Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 533 Conan Doyle's Desperate Situation

In August, the afternoon heat in London is so oppressive that it's hard to breathe.

Conan Doyle, carrying a brown paper folder, stepped out of 21B Baker Street and boarded a passing public carriage.

The folder contained his newly completed manuscript, "A Scandal in Bohemia".

This was his first Sherlock Holmes story written entirely independently, without Lionel's guidance or even prior discussion of the plot.

He spent two whole months writing it, revised it three times, and then had his landlady, Mrs. Anderson, read it again.

Mrs. Anderson said that his writing was just as good as Mr. Sorel's.

But Conan Doyle was still unsure, because Mrs. Anderson was clearly in a hurry to go grocery shopping.

So he went to the office of Good Words magazine to hear Norman McLeod's opinion, whose judgment was always accurate.

Arriving at the familiar editorial office of "Good Words" magazine, Conan Doyle pushed open the door, and the familiar doorbell rang.

The receptionist was still the same bespectacled old man, Johnson, sorting through the mail.

Johnson looked up: "Good afternoon, Mr. Doyle."

"Good afternoon, Johnson. Is Dr. McLeod there?"

Johnson hesitated, then said, "Uh... well, you should just go upstairs."

Conan Doyle found this statement a bit strange, but didn't think much of it and went straight up the stairs.

The second floor is the typesetting workshop, where machines hum; the third floor is the editorial department, where several editors are working at their desks.

He walked to the innermost door with the brass plaque that read "Editor-in-Chief" and knocked on it.

"Please come in." A strange voice came from inside.

Conan Doyle paused for a moment, then pushed open the door.

The editor-in-chief's office was different from what he remembered—

Norman McLeod liked to pile things up everywhere; his desk was covered with manuscripts and proofs, the corners were piled with magazines, and the walls were covered with memos.

But now, the office is so tidy it's unsettling. There's only an ink bottle, a pen, and some documents on the desk, and the walls have been completely cleared out and painted snow-white.

The person sitting behind the desk wasn't Norman McLeod. It was a man in his forties, thin, with sunken cheeks, and wearing gold-rimmed glasses.

He was looking at a document when he heard the door open and looked up: "May I ask who you are?"

“I am Arthur Conan Doyle. I am here to see Dr. Norman MacLeod.”

The man put down the file and placed his hands crossed on the table: "Dr. McLeod resigned two days ago. I am the new editor-in-chief, Richard Everard."

Conan Doyle stood there, momentarily stunned: "Resigned?"

Everard nodded: "Yes. For personal reasons. What do you need him for?"

Conan Doyle hesitated for a moment, then walked over and placed the folder on the table: "I brought a new manuscript."

The new Sherlock Holmes story is called "A Scandal in Bohemia." I was going to show it to Dr. MacLeod.

Everard didn't touch the folder. He looked at Conan Doyle, then at the folder, before finally reaching out to open it.

He pulled out the manuscript paper, quickly flipped through a few pages, his face expressionless; about a minute later, he closed the manuscript paper and put it back in the folder.

Everard shook his head: "Mr. Doyle, I regret to inform you that Good Words will no longer publish this type of work."

Conan Doyle thought he had misheard: "What did you say?"

Everard repeated: "I said that Good Words will no longer publish this kind of work."

The Sherlock Holmes series, as well as pirate adventure stories, will no longer be featured.

Conan Doyle was shocked: "Why? Sherlock Holmes is the most popular story in 'Good Words'!"

It more than doubled the magazine's sales! Reader letters came in every day—"

Everard interrupted him: "That was before. The magazine's positioning needs to be adjusted. From now on, 'Good Words' will focus on more serious and educational works."

Works that inspire and uplift people, and that align with the interests and values ​​of the British Empire.

Conan Doyle stared at him: "Are you saying that Sherlock Holmes does not conform to the values ​​of the British Empire?"

Everard adjusted his glasses: "I didn't say that. But it's just entertainment after all. Detective stories don't have much deeper value beyond entertaining you for a few hours."

"Good Words" should not be content with providing only this level of reading.

Conan Doyle felt his blood rush to his head: "Levels? Do you know how many people became interested in scientific reasoning because of Sherlock Holmes?"
Do you know medical students—"

Everard interrupted him again: "Mr. Doyle. This is the magazine's decision. If you have other types of work, we'd be happy to consider them."

But a detective story, sorry.

Conan Doyle wanted to argue, but Everard had already lowered his head and continued reading the documents.

The gesture made it clear: the conversation was over.

Conan Doyle picked up the folder, turned and walked out of the office, slamming the door shut with a bang.

Stepping out of the magazine's editorial office, Conan Doyle stood on the street, his mind a jumbled mess.

Norman resigned. Why? Was it really for personal reasons? And who is this Everard?
When he got near St. Paul's Cathedral, he turned into a café he frequented, ordered a black coffee, sat down in a corner, and opened his folder.

The manuscript of "A Scandal in Bohemia" lay inside. Forty pages, typed out word by word on a typewriter.

The story is about the King of Bohemia coming to Holmes, wanting to retrieve a photograph that could jeopardize his engagement.

