In Edinburgh, in late July, the morning air already carried the crisp chill from the North Sea.
In a waiting room at Waverley Station, seven or eight early travelers sat sparsely.
Dr. Joseph Bell sat upright on a bench near the window, reading a medical journal.
He had just finished an academic exchange at the Royal College of Physicians and Surgeons of Glasgow and was preparing to return to the University of Edinburgh; his hat and travel bag rested on the chair beside him.
Not far from him, a middle-aged man in a tweed coat rustled through a copy of last night's The Scotsman.
Below the front page, a bold-bordered report caught his eye: "Hopton Grange Mystery: Collector Dies Violently in Study, Police Offer £30 Reward for Clues...
'Tsk, tsk, thirty pounds!'"
This murmur broke the tranquility of the waiting room.
A well-dressed gentleman nearby adjusted his spectacles:
"Ah, that case in Inverness, it's been in the papers for days.
I hear the men from Scotland Yard haven't figured it out either."
Another voice interjected:
"Not only haven't they figured it out, I think they're incompetent! It's been almost a week since he died, hasn't it? They can't even tell if the killer is a man or a woman!"
The speaker was a stout man, his tone dismissive.
The middle-aged man defended the police:
"You can't blame the police entirely. The paper says there were too few clues at the scene, and the doors and windows were all locked from the inside.
Alas, the paper also said an artist drew a sketch of the scene based on police description, but it was printed so darkly that nothing is clear."
The well-dressed gentleman frowned:
"Doesn't that make it even harder? I'm afraid only..."
He paused, then said in a semi-joking tone,
"I'm afraid only Holmes could solve this case!"
At his words, a few chuckles rippled through the waiting room.
Clearly, the name "Holmes" was no longer a term confined solely to literary circles.
The middle-aged man sighed:
"It's a pity Holmes is just fictional. That French novelist is clever, though, to invent such a character."
He spread the newspaper on his lap, pointing to the blurry sketch of the scene:
"Newspaper printing quality is getting worse and worse these days..."
The stout man snorted:
"Fictional? My cousin, who does business in London, tells me it's all the rage there now, that there actually is such a person on Baker Street!
Many people have personally seen that figure in the deerstalker hat!"
The well-dressed gentleman lowered his voice:
"Not 'seems like,' he does exist! Even the News of the Curious found the 'crime scene'!
It was in Brixton! The blood writing on the wall was exactly as described in the book! Scotland Yard even cordoned off the area!"
"Hah—" a sneer came from the corner.
A scholarly-looking man raised his head, his tone full of sarcasm:
"What 'deductive method'? It's all novelist's nonsense; such a person hasn't been born yet.
Real crimes are dirty, chaotic, and illogical. They're nothing like the clever ones in books. It's normal for the police not to solve cases."
No sooner had he finished speaking than Dr. Joseph Bell, who had been quietly reading, closed his journal.
He looked up, his gaze falling on the middle-aged man with the newspaper:
"Excuse me, sir, may I borrow your newspaper for a moment?"
The middle-aged man paused, then instinctively replied, handing over the newspaper:
"Oh, yes, yes, please do."
Dr. Joseph Bell took the newspaper, thanked him, and his gaze fell on the report about the "Hopton Grange Mystery."
The case took place at a country villa called "Hopton Grange" near Edinburgh.
The deceased was the owner of the estate, an elderly but reputable antique collector, Mr. Alexander Graham.
The report stated that Mr. Graham was found dead in his study, with severe injuries to his neck, signs of struggle at the scene, and several valuable small antiques missing.
After days of investigation with no progress, the police published a brief summary of the case and a sketch of the crime scene, offering a £30 reward for clues.
Next to the reward notice was the sketch.
The sketch was indeed crude, but the basic layout and several key details were clearly visible:
A spacious study, lined with bookshelves, with a large desk overturned in the middle, papers and books scattered across the floor.
On the carpet in front of the distant fireplace was a fallen figure.
Most conspicuously, near the outline of the figure, lay several items—
A shattered ceramic vase, a thick, open book, and a piece of what looked like a broken plant branch.
After reading the brief case description, his gaze lingered on the so-called "crime scene sketch" beside it.
After only a minute or two, Dr. Bell put down the newspaper, took off his spectacles, and gently wiped them with a cloth.
A moment later, he seemed to murmur to himself:
"The murderer is the deceased's gardener."
The words were not loud, yet they made the other travelers turn in unison to Dr. Bell, their faces etched with astonishment.
The 'scholar' was the first to react, letting out a cold laugh:
"Ha! Another one! Sir, have you just returned from London?
Learning from that Sherlock Holmes? That's the latest fashion there!"
The middle-aged man and the well-dressed gentleman also looked puzzled, while the stout man wore an expression of "let's see what else you can conjure up."
Dr. Joseph Bell did not get angry; he merely put on his spectacles and calmly surveyed the group.
He spoke plainly:
"This is not fashion, nor imitation; it is simply a deduction based on observation and logic."
He pointed to the newspaper:
"First, consider the deceased's identity and the scene. Mr. Graham was an antique collector; the furnishings in his study were all quite valuable.
Yet, scattered around the overturned desk, apart from papers and books, there was only a vase and a common book.
The report mentioned 'small antiques missing,' which indicates the murderer's target was clear: valuable, easily portable small items.
A thief, if an outsider, accidentally encountering the owner and getting into a struggle, would surely panic and want to escape quickly..."
Dr. Joseph Bell's voice was not loud, but every word was clear and forceful, carrying an undeniable power, guiding the others to unravel the case piece by piece.
After a while, he summarized all the deductive clues, beginning his conclusion:
"Someone familiar with the interior of the house and who knows which small antiques are valuable;
A plant branch that would only appear in a garden, never cultivated indoors;
A profession that could reasonably be present inside and outside the mansion without arousing excessive suspicion;
...
Combining these clues, the gardener is the most likely suspect."
Dr. Joseph Bell finished, then looked up and surveyed the group:
"Presenting the above points of suspicion to any rural constable would be sufficient to obtain a search warrant.
Thirty pounds reward. If any of you wish to earn it, take the next train to Inverness now."
Silence fell upon the waiting room.
The previously argumentative individuals were all dumbfounded.
The middle-aged man, holding the newspaper and comparing it to the sketch, murmured:
"My goodness... now that you say it... it seems... it really seems to be the case!"
The 'scholar' who had previously scoffed at him stood agape, in disbelief.
The others also stared blankly at Dr. Bell, their minds filled with the recent deduction, unable to recover their wits for a moment.
Just then, the distant whistle of an arriving train broke the silence.
The well-dressed gentleman snapped back to reality, exclaiming:
"Good heavens... Sir, you... you are as resourceful as that Sherlock Holmes..."
Dr. Joseph Bell stood up, tidied his coat, put on his hat, and walked towards the door.
As he passed the group of still-stunned travelers, he left them with a quietly profound remark:
"No, gentlemen, I am the real Sherlock Holmes."
Dr. Joseph Bell's figure disappeared behind the waiting room door, and a newsboy squeezed in:
"Gentlemen, the late July issue of Good Words! The latest serialization of A Study in Scarlet! Care for a copy?"
(End of Chapter)