Writer 1879: Solitary Journey in France

Chapter 563 A Chain of Suspicion!
Upon hearing the question, the doctor paused for a moment, then gave a faint smile.

“I am Joseph Lister. My hands, my assistant’s hands, and this operating room have all been sterilized with carbolic acid. This is standard procedure, standard procedure that I set out.”

Lionel tried to nod, but he couldn't move. He closed his eyes and sank into a deathly darkness.

Sir Charles Warren stood outside the operating room door, like a statue.

A policeman rushed over and reported in a low voice, "Sir, the man who fired the shot has been taken back. He is indeed French, named Jean-Pierre... We haven't gotten any more details yet."

Charles Warren nodded; he knew this was no longer within the police department's control.

He instructed, "Tell them immediately to stop the interrogation and wait until I get back to discuss everything."

The police officer hesitated for a moment, then pointed out the window: "Outside the hospital... people are starting to gather... they don't look like good people."

Charles Warren walked to the window and looked down.

Dozens of people had gathered in the open space in front of the hospital, most of them looking like workers, wearing old work clothes and baseball caps. They stood silently, gazing at the hospital building.

At the front of the crowd, Charles Warren recognized the big man—Sean Omara, the dockworker who had just been released from court a few days earlier.

"Send two teams," Charles Warren said. "Guard all entrances to the surgical clinic. Don't allow anyone who isn't a doctor or nurse to approach Sorel without my written order."

"Yes, sir!"

The police ran away. Charles Warren remained standing by the window, looking down at the crowd.

The autumn rain in London has started, fine and dense, like needles and threads.

But no one left. People just stood there, getting soaked in the rain, gazing at the white building.

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Buckingham Palace, study.

Queen Victoria's face was grim as she listened to her royal secretary, John Brown, read a telegram that had just been received.

When she heard the words "shooting" and "Sorel was shot," she jumped up from her chair and even kicked over her footstool.

"What?!" Her voice was filled with disbelief, shock, and rage. "In London! In front of the courthouse! Right under the noses of the police! How dare they?!"

Her chest heaved violently, and in an instant, countless thoughts rushed into her mind. Her carefully laid "back plan" had been interrupted by this sudden assassination attempt before it could even be launched.

Who? Who most wants Lionel Sorel dead? Who most wants to embarrass themselves?

She almost blurted out: "Glaxton! Harcourt! They don't want me back! They're scared! Sorel is dead, and everyone will say I did it! That the royal supporters did it! That a madman did it!"

Then they can have a legitimate reason to lock me up in Windsor forever, until I die! And it will forever stain my name! Despicable! Shameless!

She paced rapidly around the room: "Either those liberal congressmen? Those radicals? They don't want to see me come back either... Same logic! Same wicked scheme!"

Private Secretary John Brown bowed his head, barely daring to breathe. He had never seen the Queen so distraught, so openly accusing her cabinet and members of parliament.

"Investigate!" The Queen stopped and stared at John Brown. "Send 'our people' to investigate immediately! Not Scotland Yard! They're all in cahoots!"

I need to know everyone suspicious today, every possible instigator! Immediately! Right now!

“Yes, Your Majesty.” John Brown bowed and prepared to leave.

"And one more thing!" the Queen called after him, taking a deep breath. "Prepare the carriage; I need to go to the hospital, right now!"

John Brown exclaimed in alarm, "Your Majesty, this is too dangerous! The situation is still unclear..."

Queen Victoria interrupted his advice: "It is precisely because the situation is unclear that I must go!"

She knew that if Sorel died, she would be the prime suspect. Therefore, she had to be there, and appear with the utmost concern and fury!
She wanted everyone to see her hatred for this despicable act! She wanted to personally throw this mud back at them!

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10 Downing Street, Cabinet Room.

Gladstone and several ministers were in a meeting discussing Egyptian affairs. When the news arrived, the meeting room fell silent instantly.

Harcourt jumped up first: "A Frenchman? Really a Frenchman?"

"The killer spoke French at the scene, and according to information from Scotland Yard, he seems to be French."

“What the hell difference!” Harcourt almost roared. “Now everyone will say it was us! That we sent a Frenchman to do it, to clear our names!” “Calm down, Harcourt,” Gladstone said. He sat in the head seat, his face ashen, looking as if he had aged ten years overnight.

"Calm down? How can we calm down?" Harcourt waved his arms. "If Sorel dies, we're all finished! Europe will say we murdered a writer! The civilians at home will riot!"

Your Majesty—Your Majesty can conveniently dissolve the cabinet and pin everything on us!

“So he can’t die now,” Foreign Secretary Granville said. “He must live.”

"A person is lying on the operating table, and you think you can just decide whether they live or die?" Harcourt sneered.

Gladstone slammed his fist on the table: “Send someone to the hospital immediately. Use the best doctors and the best medicine, no matter the cost. Tell the hospital and doctors to give them whatever they need.”

Furthermore, strengthen security and prevent anyone from approaching—I mean anyone, including our people and members of the royal family.”

“You suspect…” Granville was interrupted by Gladstone before he could finish speaking.

“I have no doubts. All I know is that he is now the most vulnerable link in British politics. As long as he lives, there is still room for maneuver. If he dies…”

Gladstone stood up and picked up his coat.

"Where are you going?" Harcourt asked.

“The hospital,” Gladstone said. “The Queen will certainly go, or at least send an envoy. If I’m not there, it will be my dereliction of duty.”

"It's too dangerous! It's outside right now—"

“It’s safer than sitting here.” Gladstone had already walked to the door. “You stay here and wait for news. If… if the worst happens, be prepared to resign, and leave with some dignity.”

After Gladstone left, the remaining people in the conference room looked at each other in bewilderment.

After a long silence, Chancellor of the Exchequer Childs whispered, "Do you think... it really could be the Queen..."

“Shut up!” Harcourt yelled, but his voice lacked conviction.

No one spoke anymore.

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In a secluded attic in London's West End.

The air seemed to freeze as the men listened to the breathless report from a companion who had just run back from Bower Street.

"Bang!" A bearded man slammed his fist on the wooden table. "British pigs! They really wanted to silence him! They're afraid Mr. Sorel will reveal more of the truth!"

I'm afraid he'll continue to speak for Ireland, for all the oppressed!

“We can’t wait any longer!” Another younger man suddenly stood up. “This is a declaration of war! A declaration of war against the truth! A declaration of war against conscience!”
We must respond! We must let them know that the Irish are not lambs to the slaughter!

"Yes! Let's teach them a lesson!"

"Make them pay!"

A low growl echoed in the cramped space.

The man who first slammed the table glanced at his indignant companions, then walked to the wall where a map of London was posted.

He picked up a pencil, circled a point on the map, and said, "The plan is ahead of schedule!"

The other men gathered around, their eyes burning with desire.

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After the gunshot, everyone in the city seemed to be waiting.

Waiting for someone to wake up, or to fall asleep forever.

Waiting for an answer, or an even bigger mystery.

A chain of suspicion has formed, like an invisible net, enveloping London.

(Second update complete. I'll be discharged from the hospital tomorrow! So happy! Please vote with monthly tickets!)

(End of this chapter)