The Police Detective Netoris Sherlock Holmes's Women
"He's not a eunuch. He's simply got no eye for these things."
"Oblivious, is he? Just like your father. Back when I tempted him with an invitation to go look at cats, he actually wrinkled his brow and asked me what that was supposed to mean."
Um...
Hold on, Mother. Are you seriously allowed to dump that kind of TMI on your own son?
My new mother is remarkably open about sexual matters.
Then again, she was in her late thirties now — it would be stranger for a woman her age to blush at a novel like this.
She knew everything there was to know.
Or did she?
I did catch myself wondering exactly how many positions Mother and Father enjoyed their lovemaking in, but I resolved to hold my tongue.
Because a son asking that would be genuinely disturbing.
"Father really is hopeless when it comes to that sort of thing, isn't he."
At my words, Mother nodded with great vigor. "Which is exactly why you, my son, must learn to read a woman's signals quickly. Give her a clear answer, and only then can her heart be at ease."
"Understood."
I had dated exactly twice in my life — once in middle school, once in high school — but with zero sexual experience to my name, I engraved Mother's advice deep into my heart.
Give women a clear answer. Memo saved to brain.
Basically, it sounded like she was telling me not to string girls along.
"Mother, I'd like to get my novel published in a magazine. What would be the fastest way to go about it?"
"Hmm... As it happens, your father's friend's friend's friend is the president of a publishing house. I'd say paying him a visit and asking a favor is your best bet."
"A friend of a friend of a friend is basically a total stranger, isn't he?"
"We've shared drinks before, so he is no stranger."
"Oh ho."
Connections really were king, no matter where you went.
Having attained this profound enlightenment, I asked, "So what's this publishing house called?"
"It's called Kingsley Books, dear."
The next day.
After Mother handed me a map showing where Kingsley Books stood, I stepped outside.
It's on 7th Street.
Our home sat on 10th Street, so it looked to be about a thirty-minute carriage ride.
"Over here!"
At my call, a passing carriage rolled to a stop.
"Where to?"
"Kingsley Books on 7th Street, please."
"You got it."
Having paid my fare and climbed aboard, I was immediately confronted with a shocking sight.
The coachman who was supposed to be driving the carriage was drinking.
"Do you usually drink while you drive?"
"Isn't that obvious? Booze matters more to me than women do."
"Do the other coachmen drink while they drive too?"
"Well, o' course. Most of us are drinkers like me."
"What if you get drunk and have an accident?"
At my question, the coachman answered as though it were nothing at all. "Then you figure your time's come, and off you go. Besides, dying with a drink in your hand — that's a hero's death, that is."
"Oh..."
So this was how people thought in this era?
This fantasy world bore enough resemblance to early twentieth-century Earth — the Earth I used to live on — that you could almost mistake one for the other. Carriages still ruled the roads, though motorcars were slowly beginning to show their faces on the streets, right down to a reality where safe driving was something people cheerfully tossed to the dogs. Much like the coachman in front of me.
Hmm. I'm liking this place more than I expected.
"Well then, pour one for me too."
"You drink as well?"
"Yep. Too late to climb down now. Might as well get the experience of riding a carriage with a drink in hand."
"Good thinking. If you'd asked me to turn around, I wasn't planning on giving your money back."
"And what if I had asked anyway?"
"You a noble?"
"Commoner."
"Then I'd have cracked your skull with this here bottle! Screaming, where d'you think you're going, stealing money meant for my bunny-faced brat and my terrifying wife!"
"A terrifying wife?"
"Why? Got a problem with that?"
"I do. Don't people usually say 'a vixen of a wife'?"
"To me she's a terrifying wife. No matter where I hide my secret stash, she sniffs it out with ghostly precision and confiscates the lot."
"Ah... hang in there."
I'd never been married, but I deeply sympathized with this coachman's plight.
Perhaps because of a vague premonition that someday, that would be me?
"Here we are."
"Oh, we're already here. Thanks for the ride."
"Same to you. Been a while since I had a passenger who knew a thing or two."
And with that, the carriage pulled away.
Drinking while riding in a carriage... honestly not bad?
If you happened to die on the way, you could simply write it off as bad luck.
Hyeonji, the girl I dated back in high school, once told me: "I like tetoman types — and you're the closest thing to a tetoman there is."
So in a world where nobody so much as blinked at a coachman drinking behind the reins, I had zero intention of playing the scold, hollering at the man to lay off the bottle.
That wouldn't have been very tetoman of me.
Or is that wrong? Is this just plain stupidity?
Anyway.
I'd arrived. Kingsley Books.
The exterior was quite respectable on the whole.
The building carried a certain aged air, but you could tell it was meticulously cared for.
"It feels like a place that used to be the best — and simply isn't anymore."
"Correct."
"...!"
Startled by the voice behind me, I whipped my head around to find its owner.
"Who are you?"
"Kingsley. President of the Kingsley Books publishing house."
"Ah. So you named the company after yourself?"
"That I did. It's a precious house, run by my family since my grandfather's day."
"Oho. Then correct about what, exactly?"
"Your observation — that Kingsley Books is no longer the best."
"Meaning?"
