Choo choo―
"…well, that's how it happened."
"That's quite… a peculiar connection."
"Who wouldn't agree?"
On the train back to Devon.
After recounting my encounter with Arthur Conan Doyle, I shrugged my shoulders.
Meeting Arthur Conan Doyle by chance when I first came to London, and then having him read my novel and decide to start writing Holmes again a whole '10 years' earlier, was something unbelievable even if someone had told me last year.
I mean, it was incredible luck. Was I carrying some sort of good luck charm?
"Hmm hmm, a gathering of the greatest writers of this century… that's quite interesting."
"The greatest, well… never mind. It's just tiring to talk more about it."
In fact, connections among writers were common in this era.
In 19th century England, where there were no general competitions or usual ways to get published, more than half of the ways to become a writer involved networking.
Basically, it meant that once writers debuted, they knew each other to some extent.
The reason was simple.
Unlike the web novel market of today, this era's magazines were limited by the medium's space.
So, I was a special case for being outside that circle.
Well, I rose to fame too quickly, and in the early days of serialization, I was busy grasping the sense of serial publication and working for Mr Miller, so I didn't engage in any external activities, being secluded in the countryside.
According to my editor, publisher, and virtually my manager, Richard Bentley Junior, there had been quite a few salon invitations during that time.
I wasn't ignored; I just turned them down.
'It sounds odd when I just state the facts, doesn't it?'
Anyway, now I'm not alone.
With Lewis Carroll, Mark Twain, and now Arthur Conan Doyle!
Is this line-up for real? This is like a gathering of the ultimate figures of this world. I could hold my head high anywhere with this line-up.
"If I get a chance next time, let me join in, Hanslow."
"Yes, yes, I'll ask if the opportunity arises."
"Oh, good. Then I should choose a gift in advance."
What would be good…
Mr Miller began pondering with sparkling eyes. Watching my employer, I smiled gently.
Well, Mr Miller was naturally a social butterfly, so maybe he would have become friends with Arthur Conan Doyle through another route even without me.
After a brief conversation, the train's speed began to decrease, and it started emitting a loud whistle.
"Hmm, we've arrived."
"Mr Miller, give me your luggage. Let's get off here."
I took Mr Miller's luggage along with mine and got off at Exeter railway station.
The small station in front of me was built of grey bricks.
Even though it had only been a few months, the Torquay railway station, well… it felt like I hadn't been there for years even though it had only been a few months.
Indeed, this place was a backwater.
If it weren't for the small harbour and factory, and if the English weren't so earnest about trains, it wouldn't have been part of the Great Western Railway.
Oh, of course, its strategic position connecting Plymouth and Exeter played a role.
Anyway, this place remained unchanged as if time had stood still for months, with the endless sea and green forests and the prehistoric cave that greeted Mr Miller and me.
"Compared to London, it's quite inconvenient, isn't it?"
"Haha, but this place has its own serene charm."
I quickly bowed to Mr Miller's jest.
Honestly, my preference leaned more towards the West End, but compared to the 21st century, both here and there were equally inconvenient.
So, in that case, this place with fresh air and good food was better. Also, it's better for raising children.
Ah, thinking about the kids again.
At this time, Mazy and Monty would be home, and Mary would still be sleeping soundly in her cradle…
"Do you think the kids are really angry?"
"Why ask when you already know?"
"Ugh…"
I shuddered lightly and patted the gifts filled in my bag.
Finally, it was time for these items to shine.
Unfortunately for Mr Miller, I held a bit of a grudge. I hadn't forgotten the provocation from back then.
As promised! I would monopolise the children's attention! And then, I'd laugh at Mr Miller!
Before going to meet Lewis Carroll, I hadn't been able to spend much time with the kids, which left me with a lot of regrets.
As a result of my strong recommendation, Mazy entered Godolphin School, and Monty entered Eton College.
There was little time to see them at home.
Was that why? As affectionate children, they clung more to me whenever we met on weekends… Suddenly, there were so many things to do.
And it was this trip that marked the climax.
There had hardly been a time when I had been away for so long.
Maybe that's why? There had been letters recently suggesting that both kids were going through puberty, but… it would still be fine.
If that were the case, Mr. Miller wouldn't have been so smug.
If Mazy had said something like, "I don't want to wash Dad's clothes together!" he would have greeted me with a despairing expression, not smugness.
'And I am a professional.'
Capturing the hearts of children was one of my specialities.
Growing up in a family with many younger cousins, I often played with kids. Even before coming here, I became a master of childcare (without having raised any children myself) through Mr. Oh Yoon-young's YouTube channel and various shows. There were no blind spots in my approach.
In such situations, empathy is the most important!
