Chapter 71 – Alliance of Authors

"It's been a while. Congratulations on your victory."

"Ha, what victory? Thanks to those foolish Liberal Party bastards, I feel more like Pyrrhus I."

It had been a long time since Arthur Conan Doyle met with George Bernard Shaw. Shaw, who had a foot in the Labour Party, spoke with visible displeasure.

Sure, they'd managed to secure the Prime Minister's seat through a coalition, but that was it. The government had no real power from the start, so what could an immature party like theirs possibly achieve? Yet, here they were, talking about Irish independence and universal welfare as if they were worth a damn.

Shaw grumbled on, "Next time, our Labour Party should challenge alone. The Liberals only had a progressive streak up to Gladstone. They're nothing but Conservatives with a different name."

"Well, that's for you to decide."

Arthur Conan Doyle, who never had much interest in politics regardless of his leanings, simply replied. He had more pressing matters to attend to.

"It's about time to wrap up what we started, don't you think?"

"Indeed. Speaking of which, you've been up to something quite amusing yourself."

Shaw smirked as he spoke, and Arthur Conan Doyle, guessing what he meant, sighed as a throbbing headache set in.

"You can only say that because you haven't experienced it yourself."

When Arthur Conan Doyle killed off Sherlock Holmes, the backlash he faced was no less severe, if not worse, than what's happening now. On top of that, an unexpected rumour had surfaced—a supposed feud between Hanslow Jin and Arthur Conan Doyle.

The Yellow Press published a sensational article claiming, "The reason Peter Perry concluded was due to Arthur Conan Doyle's return. It was a ploy to oust DawnBringer, leaving Hanslow Jin heartbroken and gravely ill!" The content was absurd, with no basis in reality, especially considering the deep friendship between the two. However, with so little information available, the public's unease grew.

Though Arthur Conan Doyle wasn't shaken by the rumour itself, the common thread in these articles—worry over his deteriorating health—had been a concern for him for some time. He had intended to visit Mr. Miller, but fortunately, George Newnes beat him to it, coming all the way to his home in Marylebone.

"So, you're saying it's just a sham illness?"

"Exactly. It's a rumour spread to undermine the Peter Perry anti-conclusion protest alliance. Frankly, it's a good thing he never entered politics."

Arthur Conan Doyle could only nod in agreement. Hanslow Jin had indeed borrowed this fake illness strategy from what would become a common tactic in the future, the so-called "Prosecution Appearance Edition."

Still, if the fan bases on both sides continued to escalate, there would be no solution. Hence, Newnes's advice had been clear: "Release a new full-length manuscript immediately." Thanks to Arthur Conan Doyle's timely submission of the manuscript for The Valley of Fear and George Newnes's handling of the press, the situation began to settle down slightly.

Of course, the conspiracy theories didn't disappear entirely, but Doyle wasn't concerned. After all, his ego was too resilient to be toppled by mere yellow journalism.

Besides, these fake news stories from the yellow press hadn't only caused harm. If anything, they'd given them some momentum.

"Well, in a way, this has turned out to be a good thing for us."

George Bernard Shaw said, exhaling a puff of smoke, and Arthur Conan Doyle nodded in agreement. Between them lay a newspaper with the headline, "The Royal Literary Society Harasses Hanslow Jin?!"

When the words "the writer's illness" were mentioned, what first came to the minds of London's citizens was not anything else but the most popular writer in London's literary scene while he was alive: Charles Dickens.

A man who managed a magazine company, engaged in charity work, staged amateur plays, and held public readings, connecting deeply with London's populace like no one else in his time. But then, as if by some cruel joke of fate, he was suddenly taken by a stroke—a tragic loss of an author.

"We can't lose Hanslow Jin like we lost Charles Dickens."

That was the thought that arose in the minds of Londoners, and naturally, the next thought was:

"Hanslow Jin is ill? And you're asking me why!?"

"But sir, there were rumours that the Royal Literary Society clashed with Charles Dickens, who died of a stroke, and that there was tension with Hanslow Jin as well!"

"I don't know! I don't care! Just leave me alone!!"

In truth, the Marquess of Halsbury, Hardinge Giffard, who was the president of the Royal Literary Society, was genuinely aggrieved. Plans to pit him against Arthur Conan Doyle, to accuse him of tax evasion—everything had gone awry. Hanslow Jin, meanwhile, was thriving, mingling with the likes of Mark Twain.

In such a situation, his holding the position of the Royal Literary Society president was more due to the Society's tarnished reputation than any lack of opposition from its members. He had simply stayed quiet, doing nothing, waiting for the right moment. But now, out of nowhere, he found himself embroiled in rumours of conspiracies and bullying, and it was no wonder Giffard was exasperated.

Of course, he had intended to do something. But wasn't it unfair to be criticized before he'd even begun?

Yet, as everyone knows, the more someone denies something, the more the press, like a swarm of bees, descends upon them. Naturally, headlines like these started appearing.

<On Charles Dickens and Hanslow Jin, the Authors We Had to Lose>

<Why Did We Have to Lose Charles Dickens? An In-Depth Look at the Royal Literary Society!>

<A Series of Authors in Critical Condition... What Is the RSL Hiding?>

These were the headlines that Arthur Conan Doyle and George Bernard Shaw were reading now.

It had gotten to the point where there were even articles suggesting that the Royal Literary Society operated a special unit to assassinate authors they didn't like. It was enough to drive anyone mad.

But that wasn't something they needed to worry about.

"The message here is clear," said George Bernard Shaw, staring absently at the sky.

"The public sentiment in London is leaning towards you, the popular authors. Hah, I'm envious. If only half of those people standing outside the publishing house had voted for us, we could have made it into Parliament too."

