Chapter 2

The Age of Hypocrisy (1)

The bustling square teems with countless people. The blurred figures passing by each other sometimes resemble flocks of migratory birds crossing the sky.

But to me, it was rather peaceful.

No matter the reason for their movement, they all had their own destinations and were heading toward them.

That's why I felt detached from the square.

A purposeless ghost cannot blend into the square, so I gave the moon its celestial throne and watched the sun sink beyond the horizon.

In the city of London, where the sun rarely rises, the brightest star in the unusually clear sky, at the moment of its final exit, was neither too dazzling nor too dark. The light, like a glass of honey wine, shimmered and dyed the gray world a sad shade of red. The golden sunset illuminated everything equally, enveloping all silhouettes in a golden silk.

In the dazzling twilight, day and night intersect, light and darkness intersect, and the sun and moon intersect.

"Master, have you arrived?"

"Ah, yes, Laila."

A young girl in a maid's uniform bowed her head respectfully. Her brown hair was disheveled, as if she had been working, but her large green eyes sparkled with curiosity.

"Mother?"

"Madam is praying."

I nodded.

My mother is a devout Catholic.

During the French Revolution, when all the nobles were being executed, my mother, a French countess, escaped from Normandy to England. She fell in love with my father, whom she met there, and they got married.

They were happy. If my father hadn't died in the war against Napoleon when I was very young, they would have continued to be happy.

Without my father, the family's fortune declined, and even with my mother being a countess, the lack of wealth made our situation worse. Born into such a family, I felt a sense of responsibility to do something.

What's the point of being a viscount? We have no wealth. Ownership of the estate? It was all confiscated by the revolutionary government.

We did receive some compensation later, but it was just enough to maintain the appearance of a noble family.

Given this situation, I started writing.

In a world where Arthur Conan Doyle hadn't even been born, what could I write?

I found a surefire hit and the money started rolling in.

"Laila, get the ink bottle and paper and put them on my desk. Sharpen the quill too."

"Ah, yes! And dinner?"

"I've already eaten."

"Ah, well... but the desk hasn't been tidied up yet..."

"Do it now."

Laila, having received the order, quickly went upstairs. I glanced at her and went inside.

"Mother."

"Ah, you're here? Ed. How was your work?"

"Yes."

I nodded and sat down.

"Reading the Bible again?"

"The reason I didn't enter a convent was for your father, and then for you. Once you get married, I can enter the convent with peace of mind."

"I have plenty of money, Mother."

"But you don't have an eye for women, do you?"

Mother, you're hitting me with facts a bit too hard...

"Is there really no woman you like?"

"To be honest, there are very few women who catch my eye."

"So, go out more. You'll find someone if you meet more women."

"There was one, but she was already engaged. I gave up on her. Anyway, I'm going to work now."

The royalties I receive are enormous.

The most popular bestseller in human history, the Sherlock Holmes series.

Of course, even with the original, copying it isn't easy.

In a world where the typewriter hasn't been invented, I have to make some adjustments to fit the era, so I have to write everything by hand.

Of course, there's a price for that. I get one pound for every five words. The royalties are based on the number of words.

In short, money is being duplicated.

When I went upstairs, everything was neatly organized. There were no traces of newspaper scraps, teacups, scone plates, or food crumbs, and the papers were neatly stacked in two baskets.

"Good job."

"It's my duty."

Laila bowed.

Laila, the maid my mother hired.

She's still a child, but after my mother saw the state of my room and was shocked, she gave me a special order to live like a human being.

I'm using her efficiently. For now, I have her listen to the novel's story and catch any inconsistencies or awkward parts for this era. Once she learns to write, I'll have her make copies of the manuscript and proofread for typos, among other tasks.

In exchange, I won't charge for her education and will give her a bonus—though I'm teaching her to use her more effectively, it's still a fair deal, right?

"Bring the dictionary at 6."

"Yes, I understand."

Of course, Laila doesn't know about my schemes; she's just happy to be learning to read and write. She's the kind of student 21st-century teachers would love. She enjoys learning for its own sake.

***

"......I will."

"Sir."

"Hmm?"

"Then what about Irene Adler?"

"For now, she leaves and never returns to England... Why do you ask?"

"Irene Adler is alone, and she's very smart. Frankly, even Dr. Watson struggles to match Holmes's intellect and personality. But a woman who can outsmart Holmes once might be a good match, don't you think?"

