The Great Demon Sherlock Holmes

Chapter 30: Manipulator or Symbiotic?

Mrs. Jeanne Laetitia Hudson.

That's quite a long name. Anyway, she looked at the man squatting in front of her.

She was momentarily stunned…

"Isn't this the somewhat dim-witted passerby from yesterday?"

Sherlock's thoughts were similar:

"Isn't this the somewhat dim-witted woman from yesterday?"

The two of them just stared at each other in silence until the calico kitten let out a disgruntled meow.

"Uh, although I can hardly believe it, but… what a small world." Sherlock stood up first, smiling.

Mrs. Hudson blinked, seemingly finally realizing what was going on, and asked with some surprise, "You...you're the tenant from yesterday?"

"Of course, my landlady."

"Uh..." A three-second pause followed by a hesitation: "Well...the world is indeed quite small..."

...

...This somewhat awkward encounter took Sherlock about five minutes;

He briefly introduced himself to the landlady, striving to demonstrate the kindness and integrity of a law-abiding citizen of the Empire, while also confirming his suspicions from yesterday;

That is...this Mrs. Hudson was simply a single young woman, not yet 20, living alone.

Of course, he wouldn't expose her on the spot, but simply smiled and said goodbye, then hailed a passing carriage.

"Take me to 36 Zotland Street, Whitethorn Security Company..."

"It's my pleasure, sir!" The coachman cracked his whip—

Legend has it that before the gates of Hell opened, London belonged to a continental plate called 'Europe'.

In traditional European symbolism, thorns represent protection, likely because thorn bushes climbing walls effectively prevent thieves from scaling them.

Following this tradition, industries related to security, caravans, safes, and security doors are largely associated with the word "thorns."

Perhaps, in some corner of the world, there might even be a Blackthorn Security Company.

The carriage passed through a noisy open-air flea market and continued downstream along the misty Thames, countless merchant ships emitting heavy, distant whistles outside the carriage.

A full hour later, it finally stopped beside a fairly conspicuous church.

Due to the reverence people have for the Holy Light and the Papacy, neighborhoods with churches are generally very clean. Early in the morning, some believers even spontaneously sweep the entire street at the first rays of sunlight, a gesture of piety for them.

Walking a few steps along the road paved with a mixture of cobblestone and asphalt, Sherlock arrived at his destination.

The surrounding buildings didn't seem particularly old, but they were rather densely packed. Looking down the street, he could see a flower shop, several restaurants and cafes, and the ubiquitous apartment signs of London.

The first house on the far edge had a rather heavy wooden door… of course, the wood was only on the surface; the inside was undoubtedly reinforced with iron plates.

The idea of ​​breaking down a door with an axe was a fantasy of the last century.

Sherlock walked over, confirmed the house number, and then found the "White Thorn Security Company" sign in a small corner of the wall. He couldn't help but sigh: "No wonder it's an official institution jointly established by the government and the Vatican. Although it carries the title of 'company,' it doesn't seem to be trying to solicit business at all."

Thinking this, he pushed open the door and entered.

The first thing he saw was a corridor and a piece of paper pasted on the wall that read:

[Please do not knock on the first door. To report a crime, please go inside. In case of an emergency, simply shout. For business negotiations, go to the second floor.]

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. For some reason, he felt a sense of helplessness emanating from those two lines of text.

Passing the first door, he specifically glanced at the sign above it, which read [Infirmary], and there was a similar note pasted on the door as well.

It must be that people are often in a hurry and frantically knock on the nearest door, which led the company's doctor to put up such a conspicuous notice on the wall.

Continuing on, he arrived at the second floor.

Although the company had some government investment, almost everything he saw exuded a distinctly Vatican-like atmosphere, such as the golden sunflower emblems on the handrails, the gas lamps enclosed by golden grids on the walls, and the embedded brass pendants on the ceiling.

There was no way around it; after all, the Holy Light was fundamental to human survival, which meant the Papacy always held the upper hand over the Imperial government. Even when an emperor ascended the throne, he needed the Pope's blessing before sitting on the chair.

In fact, Sherlock would bet his week's smoking privileges that, despite the Papacy and the government appearing as close as brothers on the surface, a brutal and b****y power struggle was brewing beneath the surface.

And this struggle had likely been going on for centuries, only the poor were unaware.

Upon reaching the second floor, after walking a few steps down the corridor, he saw a sign above a door that read "Consultation"... He walked over and gently knocked.

"Come in!" A not-so-friendly female voice came from inside.

Pushing open the door, he saw a large table piled high with stacks of documents, like a small fortress, completely blocking out the person behind it; only the sound of stamping documents could be heard.

“Hello, I’m here… to report for duty.” Sherlock hesitated for a moment, finally deciding to use the word 'report for duty.'

The next second, the sound of the stamping stopped, and a middle-aged woman wearing thick glasses peeked out from behind a stack of documents. She looked Sherlock up and down, and after a full ten seconds, finally spoke:

“You’re the detective who was recommended? Your name is… your name is…”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh, yes, yes.” The middle-aged woman looked like the type who had been stuck in an office for years, and she had a 'frustratingly annoying' attitude towards anyone who came to inquire; but she couldn’t ignore the letter of recommendation signed by the High Priest of the Papacy, so she reluctantly got up: “Follow me!” On the way, the woman introduced herself as 'Evelyn Mary,' and sounded like she was from the countryside.

Standing barely above Sherlock's shoulder, she walked with a brisk pace, her chest and belly heaving in unison. Soon, she led Sherlock to a door. Miss Mary toned down her air of being owed £50 by the world and gently knocked. "Reverend Thompson, do you remember yesterday's announcement that a Mr. Sherlock would be reporting for duty… He's already here."

"Hmm." A short note came from inside. Mary slowly opened the door, indicating they could enter, but quickly added, "Take off your hat. Reverend Thompson is very particular about etiquette."

"Thank you," Sherlock replied, removing his hat. In that instant, he noticed Miss Mary frown slightly at his slightly disheveled hair.

"Looks like the staff here are a bit rigid," he muttered to himself, then entered the office.

It was morning, but the entire office was dimly lit, the curtains drawn tight. Only a single candle burned on the desk, emitting a distinctive brownish-yellow herbal scent—mentioned in some popular books, a type of incense commonly used by contractors during meditation.

Beneath that dim light, a man of about 40 years old was performing a common prayer ritual. He was dressed in a full white priest's robe, his hair and beard meticulously groomed, a brass pendant swaying slightly in his hand, and he continuously chanted prayers.

From any angle, he appeared incredibly devout.

After a full five minutes, the prayer finally ended. Priest Thomson opened his somewhat graying eyes, stared at Sherlock for a moment, and spoke:

"Detective?"

"Yes."

"A contractor?"

"Just received the initiation ceremony."

"[Manipulator] or [Symbiotic]?"

"Huh?" Sherlock paused, these two terms were unfamiliar to him.

His reaction elicited a look of unreadable annoyance from Father Thompson:

"I knew it." He sighed, sat back down in his chair, and snapped his fingers.

The next second, the curtains flew open, letting sunlight flood the room. Father Thompson gently extinguished the candle in front of him and said in a low voice:

"Now I'll talk, and you listen... No interrupting."