, but it was also not revealed.
On June 30th, the late-month issue of The Good Word was published as scheduled.
This issue's cover was unsettling, even alarming:
A mottled, dirty brick wall, and on the wall was a large word—"RACHE".
Each stroke of the letters was shaky and seemed to be written with a thick paint, creating trickling marks downwards.
Similarly, the inner pages of this issue made no mention of the cover.
It was as if the editorial department had simply tossed to readers two unrelated, yet equally perplexing images.
This time, what was aroused was not merely curiosity, but a certain degree of sensation.
"RACHE? What does that mean? A person's name? Rachel?"
"It's German! I remember 'Rache' means 'revenge' in German!"
"Revenge?! My God, that's terrible! What does this portend?"
"Is it related to the man from the last issue? Did he write on the wall?"
"What exactly is The Good Word trying to do?"
The media sensed an unusual atmosphere.
The Pall Mall Gazette, The Daily News, and even The Times couldn't help but mention The Good Word's two strange covers, speculating on their intentions.
Some believed it was a bold, almost sensational new marketing strategy in journalism;
While others hinted that The Good Word might have unearthed an exclusive on a major news story and was building public anticipation before releasing it.
Editor-in-Chief Norman Macleod sat in his office, listening to his assistant report on the market's reactions, a satisfied smile on his face.
Lionel Sorell's "small promotional suggestion" mentioned in his letter was working perfectly.
He was now full of confidence about serializing A Study in Scarlet starting in July.
He even began to anticipate the enthusiasm that would erupt when readers finally discovered the connection between those perplexing covers and this brilliant detective novel.
All he needed to do now was to ensure that the translation work was flawless and that the secret was tightly kept.
With this thought, Editor-in-Chief Norman Macleod, moving his stout physique, decided to personally visit the translation office.
——————
Meanwhile, in Edinburgh, Scotland, Arthur Conan Doyle had just finished his medical school year-end exams and welcomed the summer vacation.
Shortly after the vacation began, he received two letters: one from Paris, sent by Lionel;
The second was an invitation from the whaling ship 'Hope,' offering him a position as ship's surgeon for three months, which would travel as far as the Arctic.
It was a difficult choice; an Arctic expedition was a rare experience and offered good remuneration.
But Conan Doyle still made his decision—he wrote back declining the 'Hope's' invitation, packed his simple belongings, and boarded a train bound for London.
He was going to London, to Baker Street, to see with his own eyes the "stage prepared for Sherlock Holmes" that Lionel had mentioned in his letter.
After an overnight journey, the train rumbled into Victoria Station, and the hustle and bustle of London assailed him.
Following Lionel's instructions in the letter, Conan Doyle hired a hansom cab and headed directly for Baker Street.
However, the cabman drove back and forth along Baker Street for a while, looking somewhat perplexed:
"Sir, are you sure it's 221B?
The numbers on this street seem to stop around 85. I haven't seen any higher numbers, let alone 221."
Conan Doyle was taken aback and only then realized the problem.
He quickly asked the cabman to stop, paid the fare, and began searching along Baker Street on foot.
He carefully checked the house numbers, and indeed, as the cabman had said, Baker Street's numbering did not extend to 221; the highest number was 85, and further north were other small streets and alleys.
Conan Doyle felt a wave of confusion:
"What's going on? Did Lionel make a mistake?"
He recalled Lionel's words in the letter:
"...I have arranged for someone to find accommodation at 21B Baker Street... which will also be your temporary residence..."
Conan Doyle then realized, perhaps Lionel hadn't made a typo here?
After some inquiries and searching, Conan Doyle finally found a residence with the number '21B' on a stretch of Baker Street near Regent's Park.
It was a typical Georgian-style terraced house, brick-built, with a tidy appearance, exuding the respectable air of the typical British middle class.
He took a deep breath, straightened his collar, and knocked on the door.
A moment later, the door opened, and a kindly-faced old woman appeared at the doorway.
She cautiously scrutinized the young man before her.
Conan Doyle removed his hat and bowed:
"Good day, madam, I am Arthur Conan Doyle..."
A smile appeared on the old woman's face:
"So you are Mr. Doyle, you've finally arrived."
Conan Doyle was surprised:
"You've been waiting for me?"
The old woman sighed with relief:
"An agent booked my house, saying you would be staying for a while. Please come in, do come in!"
Conan Doyle inwardly marveled at Lionel's meticulous arrangements, and as he stepped inside, he asked:
"Madam, if I may ask your name..."
The old woman showed a strange expression:
"Er... my name is Mary... but never mind, that name cannot be mentioned.
While you're staying here, just call me Mrs. Hudson... Someone is paying me an extra two pounds a month for it!"
Conan Doyle was dumbfounded. Wasn't 'Mrs. Hudson' the name of Sherlock Holmes' landlady in A Study in Scarlet?
What was Lionel up to?
(End of Chapter)