"Are you suggesting I pair Irene Adler with Sherlock Holmes?"

"Many people will think the same thing."

Yes, that's true.

Even in the 21st century, there are countless reinterpretations. Despite Holmes marrying someone else in the original, there are still many fans who try to connect him with Irene Adler.

"Hmm... But in the story I'm planning, there's no time for Holmes to get married. He's fighting his archenemy right now."

"That's even better. Professor Moriarty, right? So, he could defeat Professor Moriarty and then get married. Dr. Watson could be the witness, and since Dr. Watson is already married, Holmes should too."

Hmm, that's a common perspective for this era.

Why would a normal person, who isn't a priest, not get married? That's just not logical.

Of course, Holmes isn't particularly interested in women, but with the unique case of Irene Adler, it's not impossible to imagine a change.

Honestly, I'm just copying novels from the future, but if I were living in the era when Sherlock Holmes was being serialized, I might have thought, 'Oh, the author is finally thinking about getting Holmes married.'

Hmm, what should I do?

"Laila."

"Yes?"

"What if Irene gives up because she falls in love with someone else, and Holmes dies in the final battle with Professor Moriarty..."

"Sir."

Laila, with a very serious expression, replied.

"I can guarantee that rocks will fly at this house."

"......That bad? Well, that's true, but..."

In the original history, the atmosphere was very negative after the final story. The fans were so extreme that they forced Holmes to be resurrected in "The Adventure of the Empty House."

"Hmm......"

"What was the master's plan?"

"That was......"

I gave her a brief summary of the final story.

"......There will be riots in London."

That was Laila's response.

"......Really?"

"Yes."

Laila said with certainty.

"It will definitely happen."

"......"

I sighed.

"Damn."

I scratched my head irritably.

"Do you have any newspapers?"

"There should be some from this morning. Should I bring them?"

"Yes, I need to stay informed to write well."

Laila quickly ran downstairs.

I sat down and filled the inkwell.

"Damn, this is so inconvenient, I need to invent a typewriter."

When was the typewriter invented in the original history? It should be soon.

Anyway, I can't invent it.

How could I? I don't know the internal structure or anything.

Of course, there are people in the 19th century who could make a typewriter if given enough money, but I'm not one of them.

"Ha."

There are many things I miss about the past.

I miss the internet, computers, and aspirin.

Transportation is a hassle, doctors prescribe drugs, and smoking is considered healthy.

Why would I go to a doctor if I'm sick? Even if I did, I wouldn't take the medicine. Who knows what's in it.

And this is an era where Eastern occultism is taken seriously... I could probably make a good living as a fortune-teller.

The Victorian era hasn't started yet, but it will soon, and most of my life will be spent in it.

And I want to define the Victorian era like this:

The Age of Hypocrisy.

Society is said to be progressing, but countless children are dying in mines. The Western world is said to be developing brilliantly, but it's built on the blood of countless colonies in Asia and Africa.

I know very well that despite the enforced religious solemnity, all sorts of debauchery can be found in the back alleys.

Of course, I don't have the ability or the will to overturn all of this.

But I'm lucky enough to have a seat at the edge of the privileged class.

If I had been thrown into this world with nothing, I might have dreamed of a revolution, but I am a British citizen, a successful writer, and my family, though half-declined, is still a noble family.

I'm in a position where I can enjoy life as a prominent figure and die of old age. World War I? World War II? Will I see them? I was born in 1808.

To see World War I, I'd have to be 106 years old, and with the average life expectancy of this era, the probability of me dying of old age before then is 99%. World War II is even more unlikely.

Didn't Louis XIV say something like, "After I die, let the great flood come"?

So, I'll live quietly. Quietly, I'll enjoy the honey that drips from society.

Would history really be twisted by a single writer?

I chuckled. Even delusions have their limits.

'I'm just a novelist, not a politician. If the god or devil who sent me back in time wanted me to change history, they would have made me a child of a noble family or a person of power, not a wealthy child of a declining family whose existence in the original history is uncertain.'

There's no way. Thinking that, I leaned back comfortably.

Just then, I heard footsteps on the stairs, and Laila opened the door.

"I've brought the newspaper."

"Thank you."

"Would you like something to drink? You always look for something to drink when you read the newspaper."

"Um, just a glass of water."

"Understood."