"He's gone? Already?"
"Yes, sir."
Arthur Conan Doyle sighed and held his head.
Of course, he had told him to leave first so as not to be a bother. But he hadn't expected him not to wait at all.
"What a shame. I still had a mountain of things to talk about."
"That coolie said the same thing."
"Don't speak so carelessly. You may be a policeman paid by Scotland Yard, but as someone responsible for public order, you should remember that everyone is a child of the Lord."
"Haha, my apologies."
The detective chuckled and pulled something from his pocket, a different note from the one Arthur had given him.
Arthur examined it carefully.
There were just three lines written in English. The first two were addresses, one in London and the other in Devon.
Indeed, he must live here.
Arthur decided to visit when a cautious voice interrupted.
"Um… So, sir, when will you be bringing Holmes back to life? The inspector's salary increased thanks to him, but lately, that effect has worn off…"
"I told you never to mention that in front of me again!!"
In his moment of rage, he almost crumpled the note. Hastily, he unfolded it.
Fortunately, the content was still legible.
"Phew…"
Arthur Conan Doyle carefully tore off the part with the address and put it in his pocket.
Then he shot a glare at the detective who had pushed his buttons.
The detective quickly looked away.
"Damn, this accursed…"
Even though Sherlock Holmes had already been buried, his spectre continued to haunt him.
Of course, from a third party's perspective, it was a self-inflicted punishment.
***
"Wow, I never would have guessed that man was Arthur Conan Doyle…"
As I left Scotland Yard, I still muttered in disbelief.
In hindsight, the clues were all there.
I mean, how many doctors, no matter how prominent, would the Scotland Yard enlist for help so urgently?
And on top of that, for a doctor who wrote as a hobby and whose clinic wasn't doing well, it was pretty much a giveaway.
Yet, I failed to recognise Arthur Conan Doyle! For heaven's sake, I've even bought all the sequels by Anthony Horowitz!
No, no, it wasn't my fault.
That man, despite being a master of the detective genre, deliberately avoided discussing detective stories whenever we met!
It's rare for readers to recognise an author's face, even if they memorise their writing style and works.
Yes, it made sense that I didn't know.
It wasn't Dr Watson's fault that he couldn't see through Sherlock's disguises; it was Sherlock who was brilliant.
So, I wasn't to blame!
More importantly, Mr Miller was supposed to come by today...
As I consoled myself and returned to my town house in the West End, I heard a loud voice from the drawing room.
"Hanslow, why are you so late again? Did Scotland Yard have anything strange to say?"
"Ah, Mr Miller! No, it finished quickly there, but I ran into someone I knew on the way. I stopped for a brief chat."
When did he get back?
I said this as I casually took off my coat. Mr Miller came out to greet me at the same time.
"Hmm, I see. Well, you did well."
"Yes, by the way..."
Mr Miller wasn't alone in welcoming me.
"And... who are the gentlemen and lady behind you?"
There was an unfamiliar pair of a man and a woman.
The man appeared to be in his forties, dressed in a black tailcoat with khaki riding breeches.
The woman was a blonde beauty wearing a Victorian dress with a bustle that made the back of her skirt protrude fashionably.
As I entered the drawing room, they both rose with smiles, and Mr Miller introduced them.
"Ah, these people? Let me introduce you. This is the accountant from the Rothschild side."
"Yes. My name is Lionel Walter Rothschild. Please call me Walter. This is my cousin, Rowena Rothschild."
"Hello, please call me Rowe."
"Right, then. You can chat now. I'll be observing."
Did Mr Miller just set this up? Well, it makes sense, as I am the founder.
Feeling somewhat like an interviewer, I awkwardly spoke.
So, first...
"Hmm, you seem quite experienced. How long have you been in this field?"
"Ah, not as long as you might think. After all, I'm still in my twenties."
"What?"
Walter said this with a bright smile.
On that face? But he continued, seemingly oblivious to my shock.
And what he said was,
"Actually, I work as a banker at the Rothschild Bank, but I'm not very strong in accounting. My real aim here is to establish a connection with you, the author."
"Not strong in accounting?"
What on earth was he talking about?
I looked at Lionel Walter Rothschild in bewilderment.
But Walter spoke unabashedly.
"Well, to be honest, I don't handle money; I majored in zoology. Haha, by the way, do you know the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow?"
"... Are you talking about a European swallow or an African swallow?"
"Oh, you know it! Excellent, author!"
No, I don't. I just remembered it from a comedy sketch.
But Lionel Walter's eyes lit up as he began talking non-stop.
He explained for several minutes that, although the two swallows are classified similarly, their habits are entirely different, resulting in significantly different speeds. He continued, saying that the European swallow flies at a speed of 11 metres per second.
So, he really was just an animal enthusiast?
But how did such a zoologist end up working as our accountant? When I asked him directly, Lionel Walter answered confidently.
"Oh, actually, my father is Baron Nathan Mayer Rothschild. I'm the eldest son."
"Ah, I see."
Indeed... that explained it.
I straightened my attire.
I adjusted my fringe, smoothed out the wrinkles in my clothes, and sat with my knees together, my hands neatly folded on top. I then bent my waist and neck exactly 45 degrees and said,
"Please continue, my lord."
"Oh, my lord? Please, call me Walter."
"I apologise for my rudeness to the son of a baron!"
