Chapter 41 – Hero (5)

"Huff, huff…"

The hands of Big Ben, faintly visible, pointed to 4 o'clock. I hadn't intended for this, but too much time had passed.

Jingle—! Jingle—!

The door, roughly swung open, seemed about to break. At the end sat the young man I had been waiting for.

I approached him, struggling to catch my breath, and spoke.

"Sorry, I'm quite late…"

"So, why did you kill Sherlock?"

"Uh… what?"

"I asked why you killed him."

"Wha—?"

***

The reunion with the doctor I hadn't seen in a long time was not the worst… but it wasn't very pleasant either.

Well, it could be forgiven that the person who set the appointment time was late.

But the appearance of the person I finally met was shocking.

His hair was dishevelled as if he hadn't slept for days, sweat covered his face like he had been caught in a rainstorm, and his beard was unkempt.

He was entirely different from the 'neat London gentleman' I remembered.

No wonder the pub master was startled and ran to him.

"Sir Conan Doyle!! Have you been attacked by robbers?"

"No, Jim. Don't worry. Could you bring me a wet towel, please?"

"Of course."

It was disconcerting to see this man so different from before… but I had to say what needed to be said.

So, I asked directly.

"Why did you kill Sherlock?" Speaking as a representative of countless Sherlockians.

He momentarily looked dazed, with an "Uh? Wha—?" expression and then fell silent.

How would he react? Would he get angry? Would he cry? Knowing his character, he might just calmly explain…

But then.

"Yes, that was my sin."

"… Pardon?"

What was this reaction?

Contrary to my expectations, his face was so warm, without a hint of anger or impatience, that it surprised me.

Rather than Arthur Conan Doyle, who killed Holmes out of spite, he looked more like a serene master such as the Dalai Lama or a Zen monk.

Yet, it felt very… natural.

What was this? What was happening?

"Young man, to be honest."

"Ah, yes. I'm listening."

"I was tempted."

Oh, uh.

I could only stare blankly at Arthur Conan Doyle, speechless. It felt like listening to a religious experience.

"… Tempted?"

"That's right."

I glanced at the pub master who brought the towel.

The burly, bald master, with arms like logs, carefully placed the dampened cloth on the table and… ran away.

He seemed to sense, like me, that this could get troublesome.

"Ah, Jim brought it. Sorry, I need to wash my face for a moment."

"Yes, yes. Go ahead."

I tried to signal the master for help, but he pretended not to notice, busily polishing a glass he had already cleaned.

Well, there was no helping it.

I had no choice but to ask the renowned author, who was catching his breath.

"So, what do you mean by that? Please explain."

"Hmm, right. I didn't explain well enough."

That was straightforward.

Arthur Conan Doyle took a sip of the ginger ale I had subtly ordered for him, sighed deeply, and spoke.

"I was just foolish, that's all."

He bitterly remarked that the decision to write historical novels was ultimately for his own satisfaction.

"I was so obsessed that I made a huge mistake. Killing that… boy in such a manner was like toppling the tower I had painstakingly built."

"Well, that's true, but…"

"Yes. Since you seem to know, I'll be honest."

With eyes shining with intelligence and coldness, Arthur Conan Doyle declared.

"Killing Sherlock was my mistake. I left my readers with nothing but unnecessary stubbornness and pain."

Indeed, in the future, a fan even committed suicide over it… Fortunately, there had been no news of any suicides yet, suggesting that other Sherlockians, like me, were still holding on to a small glimmer of hope.

"Hmm, if that's what you're saying?"

"I must bring Sherlock Holmes back to life."

"R-really?!"

"Sir, is that truly what you mean!?"

"Yes, of course."

Both I and the pub master, who had been listening attentively, were shocked and looked at Arthur.

I knew, of course, that he eventually wrote The Adventure of the Empty House.

But why?

I couldn't help but be puzzled.

Arthur Conan Doyle's decision to resurrect Sherlock Holmes was initially due to failing to quell the outcry with a prequel, followed by an American publisher offering a substantial contract, which ultimately broke his resolve.

I vividly remembered his recent delight at the police station when he found material for a historical novel.

So why had he suddenly changed his mind?

In fact, I had come here today prepared to be disliked.

I had planned to persuade him to write about Sherlock again.

But suddenly? Why?

Seeing my confusion, he spoke reverently, as if in confession.

"I had forgotten why I wrote novels."

"The reason you write novels?"

"Hmm, did I ever tell you about my father, Charles Altamont Doyle?"

"Ah, no."

Something vaguely came to mind, so I kept quiet and waited for him to speak.

If it was about John Watson and his father, as depicted in Sherlock Holmes.

And if it was true that Conan Doyle projected himself onto John Watson, then it might not be a pleasant story.

Arthur Conan Doyle closed his eyes for a moment and then spoke slowly.

"He was a shameful man. A mentally ill person unfit for a strong and beautiful woman like my mother, full of vanity and pretension in his art."

"… I see."

"Of course, he wasn't a bad painter. He even illustrated A Study in Scarlet for me. He wasn't at the level of exhibiting his work, but he wasn't terrible. However… he was a man who couldn't handle failure."

