On July 15, 1880, while the morning mist had yet to fully dissipate, the shrill cries of newsboys already echoed through the streets and alleys of London.
"The Good Word! The Good Word, new issue! Come and see the true face of the mysterious man!"
"New work by Lionel Sorel! A Study in Scarlet!"
"The detective story that shocked London! Only one shilling!"
Gentlemen, ladies, and even ordinary citizens, whose appetites had long been whetted by the eerie covers of the previous two issues of "The Good Word" magazine, were all drawn by these cries.
Carriages briefly stopped in front of newsstands, and white-gloved hands reached out of windows, passing over coins;
Hurrying clerks couldn't help but stop, buy a copy, tuck it under their arm, ready to read it carefully at the office or during lunch;
A cafe's buyer couldn't resist buying several extra copies; he had a premonition that many customers would want to read this magazine today;
The pub owner called over his best "reader," tossed him the magazine, and said,
"Read this out loud for me tonight!"
At a small newsstand near Waterloo Station, Mr. Hawkins, the owner, was exceptionally busy today.
While taking money and handing out magazines, he cheerfully told a regular customer,
"I knew it! 'The Good Word' was definitely going to make a big move! Look at this cover!"
The cover of this issue of "The Good Word" magazine, as expected, did not disappoint.
It skillfully blended design elements from the mid-June and late-June issues:
The background was the mottled brick wall with the dark red letters "RACHE" written on it, while the foreground featured the silhouette of the man who had been the subject of speculation for over half a month—
Wearing a deerstalker hat, draped in a cloak, smoking a long pipe, he stood sideways, gazing at the blood-red word as if deep in thought.
However, unlike the previous sole silhouette, this time, a relatively younger male silhouette accompanied him.
In the center of the cover was the striking main title: A Study in Scarlet.
Below the title was the author's name—"Lionel Sorel."
And next to Lionel's name, in a slightly smaller but clear font, was inscribed: Conan Doyle.
"My God, it's Lionel Sorel indeed!"
Exclaimed George Wilson, a young clerk working at an insurance company, immediately after getting his hands on the magazine.
He then excitedly said,
"I just finished the ending of 'The Curious Case of Benjamin Button' and was wondering what to read next!"
He impatiently opened the magazine, skipped past the political commentaries and essays, and found the starting page of the novel by following the table of contents.
People doing the same thing as him were ubiquitous in every corner of London.
However, after reading the first few paragraphs, a doubt quietly emerged in the minds of many British readers.
A French writer, setting a story about an Englishman in London?
Would he, like "Mr. Fogg" in Mr. Verne's stories, be interesting yet full of stereotypes?
Even if Britons quite admired certain qualities in "Mr. Fogg," no one would say, "I am Phileas Fogg!"
With this complex mixture of curiosity and apprehension, readers continued to delve into the next part of "A Study in Scarlet"—
["First, I noticed your hands..."]
["...In London, what kind of young gentleman would possess both these characteristics? ..."]
["...How do you know I 'just finished' my internship? And how do you know I... 'ended up' in a second-rate clinic?"]
["...On your clothes, especially the cuffs and front placket... that's the smell of laudanum..."]
...
"Bang!"
In a club on Fleet Street, a gentleman engrossed in reading unconsciously loosened his grip on his wine glass.
The hard glass bottom clinked against the oak tabletop with a muffled thud, but he was completely oblivious.
The gentleman merely stared at the magazine with wide eyes, then suddenly raised his hands, examining them closely as if seeing them for the first time...
Similar scenes unfolded simultaneously in countless corners of London.
In a public reading room in London, two strangers almost simultaneously put down their magazines, stretched out their hands to examine them repeatedly, and then, by coincidence, reached for their pocket watches.
When their eyes met by chance, they first paused, then exchanged awkward yet knowing smiles, and began to converse in hushed tones:
"My goodness, this Holmes... is he a devil?"
"My hands... they are a bit rough, but I never noticed..."
"Look at my watch, can you tell anything?"
"Don't joke, I'm no Holmes!"
...
Hushed exclamations, knowing laughter, and fervent discussions rose and fell in the smoking rooms of clubs, by family breakfast tables, on park benches, and in the corners of pubs.
The name "Sherlock Holmes," along with his uncanny "deductive method," occupied the minds of London readers at an astonishing speed.
He was erudite, astute, and calm to the point of being almost aloof, concealing persistence and purity beneath a rational exterior, almost perfectly aligning with British men's fantasies of an "ideal self."
He was unlike the clumsy police of Scotland Yard, and unlike the puzzle-solvers in previous Gothic novels who relied on coincidence.
"Sherlock Holmes" was a brand new species; he was a consulting detective!
Next, readers also discovered that Lionel's description of London was not superficial, but filled with authentic and credible details.
Dilapidated neighborhoods, thick fog, specific social customs... all appeared so authentic, utterly devoid of the sense of detachment often found in foreign writers.
The initial doubts were quickly swept away by Holmes's powerful personal charisma and Lionel's meticulous depiction of London.
Readers' appetites were greatly whetted, and they eagerly awaited to see how this extraordinary detective would display his talent.
The novel did not make them wait long.
Just as Watson was still absorbed in shock at his roommate's astonishing abilities, Scotland Yard detectives Gregson and Lestrade came calling.
They brought a commission concerning a bizarre murder at No. 3 Lauriston Gardens in the Brixton district.
Readers' hearts were immediately gripped.
Immediately after, they followed in the footsteps of Holmes and Watson, traversing London's dimly lit streets to the empty, deserted house.
The description of the scene was chilling, especially that of the corpse:
["He lay rigid on the floor, his eyes staring blankly at the faded ceiling... with thick, black curly hair and a short, bristly beard, dressed in a heavy black broadcloth frock coat... his fists clenched, arms outstretched, and legs crossed, indicating a painful struggle at the moment of his death..."]
Immediately after, Lionel meticulously described how Holmes examined the corpse and the objects left in the house, among which what chilled readers the most was:
["Holmes sniffed the dead man's lips..."]
And that ring:
["As they lifted the dead body, a ring rolled onto the floor..."]
Of course, what was most striking was the wall—
["In this corner, a large section of the wallpaper had peeled off, revealing a yellow, rough plastered wall. On it, a word was scrawled in blood: RACHE."]
Then came the line that broke all readers' hearts:
["(Thank you for your appreciation, end of chapter)"]
(End of chapter)