In London, September 1880, besides fresh air, citizens most eagerly awaited the latest issue of Good Word magazine.
Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective residing at 221B Baker Street, had become a "sweet" torment.
After finishing the latest installment, countless readers would write to Good Word, their requests invariably asking the magazine to publish more chapters—
[Please, esteemed editor, I'm itching all over; just one more chapter, one chapter is all I ask...]
There were also suggestions for Good Word to change from a bi-weekly to a weekly publication, or even to be issued daily like other newspapers.
In London's clinics, some patients exhibited strange symptoms—some were mentally agitated, incessantly describing the "traces" they saw on anyone they encountered and the conclusions they deduced from those traces;
Others were listless and vacant-eyed, with all these cases occurring within two to three days after the latest issue of Good Word magazine was released.
Newspapers called this "Holmes Syndrome."
Just then, as if in response to this anxiety, a cheaply bound, unusually inexpensive pamphlet suddenly appeared on the market.
The cover was printed with bold, black lettering—A Study in Scarlet (Complete).
...
At Hawkins' newsstand on the Thames River docks, Mr. Hawkins, the owner, frowned, watching his increasingly bleak business.
A regular customer, George Wilson, an insurance company clerk, pushed his way to the stall, flipping through the newly purchased pamphlet.
George's voice was filled with unbelievable excitement:
"Mr. Hawkins, look at this! The complete A Study in Scarlet! Only six pence! No more waiting for Good Word!"
Mr. Hawkins took a copy; the rough paper and ink quickly stained his fingers black.
He quickly flipped through it; the first half of the content was almost identical to what Good Word had already serialized.
But as the plot progressed to the Mormon community, the style suddenly shifted dramatically.
"What...what the devil is this?"
Mr. Hawkins muttered to himself.
George Wilson, however, was already captivated, his face beaming, and he couldn't help but read aloud:
"Hey, listen to this passage—
[Holmes was no longer merely a gentleman relying solely on his intellect. Like an enraged lion, he drew his Webley revolver from his waist, 'Bang! Bang! Bang!' Bullets, carried by a scorching wind, grazed past the Mormon elder's ear, shattering the eyes of the holy icon behind him...]
"My God, this is thrilling!"
Another man, dressed as a worker, leaned over and grinned:
"There's something even more exciting!
Look further back, when Holmes was investigating that widow, Ruth..."
At this point, he let out a suggestive chuckle:
"Heh heh... I didn't expect Mr. Detective to be quite the expert in that!"
Mr. Hawkins snatched the pamphlet, flipped to the back, and several lines of text jumped out at him:
[...Mrs. Ruth, clad in a negligee, her ample curves outlined by candlelight, gazed tearfully at Holmes:
"Sir, I'm scared... they won't let me go..."
Holmes was no longer that cold reasoning machine.
Compassion and affection, along with an intensely burning flame, flickered in his deep gray eyes.
He approached her, taking her trembling, ice-cold hand.
He gently drew her into his embrace, feeling her softness and tremor.
"Until I uncover the truth, I will protect you."
His voice was low, carrying an unprecedented tenderness.
"How will you protect me?"
Mrs. Ruth raised her tear-filled eyes, looking up at his chiseled, stern face.
Holmes did not answer, but sealed her question with a fervent kiss.
The candlelight flickered, casting two intertwined shadows on the wall, a sleepless night...]
Mr. Hawkins' beard trembled with rage:
"Nonsense! This is utter nonsense!
This isn't what Mr. Sorell wrote at all! This is an insult to Holmes!"
George Wilson and the worker exchanged a smile.
The worker said nonchalantly:
"Old Hawkins, who cares who wrote it? As long as it's good! The original Holmes was good, but he was too... too much like an unworldly angel.
This version is so much more exciting! Gunfights, women – now that's like a living hero! Six pence, totally worth it!"
Mr. Hawkins' eyes darted:
"Where did you buy this book?"
...
Such conversations were playing out in countless pubs, workshops, and even the living rooms of some middle-class families across London.
For many readers who couldn't wait for Good Word's serialization, or those simply seeking thrills and not demanding high literary quality, this pirated book was cheap, "complete," and full of explosive, scandalous plots—it was nothing short of a godsend.
Although most people were well aware that this was a common trick by underground booksellers—hiring cheap ghostwriters to continue popular serials—it didn't stop them from reading with great relish and exclaiming their satisfaction.
----
In an office in London's East End, with a sign outside reading "The Whisperer", smoke billowed.
Mark Eric was leaning comfortably back in a leather executive chair, his corpulent body almost filling it.
He, too, held a freshly printed pirated copy of A Study in Scarlet, a satisfied smile on his lips.
The office door was gently pushed open, and his trusted valet, Madoll, cautiously entered, carrying a stack of ledgers.
Madoll placed the ledgers on the table:
"Boss, these are the sales figures for the first batch, and the response... is quite enthusiastic!
In just three days, we've sold nearly five thousand copies through vendors in the East End and dock areas."
Mark Eric tapped the table with a stubby finger:
"Enthusiastic? I'd guess it's more than just enthusiastic.
Those dockworkers, those apprentice lads, I bet they're so engrossed they don't even want to go to work, eh? Haha!"
He laughed triumphantly, the fat on his face jiggling.
He casually opened the pirated book, found a passage he himself had "guided" the ghostwriter to add, and read it with great interest:
[...In the abandoned shipyard, the final showdown arrived. The murderer, Jefferson Hope, like a cornered beast, charged at Holmes, brandishing a dagger.
He roared, "For Lucy! For revenge!"
There was no fear in Holmes's eyes, only the calm of a hunter locking onto his prey.
He sidestepped the fatal thrust, and the pistol in his hand roared again.
This time, the bullet precisely pierced Hope's heart.
Hope staggered a few steps, looked down incredulously at the blossoming blood on his chest, and collapsed heavily.
Just then, Lestrade and Gregson, with their Scotland Yard contingent, arrived belatedly.
Holmes didn't even glance at them, merely elegantly blowing away the smoke from the muzzle.
Then he holstered his pistol, pulled up his trench coat collar, and vanished into the night and fog, leaving only a legendary silhouette for the police...]
After reading, Mark Eric burst into laughter:
"See? This is what readers want! Immediate gratification for grievances! Justice delivered firsthand!
Not that original, aloof fellow who hands criminals over to the law and stands by solving puzzles! The law? Hmph, what good is the law?!"
Madoll listened quietly, neither agreeing nor refuting; he knew his boss needed listening, not opinions.
Mark Eric put down the pamphlet, took a satisfied puff from his cigar, and exhaled thick smoke rings:
"Print another 5,000 copies!
And be careful, don't get caught!"
Madoll said "Yes" and respectfully exited the office.
A moment later, Mark Eric suddenly remembered something and bellowed towards the door:
"Pierre, you ass, get in here now!"
(End of Chapter)