On the edge of East London, the "Crooked Pickaxe" pub's night was still filled with soot, cheap beer, and boisterous human voices.
Under the flickering light of the kerosene lamps, workers sat around wooden tables, drinking dark beer from earthenware mugs, their conversations ranging far and wide.
A dock worker took a gulp of beer, wiped his mouth, and said,
"Speaking of that 'James Bond', he really is a gentleman!
The letters he wrote were clearer than anything I could think of myself! My wife read the letter and kept praising my learning, heh!"
A thin, sallow-faced seamstress next to him chimed in,
"Isn't that right? His handwriting is as beautiful as if it were printed. He also speaks gently, without any airs."
She had once asked Lionel to write a letter to her elderly mother in the countryside.
Discussions about the mysterious ghostwriter continued to be heated even days after his departure, with people's guesses about his identity becoming increasingly bizarre.
An old drunkard swore,
"I bet he's a nobleman down on his luck, perhaps he lost a duel or his family cut off his allowance. That's why he's temporarily stranded here with us."
Another young apprentice with a richer imagination lowered his voice,
"I don't think so. With his demeanor, he might be... an important figure?
Perhaps a private secretary to some lord in Parliament, down here to observe public sentiment?"
Someone else interjected,
"Or a detective hiding from enemies!"
This person was clearly influenced by the popular Sherlock Holmes stories of the time.
Someone couldn't help but ask old Jimmy, who was wiping glasses behind the bar, in a loud voice,
"Hey, old Jimmy! What's the real story behind this 'Mr. Bond'?
You must know something, right?"
Old Jimmy stopped what he was doing and shrugged his broad shoulders helplessly,
"God be my witness, I don't know any more than you do.
He just came, and then he just left. All I remember is the carriage that came to pick him up; it was truly impressive, definitely not from an ordinary family."
He paused, then added,
"The coachman's bearing was more dignified than some minor gentlemen."
Just then, a cry of surprise suddenly erupted from a dark corner of the pub, overriding all the noise:
"Good heavens! Look, everyone! Isn't this... isn't this 'James Bond'?!"
Everyone looked in the direction of the sound and saw a literate young printer clutching a freshly delivered copy of The Daily News.
He excitedly pointed at a woodcut illustration in it.
People immediately gathered around curiously, craning their necks to look.
The exquisitely crafted woodcut showed a young man with a clear face, thick hair, and well-defined cheeks.
Despite the rough printing quality of the newspaper, many people in the pub still recognized that face—
It was "James Bond", who had patiently written letters for them in that corner just a few days ago!
However, the text next to the illustration clearly read: Lionel Sorel, a renowned French writer and playwright.
The report also stated that he was currently exiled to London due to judicial persecution and threats from thugs in France.
It also detailed his "duel controversy" with the Indian nobleman Vikram Singh, and his remarks that had caused a stir in public opinion.
A brief silence fell over the pub.
The apprentice who had asked Lionel to write a love letter for him murmured the name,
"Lion... Lionel Sorel?"
His face was filled with shock:
"He... he's the great French writer who wrote 'Sherlock Holmes'? The important figure who dared to challenge the government?"
The old worker who had asked Lionel to help write a letter to his Indian son also exclaimed,
"My goodness..."
He trembled as he ran his rough finger over the portrait in the newspaper:
"Such an important figure... actually... actually sat in a place like ours, listened to us poor folks grumble about our daily lives, and even helped us write letters... charging only two pence per letter..."
A wave of emotions and discussions erupted among the crowd.
"He didn't despise us at all back then!"
"No wonder the letters were so well-written, turns out it was the work of a great literary master!"
"Exiled... penniless... no wonder he came here looking for work."
"But when he helped us write letters, he didn't look like he was in distress at all, always so composed..."
They recalled the details, and the more they thought about it, the more they felt that this young writer was imbued with a certain legendary aura.
No one noticed that in another dim corner of the pub, Henry Fleming, a reporter for The Pall Mall Gazette, was having a drink alone.
He saw everything unfold...
The next day, shortly after the "Crooked Pickaxe" pub opened, it was surrounded by a group of reporters who had heard the news.
A barrage of questions was directed at the bewildered pub owner, old Jimmy.
"Mr. Jimmy, how long did Lionel Sorel stay here?"
"How did he seem at the time? Was he really down on his luck?"
"Did he bring you a lot of business?"
Old Jimmy was startled by the commotion and stammered his answers, repeatedly emphasizing how quiet and polite "Mr. Bond" was.
He also mentioned that Lionel had ultimately left all the copper coins he earned those days to the family of the late "Old Smoker" Jim.
The reporters were not satisfied, and they soon found more "witnesses."
The apprentice who had received the "love letter", though blushing and flustered in front of the reporters, said with absolute certainty,
"Mr. Sorel is a good person!
My cousin read the letter he helped me write and immediately accepted my proposal! He didn't have any airs of an important figure at all!"
The old worker was even more emotional, his voice choked:
"He helped us write them! Every word touched our hearts!
He is a great writer who truly cares about the lives of us poor people!"
Seamstresses, dock workers, old mothers who had lost their sons...
One by one, the common people whom Lionel had helped painted a picture of Lionel Sorel starkly different from the literary celebrity in the newspapers:
A young man who arrived in London in distress, penniless, yet willing to humble himself and use his most precious talent to convey the feelings of the most impoverished people.
Sean O'Mara seized the opportunity, not only recounting how Lionel had helped them write petition letters.
He also loudly called attention to the poor sanitation in the Whitechapel area and the suspected threat of cholera, urging the municipal authorities to take action as soon as possible.
Soon, The Pall Mall Gazette was the first to publish a lengthy report on its front page titled "The Literary Master and Two Pence: Sorel's Invisible Days in London."
Immediately after, numerous media outlets such as The Star and The Daily Chronicle followed up with reprints and in-depth investigations.
Lionel Sorel's image in the minds of the public in London and even Britain instantly became revered, even acquiring a romantic halo.
He was not only a writer who dared to challenge authority but also a "saint" full of humanitarian concern.
This down-to-earth legendary experience greatly diluted the controversy caused by his views, and instead earned him wider sympathy and admiration.
However, just as this wave of public opinion reached its peak, some astute readers and critics suddenly realized a connection that had almost been overlooked—
In The Good Word magazine, wasn't the author of the fairy tale "The Happy Prince," which brought countless people to tears, none other than "James Bond"?
(End of Chapter)