"It's not the same. They didn't come to us; we—no, Hanslow Jin—reached out to the public first, and that's why we got this result."

Arthur Conan Doyle smiled as he said this. Depending on the situation, people generally like those who show them appreciation.

"Why don't you try writing a detective novel? Or maybe children's literature?"

"Say something that makes sense."

Not a bad joke.

The two men exchanged smiles as they looked at each other.

Anyway, it was clear that London was more eager than ever for an organization, a society, a community of beloved authors to replace the Royal Literary Society.

In other words, the wind was blowing strongly in favour of launching a new association.

"Here's the list we've secured."

"We've done our best to gather people too."

From the popular literary world: Robert Barr, Arnold Bennett, Henry Rider Haggard. From the Irish independence movement: Patrick Pearse, Thomas MacDonagh, James Cousins. And others like editor Edward Garnett, newcomer Gilbert Chesterton, and the Polish-born Joseph Conrad...

Their efforts hadn't been in vain; they had succeeded in gathering a considerable number of figures labelled as "non-mainstream" in London.

"Hmm. It's a pity we couldn't include Kipling."

"Then I'll invite Birmingham."

"No, didn't I tell you not to mention that bastard's name?"

The two exchanged a sharp look as they landed direct hits on each other.

Rudyard Kipling is a staunch conservative and racist. George A. Birmingham was notorious as a traitor and defector within the Irish independence movement. It was unclear who garnered more backlash and hatred, but they were similar in that they were both despised by each other's circles.

In the end, the two silently agreed to reconcile, easing their expressions. How many times—no, how many dozens of times—had they reconciled like this? They had long since lost count.

"Still, it's true that we lack someone who can be the 'face' of our group."

"Indeed, the people we've gathered are mostly those favoured by the Labour Party."

At those words, George Bernard Shaw nearly snapped, wondering if that was a jab at the Labour Party, but he restrained himself.

Sigh, still, what an infuriating man.

If it weren't for this situation, they probably wouldn't have had anything to do with each other. But what choice did they have now that things had come to this?

And whether or not Arthur Conan Doyle was aware of Shaw's thoughts, he merely frowned slightly as he continued slowly.

"I've also spoken with the Authors' Club and the Society of Authors. When the time comes, Besant and Meredith will coordinate the timing to unify."

"Hmm. Those two are at least somewhat reasonable."

The Authors' Club, which was more of a social gathering with the largest membership, and the Society of Authors, a sort of trade union with fewer members but focused on protecting the legal rights of authors, including copyrights — if they could unite these two groups, which had so far operated independently, then a formidable author organization could emerge that even the Royal Literary Society couldn't ignore.

"But that doesn't change the fact that we still don't have a face to unify them all, does it?"

"Of course. That's why I've thought of someone."

"You're not going to do it?"

"I've kept my distance from them all this time. Who would follow me now if I suddenly decided to play leader?"

Arthur Conan Doyle smiled bitterly.

In the end, it all comes back to Hanslow Jin, who awakened him.

"So, who are you thinking of inviting?"

"Who, you ask?"

"George MacDonald."

"... Oh."

Bernard Shaw's eyes gleamed at the mention of the veteran novelist who had been active during the same period as Charles Dickens.

"He hasn't been seen in quite a while. Hasn't he passed away?"

"It's been a long time since he went to Italy for a retreat. But we can reach him through Mr. Lewis Carroll."

"Hmm. Indeed, he'd be a fitting first president for our association."

He hasn't caused the same public uproar as Carroll and has a long career as a children's literature author. Though he's been inactive for the last ten years and somewhat forgotten with the rise of other prominent children's authors in Britain, his name still carries weight among writers.

"Alright then, it seems we've covered everything. So, have you decided on a name for our association?"

The gentleman with the pipe responded briefly.

"Alliance of Authors."

Simple is best.

At Arthur Conan Doyle's words, George Bernard Shaw couldn't help but chuckle.

"Not bad."

***

"Mmm."

"Hmm?"

Rolling around.

"Mmm."

"Mmph."

Rolling around.

"Ow! Ouch!"

"Eek?"

"What on earth are you doing, rolling around with a kid like that?"

"Ow, miss! That hurts!"

I grabbed my aching back and sat up. Standing before me was our young lady, Madge Miller, who had come down for the holidays, looking at me in disbelief. She promptly snatched away Mary Miller, the 5-year-old who had been rolling around with me—not Agatha Christie, mind you. Honestly, she's too much.

"I know it's your vacation, but this is too much... Aren't you acting like one of those sloths they say live in the Amazon? Why not think about going on a proper outing?"

"You don't understand, Miss."

I spoke confidently.

"People, by nature, want to sit when they stand, and lie down when they sit!"

"That's right!"

Mary mimicked the end of my sentence and giggled, making Madge sigh deeply as she slumped down next to us.

"I do think it's good that you finally got some time off, Hanslow. You've been working too hard, haven't you?"

"Well, yeah."

I did work myself ragged on all sorts of things.

Madge grabbed my arm and spoke earnestly.

"So let's make the most of your break. Huh? Let's go on a trip, maybe to the South of France, Belgium, or Italy. Enjoy some good food. Don't just lie around the house, okay?"

"... Miss."

I gently patted Madge's head.

Well, well, it seems...

"Schoolwork at Godolphin must be pretty tough. You're just using me as an excuse to take a trip... Ow!!"

"I don't care! Hanslow, you idiot!!"

Hit the nail on the head, huh?

Rubbing my sore stomach where Madge had struck, I began to think.

Hmm... it is true that I've been terribly bored.

"A trip, huh..."

But is there anywhere worth travelling to at this time? As I pondered this, something suddenly came to mind.

Come to think of it, isn't it about time to check out the new collection?