"Why are you acting like this? We're peers in writing!"
Well, what could I do?
Even though I was a web novelist, a writer of popular literature, and a citizen of a democratic republic, power was still intimidating.
What could an ordinary person do?
Besides, sometimes during my web novel writing days, people who seemed suspiciously wealthy would occasionally give strong support...
Honestly, it was frightening.
Should I have kept writing? But my body was already worn out! It felt like that.
Moreover, Nathan Mayer Rothschild was the head of the British branch of the world's leading financial family and would later become the head of the main family, right?
So, this man was the future head of the family.
"No, no. Please don't be like that. I haven't inherited the title yet, and even if I do, I have no intention of doing anything in finance. I'm just busy with my animal research."
"Is that so?"
I raised my head about 20 degrees.
Seeing me like this, Walter smoothly continued.
"Yes. By the way, I heard you're in your late twenties? I was born in '68, so I'm twenty-six this year. Haha! Please speak comfortably."
"Really?"
"Of course, mate!"
"Ahem, then shall I?"
Ah, respecting one's elders is inevitable. I straightened my back another 30 degrees and made eye contact.
I roughly leaned back slightly.
Anyway, a younger brother...
Honestly, it was more surprising that the young master of the Rothschild family was so down-to-earth and humble than that he was younger than me.
I glanced at him, wondering why I looked so prematurely aged, and my eyes caught his receding hairline.
Noticing my gaze, Walter made a sad face and said,
"Please, don't be like that, brother."
"Oh, er... sorry. I mean, my apologies."
I cleared my throat and forced a smile at him.
I couldn't make fun of that. Teasing someone for their disability would make me a real jerk.
"Anyway, I'll just be a figurehead, and the actual accounting will be handled by Rowe here. Despite appearances, she's one of the top talents in our Rothschild family."
Ah, I see. Since it's an important task, the responsibility falls on the future head, while the capable person handles the actual work. I understood.
And as if to respond to my gaze, the woman, introduced as Rowena Rothschild, bowed her head.
"I'll do my best."
"Hahaha! See, writer? Our Rowe is full of confidence."
"Ah, yes."
Hmm, is that what confidence looks like?
I turned my gaze to Rowena Rothschild.
Of course, since she was sent by the Rothschild's, she must be competent.
But a female accountant at this time was indeed unusual and quite intriguing. It made me think, this really is the Rothschild's.
Well, does that really matter? The important thing was that they spent my money well and calculated my taxes accurately. So...
"In that case, may I test you a bit?"
"Of course, sir."
Rowena Rothschild nodded coolly, almost coldly.
Fortunately, her actual ability was beyond doubt.
I showed her an example of my royalty ledger, and even without Excel, she presented it in a way that was impeccably organised, even to my eyes.
"Excellent. Then, could I also contract you as my personal tax accountant?"
"Oh, it would be an honour, sir!"
I thought they were truly peculiar individuals, but...
Well, what does it matter? Ability is everything.
***
"So, it seems that ability alone will suffice. Anyway, Walter is so sociable, and there's no harm in being friendly with the next generation of the Rothschild family, right?"
"Hmm, is that all?"
"Pardon?"
I looked at Mr. Miller.
Mr. Miller had a slightly unexpected expression, looking off to the side.
That's unusual. It's been a while since he made that face.
It was a look Mr. Miller only had when he was truly at a loss.
Hmm... could it be something related to the Rothschilds?
If not... oh?
"Are you perhaps referring to Miss Rowena?"
"Yes, that young lady."
"Well, she was peculiar, but..."
But was there really a need to know more? I couldn't help but think that.
After all, with Walter, the future head of the Rothschild family present, her presence was naturally overshadowed. Besides, she was inherently a quiet young lady.
Mr. Miller slightly nodded at that, murmuring, "I see, I expected her to be more straightforward."
It seemed like there was some backstory, but when I asked, he said it wasn't something to worry about, so I decided to leave it at that.
Anyway.
"Mr. Miller, does this mean we can now return to Ashfield?"
"Not quite yet."
"Pardon?"
Was there more to do?
I looked at Mr. Miller in confusion.
We had already established the foundation and dealt with the covert economic organisation oppressing poor novelists. What else was left?
"A guest is due to arrive. He's someone I know well, and I think it would be good for you to meet him."
"Who might that be?"
"It's me!"
Goodness.
I jumped up in surprise at the sight of the burly old man who barged into Mr. Miller's town house.
Mr. Miller also stood up and removed his hat to greet him.
"Welcome, Mr. George Newnes."
"Ah! It's been a while, Fred!!"
Newnes? I stared at him in shock.
George Newnes, the publisher of The Strand Magazine?
Come to think of it, Mr. Miller had mentioned having connections in this area, likely due to his involvement with local dignitaries.
Anyway, we had a guest, and I needed to act accordingly.
I quickly summoned the staff and instructed them to set up some suitable refreshments from the town house kitchen.
In that brief moment, Mr. George Newnes had seated himself and was eagerly speaking to Mr. Miller, almost spitting with enthusiasm.
What an impatient gentleman he seemed to be.
"Fred, I've heard everything! Don't even think about hiding anything from me!"
"I'm always honest with you, Mr. Newnes."
"Then why have you kept Hanslow Jin a secret from me until now?"
Eh? Me?