Suppressing his inner doubts, Conan Doyle followed the "Mrs. Hudson" into the house.
The interior of the house was more spacious than it appeared from the outside.
Mrs. Hudson lived downstairs; she led Conan Doyle to a living room cum bedroom on the second floor.
"Mrs. Hudson" began to explain:
"The agent prepaid a year's rent and requested that this room be reserved for you. He said you might need to conduct some 'literary research' and 'dramatic practice' here..."
Though her eyes were full of curiosity, she understood boundaries and did not ask further.
The room was furnished comfortably and warmly, complete with a fireplace, bookshelf, writing desk, and armchair.
However, what most caught Conan Doyle's attention was a complete outfit neatly laid out on the bed: a brand-new deerstalker hat, a thick British-style cloak, and a long pipe.
Next to them was a letter, with his name written on the envelope.
He immediately recognized it as Lionel's handwriting.
After "Mrs. Hudson" left, he eagerly tore open the letter.
Lionel first welcomed him to London in the letter and expressed his hope that the residence would please him.
Then, the letter turned to the main subject:
[...Dear Arthur, you must have seen the striking cover of "Good Word." Yes, that is the public's fleeting glimpse of "Sherlock Holmes."
However, a sense of mystery needs to be maintained. The clothes and pipe on the bed are the 'costume' I prepared for you.
You don't need to constantly play someone; just after "A Study in Scarlet" begins serialization, occasionally—very occasionally—in the evening or early morning, wearing the cloak, the hunting cap, and with the pipe in your mouth, briefly walk past the window of this room facing the street.
Note, only a blurry, quick silhouette is needed, allowing those curious people who come seeking him to catch a trace. You see, public opinion needs guidance, and legends need suggestion.
Your actions at this moment will erase the boundary between fiction and reality for the image of "Holmes." This is not deception, but an interesting duet between author and reader...
Furthermore, attached with this letter is a new list of materials...]
Conan Doyle finished reading the letter, remained silent for a long time, then looked down at the "Holmes" outfit on the bed.
Absurd?
Excitement?
Unbelievable?
Various emotions intertwined in his heart.
He finally understood Lionel's plan—though it was just the tip of the iceberg.
From the mysterious cover of "Good Word," to this non-existent "221B Baker Street" address, and then to his role as an assistant who would play the "phantom Holmes"...
All of this was part of a grand narrative, designed to make the character of "Sherlock Holmes" descend upon the world in the most striking manner.
He picked up the deerstalker hat and put it on his head, then donned the cloak, placed the pipe in his mouth, and walked to the full-length mirror.
The young man in the mirror instantly gained a touch of mystery and maturity.
To his reflection in the mirror, he repeatedly murmured:
"John H. Watson? No, I am Sherlock Holmes!"
A faint smile gradually appeared at the corner of his mouth.
He had never imagined that he would eventually participate in literary creation in such a way, even becoming the shadow of a fictional character.
He walked to the window, looking down at the carriages, horses, and pedestrians on Baker Street below, imagining that soon, perhaps someone would truly look up at this window, searching for a detective who didn't exist...
A sudden shiver instantly swept over Conan Doyle's entire body, almost making him hum aloud...
——————
Just as Conan Doyle settled down on Baker Street and began to collect the items on the material list, Lionel's other plan was also underway simultaneously in Brixton, across the River Thames.
Brixton, located in South London, was a rapidly expanding but poor suburb, filled with cheap rental housing and new immigrants.
At the end of one secluded street, stood a solitary two-story brick house.
The house looked a bit old, with peeling paint on the walls and dull windows.
Separated from its neighbors by several patches of wasteland, it appeared particularly desolate.
The atmosphere here mysteriously matched all people's imaginings of a place where "something bad might happen."
The owner was an impoverished painter named Stan Murdoch, a reclusive man who barely made a living by drawing illustrations for cheap magazines.
One day at the end of June, Stan Murdoch received an unexpected visitor.
A well-dressed middle-aged man arrived in a heavily curtained carriage and knocked on his door.
The man came straight to the point, offering to rent Murdoch's house for half a year at a price far above market value—a full 50 pounds—and demanded that he vacate within three days, taking all personal belongings.
The only condition was to sign an extremely strict non-disclosure agreement, promising not to disclose any information about the house to anyone, both during and after the rental period.
Otherwise, not only would the rent be fully reclaimed, but a breach of contract penalty of up to two hundred pounds would also be required.
For the impoverished Murdoch, this was simply a godsend.
Fifty pounds was a huge sum of money for him, enough to allow him to find a better place to live in central London for a while, and even live comfortably for a period.
Although he felt puzzled by this peculiar request, under the temptation of money, he signed the agreement with almost no hesitation.
Having received the money, Stan Murdoch quickly packed his few belongings and moved out of the house the very next day.
No sooner had Murdoch left than another group of people arrived.
These people were taciturn and moved deftly.
They entered the empty house with various tools and materials and began to work strictly according to a sketch they held.
They replaced the worn-out carpet in the rooms with old carpets of a specific color and degree of wear;
They adjusted the placement of furniture and even replaced some pieces;
They created specific stains and mottled marks on the walls;
They carefully sprinkled a certain specific ash in the fireplace...
Most importantly, using a special dark red paint, they carefully painted that word on one of the walls—
「RACHE」
Every detail was meticulously recreated, as if a bizarre and terrifying murder had indeed taken place here.
They worked in silence, and after completing their task, they left in silence, as if they had never appeared.
Immediately after, the entire house was quietly sealed off, silently awaiting the arrival of a certain specific moment.
——————
Norman McLeod sat in the editor-in-chief's office, listening to his assistant Wil's report while absentmindedly gazing at the hazy sky outside the window.
On his desk were the freshly translated proofs of the first part of "A Study in Scarlet," personally delivered by Humphrey, "Good Word's" chief translator.
This was Dr. Norman McLeod's request; apart from himself, Humphrey, and the typesetters at the printing press, absolutely no one else was to have access to this translation manuscript.
After Wil left, he murmured to himself again Lionel's words from the letter:
"Let all of London become a part of this novel..."
Norman McLeod stood up and walked to the window, looking at the flowing River Thames below, and the bustling pedestrians and carriages—
"Alright, Mr. Sorell, let all of London revel with you!"
(End of Chapter)