Stepping out of Scotland Yard, the two of them got into Norman McLeod's four-wheeled carriage.
Dr. Norman McLeod looked at Lionel opposite him, finally voicing the question he had been holding back throughout the journey:
"My dear Lionel, my friend, I must admit, I'm a little... I don't quite understand."
Lionel withdrew his gaze and looked at Norman McLeod.
Norman McLeod continued to ask:
"Are you being overly 'enthusiastic' towards Scotland Yard and this Colonel Vincent?
You were practically sketching a blueprint for future policing for them, which far exceeds the scope of protecting our interests.
I don't understand, why? They were quite scornful of my previous pleas for help!"
Lionel didn't answer, instead gazing at London's gray streets before slowly speaking:
"Norman, what am I creating these stories for?"
Norman McLeod was momentarily stunned, subconsciously replying:
"Literature has its noble value; it enlightens the mind and reflects society..."
Lionel gave a helpless look:
"Can't you say something more practical? I wrote them because you promised me ten pounds per thousand words.
Otherwise, I have several pieces in my writing plan that take precedence over 'Sherlock Holmes'."
Norman McLeod chuckled sheepishly:
"Money is certainly a factor, but the value of literature extends far beyond that; it can also influence society..."
Lionel picked up the conversation:
"Exactly, influencing society. Especially genres like 'crime fiction'.
It depicts darkness and exposes the ugliness of human nature. But it always carries a certain hidden danger; it's a double-edged sword."
Norman McLeod frowned:
"A double-edged sword?"
Lionel nodded:
"Yes. It might lead some people to imitate crimes from books, and might also incite some to challenge authority or show off their intellect.
They will see the detectives in the books as rivals, and committing a perfect crime as an 'achievement'."
Norman McLeod drew a sharp breath; he had never thought about the problem from this angle:
"Are you saying... our A Study in Scarlet might..."
Lionel waved his hand:
"No, I'm not criticizing our own work. I'm thinking about this 'genre'.
Any work depicting crime and investigation carries this risk to some extent.
And my original intention in creating 'Sherlock Holmes' was not to mock the police's incompetence, and certainly not to provide a textbook for criminals."
Norman McLeod suddenly understood:
"So, cooperating with Scotland Yard and sharing the results of the 'deductive method' with real law enforcers.
Only this can help them better maintain order in reality, protect citizens, thereby neutralizing the potential dangers that crime fiction might bring.
That's why you spent so much effort describing the issues within the Mormon community in A Study in Scarlet!
This wasn't just for the plot, but also an attempt to observe society and critique reality?"
Lionel nodded:
"My 'Sherlock Holmes' is not just a puzzle-solving machine. He focuses on the motives behind cases and on those overlooked corners.
He doesn't live in an ivory tower; he's a 'social school' detective!"
Norman McLeod murmured, repeating the unfamiliar term:
"Social school... social school..."
Then he remembered something else, a strange smile appearing on his face:
"Speaking of 'rewards', Lionel, the 'reward' you 'demanded' is too cheap, isn't it?
Just asking them to change the house number of 21B Baker Street to '221B Baker Street' when possible in the future? This... this is far too cheap for them!
We could certainly ask for more, for example, having them step in to combat piracy, or..."
Lionel interrupted him with a smile:
"Norman, believe me, it's absolutely worth it."
----
The carriage soon returned to the Sussex Hotel where Lionel was staying.
After saying goodbye to Norman McLeod, Lionel walked into the lobby.
Just as he passed the front desk, a waiter called out to Lionel:
"Good evening, Mr. Sorel, a gentleman left a message for you this morning."
With that, he handed over a neatly folded note.
Lionel thanked him, took the note, and unfolded it, finding that a reporter named Robert Dunston Stephenson wanted to interview him.
Lionel's brow furrowed slightly.
This time, coming to London, he hadn't informed anyone else besides Norman McLeod and Conan Doyle.
He didn't want to be bothered by unnecessary social engagements and interviews, especially not wanting Oscar Wilde to show up at his door again.
According to what he had heard at the Paris salon, this fellow had already become famous in London's underground clubs.
He tucked the note into his pocket and went straight upstairs to his room.
He needed to rest a bit.
In the evening, he also had to go to Baker Street to find Conan Doyle and ask him how he had organized "Sherlock's boys."
However, he underestimated Robert Dunston Stephenson's persistence.
In the afternoon, just as Lionel came downstairs and entered the hotel lobby, a figure quickly rose from a sofa in the lounge area, hurried towards him, blocking his path.
It was a middle-aged man with a slender build, disheveled hair, and a pale face.
The man spoke:
"Mr. Sorel! Mr. Lionel Sorel! Please forgive my presumption!
I am Robert Dunston Stephenson, the one who left you a message this morning!"
Lionel stopped, sizing up this uninvited guest before him:
"Mr. Stephenson, I saw your message.
But my schedule is very full right now, and I'm afraid I won't be able to accept an interview.
Thank you for your kind interest."
He tried to move around him, but Stephenson nimbly moved a step, blocking him again:
"Just half an hour! No, twenty minutes will do!
Mr. Sorel, I specialize in writing documentary articles about police cases and urban crime, and I love your A Study in Scarlet so much!
I'm utterly impressed by you! Truly! Your insights into criminal psychology, your grasp of investigative details, make me feel like I'm there when I read it!"
Seeing he couldn't shake the man off, Lionel first asked a question:
"How did you know I was staying here? Don't tell me it was by chance."
Robert Stephenson smiled proudly:
"These past few days, I've been staking out Baker Street, hoping to get some exclusive news, or to interview Mr. Doyle.
But he's too cunning; I can never catch him... The day before yesterday, although you left via the back alley, I just happened to wander there! It was a complete stroke of luck!"
Lionel: "..."
He finally understood why Conan Doyle had insisted he sneak away via the back alley and absolutely avoid the main street.
Now he could only say helplessly:
"Alright, ten minutes, I can only give you ten minutes. But I have one condition!"
Robert Stephenson nodded repeatedly:
"Please, speak freely."
Lionel said:
"This report, publish it at least two weeks later."
Robert Stephenson showed a conflicted expression, but finally gritted his teeth:
"Okay, no problem."
Only then did Lionel move to an empty seat in the lounge area and said to Robert Stephenson:
"Begin."
Robert Stephenson was overjoyed and snapped his fingers at a waiter in the lounge area:
"Two cups of Assam, please!"
(End of chapter)