The carriage drove into a quiet, neat street and finally stopped in front of a respectable-looking Georgian townhouse.
"We're here."
Norman said, jumping off the carriage first.
He took out a key and opened the door:
"This is one of my private apartments, usually empty, very quiet, and fully equipped. You can stay here for now; it's absolutely safe, and no one will disturb you."
The apartment's interior furnishings were not luxurious, but comfortable and practical, with a faint scent of perfume.
The living room had a clean carpet, a sofa and desk by the fireplace, and a tidy bed in the bedroom.
Norman McLeod familiarized opened a drawer, took out a thick envelope, and handed it to Lionel.
"Here are one hundred and twenty pounds, both banknotes and coins, for your convenience."
Then, he pointed to the wardrobe:
"Inside are several sets of clothes prepared in your size, from everyday casual wear to formal coats. Oh, and this—"
He somewhat proudly patted a brand-new typewriter on the desk, its metal parts gleaming coolly under the gaslight.
"Sorel 1! I specifically had someone go to Harrods to buy it today; I know you're used to writing with it."
Lionel took the envelope.
Norman was always very thoughtful about these details.
Lionel sincerely thanked him:
"Thank you, Norman."
Norman McLeod patted his shoulder:
"Don't mention it, my friend. Your safety and ability to continue writing are my greatest thanks. Alright, it's getting late. Get some good rest. If you need anything, let me know anytime. I won't disturb you any longer."
Norman McLeod gave a few more instructions, then turned and left, the sound of the carriage gradually fading away.
The apartment became completely quiet.
Lionel walked to the window, pushed it open, and the evening breeze, carrying the scent of moisture from the River Thames, poured in.
The smell was unpleasant, but Lionel chose to endure it.
Outside the window was the deep night of London in 1881.
In the distance, the West End was still brightly lit, where clubs might be in the midst of lively balls; nearby, this middle-class neighborhood had fallen into slumber, silent.
Further to the east, in the area shrouded by darkness, Whitechapel, cholera...
Shawn O'Mara's anxious face, the eyes of those lining up in the tavern waiting for letters to be written, kept reappearing in his mind.
The legal proceedings in Paris, Holmes's brilliant success, the machinations of politicians... all of these now seemed to fade into a blurred background noise.
He recalled the mud of Rue Oberkampf in Paris, and the Parisian slums he had once visited with Chekhov.
The capitals of both countries also harbored abysses hidden by the facade of prosperity; a mere glance was enough to be deeply shocked.
The experience of writing letters for people these past few days etched rough social sketches into his mind.
The copper coins handed over by calloused hands, the oral accounts full of suffering and hope, the eyes that lit up as if they had found a treasure or a life-saving charm upon receiving the letters...
Initially, he did approach this task with sympathy, trying to use elegant prose to package those broken voices into respectable words.
But did this brief "good deed" really change anything?
Shawn O'Mara handed over that petition, but would the London City Hall, because of it, install enough public taps and build decent sewers in Whitechapel?
The answer was almost certainly no.
The mainstream society of this era largely devoutly believed that charitable handouts from the rich and the church were sufficient to solve the livelihood problems of the poor.
Just as he wrote letters in the tavern to comfort some souls.
These chaotic thoughts collided and fermented in his mind.
What he needed was not a story like "The Sign of the Four," nor a play like "Thunderstorm."
He needed a more concise, more symbolic form to pierce the veil of sentimentality covering reality.
It should take place in the high and low places of the city, involve dedication and sacrifice, and concern visible grandeur and unseen suffering.
And of course, those tiny lives easily overlooked by mainstream society.
He reached out and rolled a blank sheet of paper into the typewriter.
——————
Villeneuve-sur-Seine, France.
The summer sun was still bright, shining on Lionel's once tranquil and elegant summer villa, yet it could not dispel the oppression that now hung over it.
Sophie, Alice, and Patty, accompanied by Zola, Maupassant, and Delaruac, stood before the villa's open door.
They all stood stunned, their faces etched with shock and disbelief.
The meticulously maintained lawn and flowerbeds in the front yard looked as if they had been trampled by a herd of wild buffalo, covered in deep and shallow footprints, messy tire tracks, and hoof prints.
The white garden tables and chairs that had been placed there were overturned, flowerpot shards mixed with scattered soil, and several crushed roses lay flattened on the muddy ground.
Pushing open the ajar door, besides a few clear shoe prints, the scene inside the house was even more chaotic.
In the living room, bookshelves were toppled, books scattered everywhere, many hardcover book covers were torn, and dirty footprints were left on the inner pages.
Some of the bound newspaper collections Lionel had gathered were torn to shreds, and paper scraps covered the carpet like snowflakes.
The sofa was cut open with a sharp object, revealing its stuffing.
In the dining room, fragments of tableware and food scraps were mixed together, emitting a sour, rotten smell.
The kitchen was an even worse disaster area; cabinet doors hung crookedly, and flour and beans were scattered everywhere.
They carefully walked up to the second floor, stepping over the clutter on the floor.
Lionel's bedroom and study were the most severely damaged areas.
Wardrobes were wide open, clothes pulled out and thrown on the floor, mattresses were flipped, and even cut open in several places with a knife.
In the study, the large desk where he often wrote was overturned, all drawers pulled out and thrown on the floor, and the manuscript paper, letters, and stationery inside were a complete mess.
Ink bottles were overturned, and dark blue ink stains spread across the carpet and scattered papers, like congealed blood.
Maupassant was the first to lose his temper, growling:
"These beasts!"
He kicked away an empty drawer blocking his path, his fists clenched tightly, his face flushed with anger.
Zola's broad chest heaved violently, like an enraged bull:
"This isn't simple vandalism; this is hatred, an outlet!"
Sophie's face was pale, her body trembling slightly, biting her lip and holding back tears; Alice tightly held Patty's hand, her eyes red-rimmed.
The little girl was terrified by the sight, her big eyes brimming with tears, her small face ashen.
Notary Delaruac, however, seemed much calmer, but his brows were also tightly furrowed.
He carefully examined the damaged door locks and windows, beginning to assess the losses.
This wanton destruction clearly went beyond theft or venting anger, carrying a strong sense of intimidation.
Zola picked up a stack of manuscript paper from the floor:
"They want to warn him, warn everyone associated with him. They want to make Lionel afraid, and make us afraid."
Maupassant suddenly turned around, roaring at the ruined house:
"They're dreaming! Lionel won't be afraid! And neither will we!"
Sunlight streamed in through the broken windows, illuminating the widespread devastation on the floor, and also these faces filled with indignation and resolve.
Just then, a commotion was heard outside the villa, and everyone went out to investigate.
Standing at the doorway was Paul Pigot, editor-in-chief of 'Le Petit Parisien'; behind him was a group of reporters, and even a camera being set up.
Paul Pigot's voice was not loud, but everyone could hear him:
"This place, all of Paris must see it!"
(End of Chapter)