In the lounge area of the Sussex Hotel lobby, Lionel took a sip of tea and said in a calm tone,
"Mr. Stephenson, you have ten minutes. Please ask your questions."
Robert Stephenson's questions came out like a volley of cannon fire:
"Mr. Sorell, how did you come up with Mr. Holmes's 'deductive method'? Is there a real-life prototype? For example, an outstanding detective, or an expert?"
Lionel smiled slightly, skillfully sidestepping the core of the question:
"Imagination is a writer's most important tool, Mr. Stephenson. Of course, observing life and understanding some medical and chemical knowledge is always beneficial."
He didn't want Dr. Joseph Bell to become the focus of public attention right now.
Robert Stephenson immediately followed up,
"Then, regarding your description of the Mormon community, was it based on a real investigation? You seem to know the internal rules and dangerous tendencies of this group very well!"
Lionel's answer remained composed:
"I focus on human nature in specific environments, and the tragedies that might arise. As for the details, reading relevant reports and travelogues always provides some inspiration."
In the next few minutes, Stephenson pressed on with several more questions about case motives and character development.
Lionel answered fluently, but his responses remained superficial.
He glanced at the clock on the fireplace in the lounge area; the ten-minute limit was approaching.
Robert Stephenson noticed too, and anxiously threw out his biggest question:
"Mr. Sorell, please forgive my presumption, but this question is very important—why 'now'? Why 'London'?"
He gestured with his hands:
"What I mean is, why would 'Sherlock Holmes' appear in this city, in this era? Not earlier or later, or somewhere else?"
This question made Lionel, who was just about to stand up, pause slightly and lean back into his chair.
After a moment of contemplation, Lionel slowly began,
"Very good, Mr. Stephenson, you have finally asked a valuable question."
He raised a finger first:
"Firstly, it's the advancement of technology and the change in the spirit of the age.
Look at the era we live in—steam engines roar, railway networks cover all of Europe, telegraph lines span the oceans...
Medicine is also progressing, and forensic science has become an independent discipline in universities.
People are beginning to believe that since the world can be known, measured, and explained, the light of science can illuminate every corner, including the darkest ones."
He paused, allowing Stephenson to digest the information, then continued:
"The public is no longer satisfied with problems being solved by divine will, coincidence, or the sudden inspiration of some gentleman. They yearn for a 'truth' based on evidence and logic.
Holmes and the 'deductive method' precisely respond to this yearning—he replaced luck with reasoning, saw through crime with science, and made the public believe that 'the world is controllable' and 'order will surely triumph over darkness'."
Robert Stephenson listened intently, nodding subconsciously, his notebook open on his lap, his pencil rapidly taking notes.
Lionel then raised a second finger:
"Secondly, it's because London itself is both 'the heart of the empire' and 'a hotbed of crime'. Over five million people are crammed here, with extreme disparities between rich and poor.
Vast slums nestle beneath gleaming tall buildings, fostering unprecedented crime. Pickpocketing, fraud, violence, murder... local magistrates and police have long been overwhelmed.
This isn't their fault, but an inevitable consequence of the era! In fact, it's not just London; every major city in Europe—Paris, Vienna, Berlin...—faces similar problems, but London has the largest population."
Lionel stared intently into Robert Stephenson's eyes:
"Sherlock Holmes is a 'metropolitan detective' born of his time. He could certainly have been born in Paris, or other big cities, but London is undoubtedly the primary choice!
He belongs to the streets of London, to this fog-shrouded era; only here can his talents be fully realized."
After Lionel finished speaking, a brief silence fell over the lounge area.
Robert Stephenson stared blankly at him, his mouth open, as if wanting to ask more questions, but Lionel had already stood up.
"The ten minutes are up, Mr. Stephenson. Thank you for the tea and the interesting questions. I believe I should take my leave now."
Robert Stephenson then came to his senses, quickly standing up:
"Of course, of course! Mr. Sorell, thank you very much! Your insights are truly enlightening! This is absolutely a unique perspective!"
Lionel nodded slightly, said no more, turned, and left the lounge area, exiting the hotel.
------
Far away on the other side of the English Channel, in Paris, France, at the Prefecture of Police headquarters, in the archives room at the end of a corridor, another "revolution" was quietly brewing.
A tall, slender young man, by the glow of a gas lamp, was flipping through a copy of "Good Words" magazine that a friend had brought from London.
He was a temporary worker there, with tedious work and meager pay, hardly noticed by anyone, which also made it convenient for him to slack off, just like now.
On the magazine, the article "The Rules of the Master Detective" and its hand-drawn illustrations enlivened his otherwise dull world.
He repeatedly read the descriptions of the color, texture, and burning characteristics of ash, his fingers tracing the illustrations.
He murmured to himself:
"Observation... classification... system..."
This article seemed to confirm his vague inner thought—that everything in the world, no matter how small, contains unique marks that can be identified and classified.
He was already deeply dissatisfied with the inefficient and primitive methods of criminal identification used by the Paris police system.
Relying on vague physical descriptions and unreliable witness identifications often allowed repeat offenders to easily escape punishment.
This chaos and disorder was entirely incompatible with his aspirations, being from a family of statisticians.
"The Rules of the Master Detective" opened the floodgates of his mind.
He remembered the archives he dealt with all day long—piles of dusty criminal records, registration forms, signature pages...
A thought flashed through his mind like lightning.
He abruptly put down the magazine, rushed to the filing cabinet, eagerly pulled open a drawer, and rummaged through it, soon pulling out a thick archive bag.
Back at his desk, he took out several yellowed papers from it; next to the scribbled words were faint ink-stained fingerprints.
These fingerprints, in the past, were almost exclusively regarded as mere formalistic symbols for confirming identity.
The young man picked up a magnifying glass from the desk, brought it close to the gas lamp, and aimed the lens at one of the relatively clear, dark fingerprints.
At first, it was just a blurry ink smudge.
But as he adjusted the angle and looked closely, a miracle happened: within that less-than-an-inch area, the magnifying glass revealed a microscopic world—winding lines, swirling patterns, intermittent nodes, ridges like tiny mountain ranges... as if a meticulously drawn maze.
His breathing quickened:
"My God..."
Then he moved the magnifying glass to look at another fingerprint.
The pattern was entirely different, yet equally intricate and unique!
He tried another, and it was a new maze again...
His heart pounded violently, and an idea leaped into his mind:
'Could it be that everyone's fingerprints are unique, and even remain unchanged throughout their lives?'
Just then, a somewhat impatient voice came from the archives room doorway:
"Alphonse Bertillon! Stop dawdling there!
There are new documents that need to be filed immediately! Hurry up!"
(End of Chapter)