The next day,
In the morning.
Knocking on the gate of Blyth Road was Mr. Smith, the teacher of Natsume Soseki, not Doyle.
Mr. Smith didn't enter the house,
He stood outside the door, somewhat embarrassed, and said, "Mr. Lu, Arthur had urgent matters and rushed back to his hometown of Edinburgh overnight, so he asked me to introduce you to Charles."
As if worried that Mr. Lu would misunderstand, he hurriedly added, "Don't think too much about it. Arthur was just reignited with the passion for writing after yesterday's conversation with you two. Perhaps before long, we will see the resurrection of Holmes."
"The Final Problem" was published in December 1893,
"The Hound of the Baskervilles" was published in August 1901,
During this period, Holmes was in a "dead" state,
From a timing perspective, what Smith said might not all be comforting words; it should be a mixture of truth and falsehood.
Mr. Lu invited, "Would you like to come in, sir?"
Mr. Smith politely nodded and said, "No, let's hurry to Fleet Street. Don't keep Charles waiting too long. He has a fiery temper..."
The old gentleman reached out to adjust his top hat, seeming to urge without saying a word.
Mr. Lu nodded in understanding.
From the names, it is easy to see that the headquarters of The Manchester Guardian is in Manchester, and London only has a branch office. Charles Prescott Scott, as the editor-in-chief, naturally cannot stay here for too long.
Smith took Mr. Lu into a carriage and headed to Fleet Street together.
Fleet Street is named after the nearby Fleet River and was the headquarters of traditional British media until the 1980s, hence being referred to as the home of British newspapers.
The most conspicuous building here is the headquarters of The Times, tall and dignified,
In comparison, the office of The Manchester Guardian appears much more modest, merely renting a three-story Ottoman-style apartment, quiet and deserted, with a lingering smell of ammonia near the stairs, as if soaked by a drunkard's urine.
Smith approached and knocked on the door, handing his card to the porter.
After confirming their identities, the porter invited them in,
"The editor-in-chief has been waiting for you."
He led the two up the stairs, straight to the third floor, stepping over piles of manuscripts and newspapers on the floor, reaching the innermost room.
As they were about to knock, voices came from inside,
"Editor-in-chief, aren't you going to have dinner?"
"Waiting for someone."
"Oh, right, I heard it's a young writer recommended by Dr. Doyle, seems to be Chinese."
"That Doyle, what a fool, does he think we're collecting rubbish? How can he recommend all sorts of oddballs to us? Can he write? No! Does he have the ability? No!"
...
The porter's hand froze as he was about to knock.
An awkward atmosphere pervaded.
Smith patted Mr. Lu's shoulder, then loudly cleared his throat, ensuring that those inside could hear him, even tapping the wooden floor a few times with his cane.
The atmosphere in the editor's office suddenly quieted down.
Before long, the door opened, and a young editor came out carrying a stack of newspapers,
Behind him, the voice of the editor-in-chief Scott sounded, "Is it Mr. William? Come in!"
Smith led Mr. Lu in, meanwhile scolding, "Charles, when did you start looking down on people like this? How come, the Londoner hasn't subdued you, the 'country bumpkin' from Manchester, yet?"
Scott's face darkened,
"So, sometimes I really hate 'Oliver Twist'."
In "Oliver Twist," Dickens portrayed Manchester as a synonym for poverty and suffering, spreading this stereotype widely. Naturally, Londoners beneath the Queen's feet looked down on those "country bumpkins" from Manchester.
Smith chuckled lightly,
"So, don't always look at things with old eyes. Hasn't Manchester improved a lot now? I really like the glass cups produced there."
Scott "tutted" but didn't respond.
Seeing his non-committal attitude, Smith frowned,
"That's not what a gentleman does."
Scott sighed, replying, "Ah, you don't know... about China... forget it, let's not talk about this."
As an influential editor of a newspaper, he had his own sources of information and had a rough understanding of China's situation.
Of course, Mr. Lu knew too,
In the near future, on October 17, 1900, the Commander-in-Chief of the Eight-Nation Alliance, Field Marshal Waldersee, entered Beijing, establishing the headquarters in the Forbidden City and setting up the "Beijing Management Committee" in the Yamen of the Board of Rites.
In the general understanding, the Forbidden City was the political center of the Qing Dynasty, roughly equivalent to the Palace of Westminster, where the British Parliament is located,
Turning such a landmark into the headquarters of foreign troops basically symbolized the end of a regime.
Scott looked at Mr. Lu with a gaze that was both arrogant and pitiful.
He extended his hand,
"The manuscript."
His attitude was somewhat indifferent, obviously not expecting much from a Chinese to produce good work.
Mr. Lu was actually a bit annoyed, but considering the ridiculous pigtail still hanging from the back of his head, his annoyance turned into helplessness,
Ah, 1900...
For a moment, he was filled with mixed feelings,
What could he possibly do in a foreign land?
Seeing him lost in thought, Scott snorted coldly, saying, "Young man, are you waiting for an apology from me? Let me tell you, I owe you nothing. If it weren't for that idiot Doyle..."
As he spoke, he glanced at Smith, swallowing back the rest of his complaints.
Smith was a friend of Doyle's, so it wasn't quite appropriate to badmouth Doyle in front of him.
Landry no longer felt resentful. He handed over the manuscript.
Scott took it with one hand, saying, "Let's get this straight first, this probably won't work out. You know, we at The Manchester Guardian only have space for book reviews, no serialized novels. So it's best not to get your hopes up too much... hmm..."
Seeing Landry's manuscript, Scott suddenly showed a hint of approval.
"Very nice handwriting, somewhat reminiscent of Italic script, but even more coherent. Very suitable for writing extensive content. Is your teacher Italian?"
In fact, it was a font from the office software that he had gotten used to using.
Landry didn't respond.
Seeing his silence, Scott didn't delve further and started reading the content.
Initially, he just wanted to skim through it and then find some excuse to dismiss Landry.
However, the preface at the beginning gave him a great shock.
He said, "Is this a detective novel?"
Landry touched his nose and corrected, "I don't plan to include a fixed detective character in this book, so it should be classified as a suspense novel."
Scott was dumbfounded.
A suspense novel with a nursery rhyme as a preface!?
This beginning was too novel.
In an instant, his appetite was piqued. He took out his glasses from a nearby small wooden box and began to read the text carefully, word by word.
When he reached the part where the nursery rhyme appeared in the main text and coincided with the manner of someone's death, his whole body couldn't help but shudder violently. Goosebumps rose on the back of his neck, and his hairs stood on end.
He raised his head, somewhat perplexed, and asked, "Whose masterpiece is this?"
After speaking, he felt it wasn't right.
Wasn't the master right in front of him this Chinese lad?
Scott looked at Landry, his gaze becoming fervent and restless.