At No. 4 Whitehall Place, inside the Metropolitan Police Headquarters, the atmosphere was grim.
Officers were distraught by the incessant newspaper reports in recent days; almost everyone had been harassed by journalists.
The thick oak door of the Commissioner's office was tightly shut, but a low roar could still be faintly heard from within when passing by.
"Idiots! Absolute idiots!"
Sir Charles Warren, the highest-ranking officer at Scotland Yard, crumpled a copy of The Sensation News and furiously threw it to the floor.
His rough face was flushed crimson:
"Look! Look at what these damned newspapers are writing!
'Scotland Yard's Incompetence', 'Covering Up the Truth', 'Needing a Private Detective to Clean Up Their Mess'!
Vincent, is this the impression your CID is leaving on the public? Is this our London Police's 'professionalism'?"
Colonel Howard Vincent attempted to explain:
"Sir, that statement was to clarify the facts and prevent public misunderstanding..."
Sir Charles Warren cut him off:
"Your 'clarification' was like pouring oil on a fire; not only did it fail to extinguish it, but it set the whole of London ablaze!
Now the entire city is talking about that damned 'bloody word' and that empty house! Everyone is ridiculing Scotland Yard like a shoddy actor whose lies have been exposed!
Didn't you think, before issuing that statement, that it would only make those fools obsessed with detective stories believe even more strongly that what's written in novels is true?"
He paced to stand in front of Howard Vincent:
"I don't care what method you use, Vincent, immediately, right now, put an end to this farce!
I don't want to see 'Sherlock Holmes' and 'Scotland Yard' on the same page in any newspaper again!
Unless it's reporting how we personally arrested this fraudulent scoundrel – if such a person even exists!
And that damned empty house, send people to investigate it thoroughly for me, to find out who the hell is playing tricks!
I want a precise report, not more speculation and rumors! Do you understand?"
Howard Vincent straightened his chest:
"Yes, Sir! I'll get right to it!"
——————
Back in his CID Director's office, Colonel Howard Vincent's pent-up anger finally found an outlet.
He tore off his hat and flung it onto the coat rack, then roared towards the door:
"Avery! Get in here!"
A man around thirty, looking quite shrewd, entered in response.
He was Colonel Vincent's secretary, Edgar Avery.
Edgar Avery had his usual fawning smile on his face:
"Colonel, is there something you need?"
Howard Vincent pointed a finger at his nose:
"This was all your brilliant idea! To publish a statement in the newspaper 'to set the record straight'?
Look at the result now! We've become the laughingstock of all London! Sir Warren just called me in and tore me to shreds!
It's all because of you, you self-important idiot!"
Edgar Avery stammered in defense:
"Colonel, I... I just wanted to quickly eliminate the negative impact of that novel at the time...
Who would have thought those reporters and citizens would be so... so unreasonable..."
Howard Vincent irritably cut him off:
"Unreasonable? You're being self-important! None of that matters now!
Immediately arrange for the most tight-lipped people to go and cordon off that empty house on Summerley Lane! Not even a mouse is allowed in without my order!
Then have the scene investigation team bring their best equipment and thoroughly examine it inside and out for me!
I want to know what the hell was written on that wall, and what exactly happened in that house! Go now!"
Edgar Avery straightened his chest:
"Yes, Sir! I'll get right to it!"
He dared not delay for a moment, practically scrambling out of the office.
——————
Less than an hour later, a team of competent police officers arrived at Summerley Lane in the Brixton District.
They dispersed the curious public and journalists still lurking around the house and erected prominent cordon tape around the property.
However, the formal intervention of the police did not dampen people's enthusiasm; instead, it provoked an even greater reaction.
"Look! Scotland Yard's people are here!"
"They must have a guilty conscience! Are they here to destroy evidence?"
"Quick, look, they even brought investigation kits, are they going to re-investigate?"
"I told you this case must be real! Even the police had to come!"
...
The crowd of onlookers did not disperse; instead, it grew larger and larger.
Journalists, like sharks sensing blood, recorded every detail of the police cordoning off the scene.
The Senior Detective Inspector leading the team frowned, looking at the surging crowd before him.
He tried to maintain order, loudly announcing that unauthorized personnel were not allowed to approach, but his voice was quickly drowned out by the clamor of the crowd.
The crowd continuously pressed forward, the cordon tape swayed precariously, and the police had to link arms to form a human wall to barely hold them back.
The Detective Inspector complained in a low voice to his assistant:
"This is a nightmare! I'd rather deal with a riotous group of drunkards in the East End than face these novel-crazed lunatics here!"
Meanwhile, the investigation team, composed of CID's most experienced detectives and a coroner, entered the empty house.
They carefully lit gas lamps, illuminating the dim room.
The sight inside the house left even these well-experienced detectives somewhat taken aback.
As described by The Sensation News reporter Jackson, the room's layout indeed bore some resemblance to the description in A Study in Scarlet.
Worn carpets, a few simple pieces of furniture... their gaze finally focused on the shocking word on the wall – "RACHE".
The coroner leaned in for a closer look, even lightly touching the dark red stain with his finger, then frowned.
The lead detective asked:
"Well?"
The coroner straightened up, revealing a wry smile:
"It's not blood, at least not human blood. It appears to be just ordinary paint, though the effect of coagulated and flowing blood is very realistic..."
The detectives exchanged glances.
They meticulously examined every corner of the room.
On the floor, someone had clearly outlined a rough human figure with white chalk.
The posture of the outline was exactly as described for the deceased in the novel – "fists clenched, arms outstretched, legs crossed."
Next to the outline, there was even a seemingly cheap brass ring "left behind," ordinary in style, utterly unremarkable.
They searched the entire house, finding no signs of a struggle, no bloodstains, no weapons...
In short, there was no evidence whatsoever to prove that a violent crime had occurred here.
The air also only carried dust and mildew, not a trace of blood.
A young detective pointed to the fireplace in the corner and reported:
"Sir, there are small amounts of ash in the hearth, thoroughly burned, of no value."
The lead detective took a deep breath and concluded:
"This is not a crime scene at all. This is more like... more like a carefully staged set, a scene built to imitate that damned novel."
The detective then surveyed the area around the house, attempting to locate the homeowner.
The neighbors' accounts were largely similar: Stan Murdock was a reclusive, poor painter who usually kept to himself, earning a living by drawing illustrations for cheap magazines.
About a month ago, he suddenly became prosperous, not only settling his overdue grocery store bills but also quickly moving out, his whereabouts unknown.
No one knew where he suddenly got a large sum of money.
This clue further convinced the detectives that Stan Murdock's sudden departure was directly linked to the house's "transformation."
It was highly likely that someone had paid him to cooperate in staging this act.
By the time the investigation concluded, dusk was approaching.
The detectives left Summerley Lane with the collected physical evidence.
The onlookers outside the cordon caused another commotion when they saw the police emerge.
Journalists held up their notebooks, attempting to interview, but were met with expressionless rejections from the police.
(End of Chapter)