Arthur Conan Doyle turned his head slightly to look at the distant sky.

Though he spoke harsh words, I could sense mourning and love for his father in his gaze.

"He passed away, didn't he?"

"Last year. This October will mark his death anniversary."

"My condolences."

"Thank you."

"Anyway," Arthur Conan Doyle continued.

"I didn't want to be someone who harmed others like my father, so I became a doctor to heal people… But ironically, it seems the Doyle family is bound to the arts. After all this, I ended up as a writer. Come to think of it, my grandfather, John Doyle, was a renowned satirical artist in Ireland."

Oh, I didn't know that. So perhaps the detail about Holmes' maternal grandmother being from a family of French artists reflected this aspect?

"The reason I started writing Sherlock Holmes was to give hope to the people of London. My original intention was to reach out to the public. But somewhere along the way, I got carried away with being a popular author, disregarding them and trying to cater to the critics. I lost my original purpose. What matters is not the opinion of a small elite."

I nodded.

I felt like applauding.

It was quite a dramatic change of heart, but what did it matter?

The important thing was that he had decided to write about Sherlock Holmes again. As I was thinking this, it happened.

"The book that taught me this is this one."

Arthur Conan Doyle pulled something from his coat.

It was damp with sweat from his run, but I could still recognise it. There was no mistaking it.

After all.

"DawnBringer. The one who brings the dawn… such a well-chosen name. It's like it brought dawn to me as well."

"… Oh."

It was none other than the book I had written.

As I stood there, stunned, Arthur Conan Doyle spoke enthusiastically.

"If I ever meet Hanslow Jin, I would like to thank him. In a way, he is the benefactor who awakened me from my wrong path."

"Uh, um..."

I see.

"Have you read it? It's truly an amazing work! Although it contains many fictional elements, it captures the essence of what I wanted to convey with Sherlock Holmes. Hanslow Jin, I believe he wanted to tell me to write about Sherlock again."

"Yes, that's true..."

"So, you think so too?"

"Uh, well... I didn't lack that intention."

"Hmm? What do you mean?"

Uh, this is embarrassing, but I should say it, right?

"I wanted you to write about Sherlock again."

Noticing something odd in my words, he furrowed his brows for a moment. Then his eyes grew wider.

"Wait, your tone sounds as if... no, it can't be."

"Yes, that's right."

I scratched my chin and answered sheepishly.

"... I am Hanslow Jin."

***

A few days ago, at the Metropolitan Police headquarters responsible for London's security, also known as Scotland Yard, seasoned police officers of rank Inspector and above gathered in the central conference room.

None of them looked relaxed. Some were biting their nails or shaking their legs.

What they were anxiously waiting for was something that affected the prestige of the Metropolitan Police and, by extension, the entire security of England.

That was precisely:

"It's out, it's out!"

What had come out?

It was:

"Hanslow Jin has started serialising a 'detective novel' in The Strand Magazine!!"

"Is it true!?"

"Finally!!"

"Thank goodness, no more scolding for us!!"

The intelligence was accurate. George Newnes had done it!

The officers hugged each other and celebrated.

Scotland Yard had recently been under constant criticism from the Home Office due to poor performance.

The reason was simple.

The Sherlock Holmes series, which served as free publicity despite often ridiculing the police, had concluded with the protagonist's death, causing a riot instead of relief.

The resulting increase in work from subsequent riots was no small matter.

"But that's all over now!!"

"Yes, Conan Doyle wrote well, but Hanslow Jin is the best these days!!"

"If he thinks otherwise, he should bring Sherlock Holmes back!!"

Unaware that Conan Doyle had already decided to resurrect Sherlock Holmes, the officers criticised him.

After all, convincing that man, who reacted dramatically whenever Sherlock Holmes was mentioned, was a tall order.

Of course, they would later be troubled by Hanslow Jin's DawnBringer fans, who would climb Big Ben, break into Westminster Abbey, or form vigilante groups. But for now, that was a future problem.

"Alright, let's finish the remaining agenda!"

"Yes, once this is done, we can finally leave on time!!"

They began distributing the remaining cases. With the major issue resolved, the distribution went smoothly.

"Next is the cooperation request for the series of disappearances in Dartmoor, Devon..."

"Isn't that just swamps and moors?"

"An assignment there feels like exile."

"Still, it's an important matter. An old noble family reportedly lost their last heir. It's causing quite a legal fuss."

"That makes it even less appealing."

"Oh, come on now."

"Hold on."

One of them, Inspector Jones, raised his hand.

He was known for his handling of the recent London Stock Exchange case and was reputed to be as cunning as a snake.

"Did you say the last heir of a noble family in Devon is gone?"

"Yes, that's correct."

"A noble family in Devon..."

Someone's words flashed through his mind.

─ Come to think of it, Devon still has a lot of rural charm, doesn't it?

─ Old wealthy landowners, isolated due to poor transportation. These nobles lived like kings of their own little kingdoms, but they couldn't keep up with the times. There's only one heir left, and hidden relatives are plotting to seize the inheritance...

"I think I know who we can send."

Inspector Jones of Scotland Yard smiled.