"Precisely what it sounds like. Kingsley Books is no longer the best. I still keep plenty of authors who write things that sell respectably, but not one remains who can write something tremendous enough to set a trend."
"Ah... that's a shame. Chin up."
"Much obliged. In any case, who might you be, standing in front of my publishing house?"
That gave me a moment's pause.
Should I mention I'd come to see him — my father's friend's friend's friend?
Telling him would probably backfire. All they ever did was share a drink once. Better to keep it to myself.
I was confident.
Confident that the moment he read my writing, he would print it in his magazine.
"I'm a writer."
"A writer?"
"Ah — or should I say an aspiring one? I came hoping to show you my manuscript."
"Hmm. Coming all this way in person earns you a passing grade at least. Most young punks these days can't be bothered and just flick their manuscripts off by post."
"So... you will read it?"
"Of course. When an aspiring writer spends his precious time carrying his work all the way here, I'm not cold-hearted enough to send him packing."
"A commendable mindset, sir. Then, if you would — here is my manuscript."
I handed the manuscript over to Mr. Kingsley, and he, taking it, asked, "The Police Detective Netoris Sherlock Holmes's Women... So the protagonist is a police detective, I gather. And what does NTL mean?"
"Hmm. My novel is a mystery."
"Mysteries are always welcome."
"But let's call it a mystery with a spoonful of adults-only content stirred in."
"Now that's a rather fresh take. Usually a mystery is nothing but deduction from cover to cover."
"Doesn't that lack any real differentiation? You succeed by giving readers a reason they absolutely must read your work."
"Fair enough. So — what does NTL mean?"
"Hmm. Could you read chapter one first? If you learn what NTL means before you read it, you'll be hella prejudiced against me."
"No idea what 'hella' means, but very well. Right — in the end, a writer proves his worth with his prose, not his title. However flashy the wrapping, if the inside is hollow, the readers walk away."
And so Mr. Kingsley began to read.
About five minutes passed, perhaps?
Mr. Kingsley lifted his eyes from the page and looked at me.
"Hmm. Young man."
"Speak freely."
"Is Holmes, by any chance, a eunuch?"
"He performs perfectly well in bed. He's simply oblivious."
"I see."
"Is that the end of your questions?"
"No. I still don't know what NTL means, so I'd say the curiosity remains. Not that it's much of a problem — even without knowing what the title means, it's entertaining enough as a mystery."
"In other words, it makes dopamine come gushing out."
"Dopamine? What's that supposed to mean?"
"Reading a fun novel makes you happy, doesn't it?"
"It does."
"Dopamine is what your brain releases then. It flows naturally whenever you feel enjoyment."
"Hmm. Genuinely fascinating. Do young people talk like that these days?"
"They do. At your age, it's only natural to fall behind the trends. But have no fear — I'll teach you everything there is to know about being MZ."
"MZ? Now what in the world is that?"
"Well, you see..."
And so my conversation with Mr. Kingsley carried on for quite some time.
"It's mid-December now, so I intend to run your work — The Police Detective Netoris Sherlock Holmes's Women — in the January issue of the new year."
"Oho...! That's wonderful news. A writer wants to see his readers' reactions as soon as possible, after all!"
"Heh heh. I knew you'd say that. By the by — have you only written the one chapter?"
"No, sir. I have three chapters ready."
"Why are you only telling me this now! Hand them over, quick!"
I fished the manuscript out of my bag and passed it to Mr. Kingsley, who took it and began reading chapter two of The Police Detective Netoris Sherlock Holmes's Women.
[How could you do such a thing...!]
[Well, do think it over carefully once you're dead.]
"That is everything the phonograph recorded."
"I see..."
The seventeenth murder, which had occurred not long ago, had left behind a clue. A clue in the form of a phonograph.
"The servant heard the quarrel at ten o'clock at night, so we must conclude that Count Osman was murdered at that hour."
At the words of Ed — a police detective, and his friend — Holmes shook his head.
"Is that really so?"
Holmes began to deduce. The phonograph on which the quarrel had been recorded.
"Would the culprit truly have been unaware that the phonograph was recording the conversation? This, from a culprit who provoked us by deliberately leaving his initials on the wall?"
"Could he not simply have failed to notice? The culprit is human, after all."
"True. Being human, he may well have erred. But I think differently. What if the phonograph was left behind on purpose?"
"Wh-what do you mean, Holmes?"
"I mean there is a possibility he chose neither to destroy the phonograph nor to take it with him — in order to throw our investigation into disarray."
"...!"
"And the hour of the murder is likely not ten at night, either."
"Th-then what was the sound the servant heard at ten o'clock? Come to think of it — was it not a phonograph already in the count's household, rather than one the culprit brought, that recorded the conversation between culprit and victim of its own accord?"
"That..."
[To be continued]
"Chapter two is a fun one too."
"No, sir — in that situation, you say the dopamine is flowing."
"Then chapter two is pumping out dopamine in spades as well!"
"Exactly right."
"My expectations are rising. I do wonder how people will react once this work is out in the world."
I nodded at Mr. Kingsley's words.
Because I was curious too.
Curious what sort of reaction readers would have to my writing.