By empathising with children and matching their level, it was easy to engage with British teenagers.
"Kyaaah! Mum, he's playing with the bandages again!!"
"Ha! This is the darkness of London…!"
Well… this was a bit much.
***
Looking back, it all started with that royal wedding.
"Mum, when will Hanslow come back?"
"How many more nights until he's back?"
Since they were 10 years old, the kids stuck with me more than with their father, Mr. Miller, and Mrs. Clara Miller also relied on me a lot for childcare.
Of course, there were times when I left with Mr. Miller on business trips, but back then, I wasn't as trusted by Mr. Miller as I am now.
So, at most, it only happened once or twice a year.
In other words, I spent all the remaining time playing with the kids. I didn't decide to write books for them for no reason.
Anyone who has given piggyback rides for hours every day would understand. Writing back then was, in a way, a means of 'survival.' Truly.
So, was it because of that? At some point, the children naturally started reading books.
It wasn't unusual since they were kids who liked books in the first place.
As they grew older, they started reading not only Peter Perry but also my other books. Apparently, Mazy's favourite book changed to Vincent Villiers.
The problem was Monty's favourite…
"Let go! I want to go to London and find Newton's legacy and become a hero…!"
"What nonsense are you spouting?! Get a grip!!"
This was the resulting scene before me.
A younger brother deep in middle school syndrome and an older sister looking at him disdainfully and hitting him on the back of his head… They were speaking English, but it wasn't much different from what I saw in 21st-century Korea.
"Hanslow! Why are you smiling so warmly?! Come and stop him!!"
"Ah, yes. I'm coming."
I quickly ran over and subdued the seed of middle school syndrome I had created.
***
Meanwhile.
"It's been a while, Bernard."
"We're both busy, so let's skip the pleasantries, Mr. Doyle."
George Bernard Shaw.
A representative figure of the left in London's literary world, and someone Arthur Conan Doyle was not particularly keen to meet.
And with good reason… No writer would want to meet a critic who had harshly reviewed their work, no matter the circumstances.
Nonetheless.
"I came to see you for one reason: the Royal Literary Society."
"The Royal Literary Society… It's rather pretentious for the Marquess of Halsbury to use that name. But weren't you in support of them?"
"It was a moment of folly. It was an uncomfortable alliance neither side desired, so now we are essentially estranged."
"Hmm."
Arthur Conan Doyle nodded bitterly.
Seeing him, George Bernard Shaw asked in even greater bewilderment.
"So, what do you want?"
"It's just that their wealth and… the name of the Royal Literary Society are too valuable to waste."
Like pearls before swine?
Arthur Conan Doyle spoke with a cryptic expression. George Bernard Shaw scoffed at the sight.
"And if it's valuable? Are you suggesting we take it away?"
The former Scottish doctor simply smiled in silence.
The Irish-born sharp-tongued critic looked at him for a moment, then clicked his tongue and muttered.
"How sinister."
"So, what do you think?"
"Are there people willing to join?"
"I plan to go to Dartmoor for a while. Barry and Jerome are gathering friends on my behalf. Bram, for instance."
"Hmm."
George Bernard Shaw nodded.
Arthur Conan Doyle, a Scotsman who had made a name for himself in popular fiction.
His connections and achievements were already enough, and if he hadn't been so insistent on writing historical novels, he would have already formed a considerable faction.
Now, he wanted to gather writers and form a faction, aiming to oppose the Royal Literary Society, which was conservative and centred around the English aristocracy. If he intended to clash with them…
'...It would be quite interesting.'
Especially as he planned to avoid attention by pretending not to be in London, evading the Royal Literary Society's interest. George Bernard Shaw realised this meant he was serious about fighting and nodded in agreement.
Recently, Shaw's incomplete battle alongside Alfred Marshall against the London financial sector left him feeling unfulfilled. If he could redirect that fire towards burning down the Royal Literary Society with Arthur Conan Doyle…
"Alright. Let's shake up the London literary scene."
"Thank you."
As Arthur Conan Doyle joined forces with the sharp-tongued critic, three years his senior and from his grandfather's homeland, he thought of someone else entirely.
A vibrant young man from the distant East.
Arthur Conan Doyle had a feeling.
This young man wasn't just a talented writer; he had a charm that drew people in. If he continued his current trajectory, by the time he reached Doyle's age, he would be a giant in the Anglo-American literary world, commanding respect without effort.
However, his extremely unconventional traits could make him a target for the Royal Literary Society and other 'enemies.'
Therefore, now was the time for patience. This endeavour was just the beginning for him.
'Compared to the help he gave me, this effort is nothing.'
Arthur Conan Doyle thought as he lightly raised his glass.