Holmes encountered his first intellectual rival—Irene Adler. Ultimately, Holmes's attempt was not entirely successful, and Irene left with the photograph.

Conan Doyle wanted to write a different ending and to show the human side of Sherlock Holmes.

None of this matters now.

----------

Two days later, Scotland Yard, the office of the Director of the Criminal Investigation Service.

Conan Doyle, across from Colonel Howard Vincent's desk: "Mr. Doyle, I'll be frank—the Criminal Investigation Bureau has decided to terminate its cooperation with you!"
Funding for the 'Criminal Tracing' project has been suspended starting this month.

Conan Doyle paused for a few seconds before speaking incredulously, "Terminate?"

"Yes. We will accept the existing data, but we will not conduct any further research or data collection."

The warehouse lease expires at the end of the month; please vacate the premises before then. The two clerks will be paid by the end of this month.

Conan Doyle stood up, his voice trembling with excitement: "Why, Colonel? During the time this project has been running, Scotland Yard's crime-solving rate has increased by 40%!"
You yourself said this is the future direction of police work! Bloodstain analysis, footprint comparison... they really are useful!
Wasn't last month's bank robbery solved by finding footprints in the back alley?

Howard Vincent's expression remained unchanged.

He waited until Conan Doyle finished speaking before speaking calmly: "I know the value of this project. But it's a decision from above."

"Up there? Who?"

"The Interior Ministry. Whitehall. They think the background of this project is not quite right."

Conan Doyle suddenly realized: "Background? Because of Mr. Lionel Sorel? Because he created Sherlock Holmes?"

Howard Vincent did not answer directly, but simply said, "Mr. Doyle, you are a smart man."

You should be aware of the current media climate in London. The "Pirates of the Caribbean" phenomenon is causing a huge stir; the newspapers are reporting on it every day.

The Ministry of the Interior hopes the police will remain neutral and not get involved with any controversial figures or works.

Conan Doyle's voice trembled: "But this is science! This is something that can help solve cases, catch the real culprits, and make London safer!"

Are you really going to give up technology that could save more people from harm just because of a novel?

Howard Vincent shook his head: "This is not something I can decide. I'm just following orders. The funding has stopped, and the cooperation must end. I'm sorry."

Conan Doyle stared at him, but Colonel Vincent avoided his gaze and looked at the documents on the table.

The office quieted down, and footsteps and faint voices could be heard from the hallway outside the door.

After a long pause, Conan Doyle finally said, "What about all that data? We spent a year and a half collecting it."

Howard Vincent said, "Scotland Field will take it. But whether they will continue to use it, and how they will use it, I don't know."

"Mr. Doyle, I suggest you keep a low profile for a while, write something else, and don't get too involved in detective stories."

Conan Doyle didn't say anything. He picked up the folder, turned around, and left the office.

The corridors of Scotland Yard were still dark. He walked slowly out and stopped as he passed a window.

Outside the window were the streets of Whitehall, with carriages and pedestrians coming and going. Everything seemed normal.

But he knew something had changed—an invisible pressure was tightening!

It doesn't need bans or seizures; it only needs hints that resources need to be cut off, an editor-in-chief needs to be replaced, or a grant needs to be stopped.

Then things will slowly change. The magazine's direction has changed, collaborative projects have stopped, what will happen next?
--------

In the following days, Conan Doyle tried submitting "A Scandal in Bohemia" to other magazines.

The first one was Cornhill Magazine, which had commissioned articles from him. The editor-in-chief was a kind old gentleman.

But this time, he was received by an assistant editor who spoke politely but was firm in his attitude.

“Mr. Doyle, we know your level. But detective stories aren’t quite right right now. The editor says the magazine needs to move toward more ‘constructive’ content.”

Conan Doyle didn't argue, took the manuscript back, and left.

The second newspaper was "Boys' House." The editor-in-chief met with him in person, but they only talked for five minutes.

"The manuscript is good. But as you know, Mr. Sorel's 'Pirates of the Caribbean' is causing quite a stir. We don't want to cause trouble."

Conan Doyle shook his head and left.

The third one is *Leisure Time*, a general magazine published weekly. The editor is young and raves about the articles.

"Fantastic! Irene Adler is a brilliant idea! Holmes has never met a rival before, and a woman at that! How much discussion this will generate!"

But the next day, Conan Doyle received a letter: after “careful consideration,” the magazine had decided not to publish the article.

Conan Doyle threw the letter into the fireplace. He watched as the flames engulfed the paper and finally turned it to ash.

A deep despair, like the night, slowly enveloped him—he knew it was the empire's machine at work.

It doesn't need to shout or use weapons. It only needs to hint, to remain silent, and to make people give up on their own.

What is Lionel doing now? Is he writing the next Pirates of the Caribbean in Paris? Or is he also facing similar pressure?
He didn't know. All he knew was that in London, in this city he once thought was full of opportunities, doors were closing in front of him.

Quietly, respectably, but resolutely shut it down. And he had no way. Absolutely no way.

It rained all night. Conan Doyle listened to the rain until dawn.

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(End of this chapter)