In the nineteenth century, the symbol of the intellectual class wasn't just being skilled in literature and art, or good at accounting and investment; it was more about whether they possessed certain trivial knowledge that others didn't understand.
Before, it was the vintage years of Bordeaux wine, the patterns on Chinese porcelain, the weaving methods of Persian carpets, the assembly techniques of Swiss pocket watches…
Now, it was the various clues in A Study in Scarlet.
Amidst the swirling cigar smoke, people held magazines, meticulously studying every detail described in the article.
"I agree with Holmes's deduction about the horseshoe!"
A country squire declared loudly,
"The marks of new horseshoes and old ones are certainly different, especially on muddy ground. I have over twenty good horses; I understand! This is indeed something the fellows at Scotland Yard might have overlooked."
Thus, everyone else in the club knew that this newly joined gentleman was an out-and-out man of wealth.
Another lawyer countered,
"But what about the flushed face and long fingernails? There's absolutely no basis for that! Unless he saw other traces left by the murderer.
For example… perhaps residues of some drug only used by people with flushed faces? Or scratch marks from long fingernails? I've handled similar cases…"
And so everyone learned that this lawyer had once saved a man who was almost sent to the gallows, securing his acquittal.
A young university lecturer attempted to join the discussion:
"Perhaps it's a psychological deduction? Someone bent on revenge might be flushed with anger, or might be too busy to trim their nails due to prolonged tension?"
Ha, now everyone knew he understood "psychology"—though it was the most useless thing.
"Oh, come on, these are all guesses! The author will definitely reveal the reason in the next issue; he's just keeping us in suspense now!"
Discussions often ended with similar remarks.
But everyone involved was satisfied—they had flaunted their wealth, hinted at their qualifications, and displayed their knowledge…
This was far more subtle and natural than other methods; it wouldn't offend people and also allowed them to demonstrate their "rationality" and "logic."
And what could be a more suitable medium than "Sherlock Holmes"?
The Times published an article discussing the influence of A Study in Scarlet, concluding with:
[In Britain today, 'deduction' has become a way of life!]
——————
London, 21B Baker Street.
Arthur Conan Doyle carefully lifted a corner of the curtain, peeking at the scene downstairs.
It was almost noon, and the street should have been relatively quiet, but three to five dozen people were still gathered outside the door of 21B.
Some were well-dressed clerks or businessmen, others were clearly idle citizens, and of course, reporters were mixed among them.
They resembled a flock of pigeons waiting to be fed, occasionally looking up at the window, their faces full of anticipation and curiosity.
Conan Doyle let the curtain drop, irritably raking his fingers through his hair:
"God… don't they have work to do, or meals to eat?"
However, thinking of his name following Lionel Sorell's in The Good Word magazine, a flush of warmth would spread across his cheeks.
But pride came at a price—he was practically a fish in a fishbowl, trapped in this house.
Ever since he was recognized by reporters and dubbed "Dr. Watson," 21B Baker Street had become London's newest "tourist attraction."
He could barely take a step; the moment he appeared at the door, he would be overwhelmed by ardent gazes and a barrage of questions.
Now, only in the early morning before daybreak did Conan Doyle dare to bundle up in his coat, pull down his hat brim, and sneak out of the house while the thick fog lingered.
This nocturnal lifestyle made him feel like he was living like a rat.
"Alas…" He sighed and walked to his desk.
His recently collected research materials lay spread out on the desktop; he tried to focus on his work and forget his troubles.
Just then, the sound of a key turning in the lock came from downstairs, followed by Mrs. Hudson's heavy footsteps and even heavier complaints.
Her voice was clearly impatient:
"I've had enough! It's an absolute nightmare! Mr. Doyle, are you upstairs?"
Conan Doyle quickly responded and went down the stairs to the small hallway on the ground floor.
"Mrs. Hudson" had just returned from shopping, dumping her shopping basket heavily on the floor, and began a torrent of complaints:
"Just look outside! How many days has it been? Do these people have nothing better to do? I just went to the corner to buy some potatoes and beef, and I was stopped by two reporters!
Endlessly asking 'What new case is Mr. Holmes investigating recently?' 'When will Dr. Watson publish new memoirs?' 'Can you reveal what the bloodstain on the wall means?'…
Good heavens, how would I know any of that! I'm just a poor old widow!—Oh, right, this is your letter!"
She handed a letter to Conan Doyle, but her mouth didn't stop:
"The moment I opened the door, they craned their necks to look inside, as if I had some kind of monster hidden here!
If I'd known renting a house would cause such trouble, that French gentleman was offering 2 pounds a week… no, 3 pounds! I wouldn't have agreed to cooperate with your shenanigans!
One pound a week for rent? Now I think about it, it's a huge loss! My peaceful life is completely ruined!"
Conan Doyle could only offer a forced smile, trying his best to comfort the poor woman caught in the eye of the storm.
Mrs. Hudson's anger hadn't completely subsided, but her tone softened slightly:
"Mr. Doyle, you're a good-tempered young man, I'm not mad at you. But life has to go on, doesn't it?
How can I live with so many people surrounding me every day?
Even Mrs. Smith next door came to ask me today if I planned to turn the house into a museum for paid visits! This is simply…"
She continued to ramble, complaining about the strange looks from neighbors and the various inconveniences of daily life.
Conan Doyle absently echoed her—"Yes, Mrs. Hudson," "I understand, that's really terrible";
While tearing open the envelope, he eagerly began to read.
The letter was signed "Lionel Sorell," but the sending address was Rome, Italy, not Paris.
As he read the letter, an expression of surprise gradually appeared on his face.
After a while, his brow furrowed slightly, as if he was digesting the contents of the letter.
"Mrs. Hudson" was still complaining:
"…So I say, at least another 10 shillings a week! To make up for my losses! Mr. Doyle, don't you agree? You have to talk to your friend properly…"
Conan Doyle took a deep breath, turned around, and interrupted his landlady's endless chatter about the rent:
"Mrs. Hudson."
His tone was so formal that "Mrs. Hudson" paused, stopped talking, and looked at him in confusion.
Conan Doyle held up the letter in his hand:
"I have a… um… a very important matter I'd like to discuss with you."
Mrs. Hudson asked warily:
"A proposal? What proposal? Do you want me to cooperate with something again? You'll have to tell me beforehand, and you'll have to pay more!"
Conan Doyle slowly asked:
"Mrs. Hudson, would you be willing to sell this house? Someone is willing to offer a very fair price…"
(End of chapter)