The Great Demon Holmes - Chapter 30: Manipulator or Symbiote?

Mrs. Jeanne Letitia Hudson.

Jeanne Leithia Hudson.

This name is quite long, but in any case, she looked at the man squatting in front of her.

For a moment, she was a little confused…

“Isn’t this the slightly foolish passerby from yesterday?”

At this moment, Sherlock’s thoughts were similar to hers:

“Isn’t this the slightly foolish woman from yesterday?”

Anyway, the two of them stood there motionless, facing each other, until the tri-colored kitten let out a dissatisfied meow.

“Well, although it’s hard to believe, but… the world is small,” Sherlock stood up first, smiling.

Mrs. Hudson blinked her eyes, seemingly realizing what was going on, and asked in surprise, “You… are the tenant from yesterday?”

“Of course, my dear landlady.”

“Uh…” She contemplated for three seconds, “The world… is indeed small…”

…

…

This slightly awkward encounter took up nearly five minutes of Sherlock’s time.

He briefly introduced himself to Mrs. Hudson, trying to show his kindness and respectability as a lawful citizen of the Empire. At the same time, he confirmed his speculation from yesterday:

That Mrs. Hudson was simply a young girl who hadn’t yet reached 20, single, and living alone.

Of course, he couldn’t expose her right then and there, so he simply said goodbye with a smile and hailed a passing carriage on the roadside.

“Take me to 36 Zottland Street, White Briar Thorn Security Company…”

“I’ll be happy to serve you, sir!”

The coachman flicked the reins…

Legend has it that before the gates of hell open, the land of London belongs to a continent called “Europe.”

And in the traditional symbols of Europe, thorns represent “guardianship.” Perhaps because the thorny bushes crawling on walls effectively hindered thieves from climbing up and down.

Under this tradition, any industry related to security, trade caravans, safes, and security doors would often include the word “thorn.”

Perhaps, in some corner at some point in time, there might even be a Black Thorn Security Company.

The carriage passed through a bustling open-air flea market and continued downstream along the foggy Thames, with numerous merchant ships emitting deep and distant horn sounds outside the carriage.

After an hour, it finally stopped by a prominent church.

Due to the reverence for the Holy Light and the Church, any neighborhood with a church would generally be clean. In the early morning, believers would spontaneously clean the entire street when the first ray of sunlight shone down. This was their pious expression.

Taking a few steps along the broken stone and asphalt-mixed road, Sherlock arrived at his destination.

The surrounding buildings didn’t appear too old, just a bit densely packed. Looking along the street, there was a flower shop, several restaurants and cafes, as well as apartment plaques commonly seen in London.

And the first one on the edge was a slightly heavy wooden door… Of course, the wood was only a surface cover; there must be iron plates inside for security purposes.

Breaking in with an ax was a fantasy from the last century.

Sherlock walked over, confirmed the address, and then found the sign of the “White Briar Thorn Security Company” in a small corner on the wall. He couldn’t help but sigh:

Indeed, it was an official organization jointly established by the government and the church. Although it was titled as a “company,” there was no sign of soliciting business.

Pondering this, he pushed open the door.

In front of him was a corridor with a paper posted on the wall. It said:

“Please do not knock on the first door. For reporting cases, proceed inside. In case of emergencies, shout directly. Business negotiations on the second floor.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, not knowing why, but he felt a sense of helplessness from these two lines of text.

When passing by the first door, he intentionally glanced at the sign on it, which read “Medical Office.” There was also a similar note posted on the door.

Presumably, there were often people in a hurry who would come in and knock on the nearest door, causing the doctor of this company to post such a prominent notice on the wall.

He continued forward and arrived at the second floor.

Although the company received some government funding, everything inside emitted a strong church atmosphere. For example, the golden sunflower emblem on both ends of the handrails, the brass gas lamps embedded in the walls with golden grid patterns, and the embedded brass pendants on the ceiling.

There was no choice—after all, the enveloping of the Holy Light was the foundation of human survival. This led to the Church always exerting pressure on the Imperial government. Even if the Imperial Emperor ascended the throne, they needed the blessing of the Pope before sitting on that chair.

In fact, Sherlock would bet a week’s worth of smoking rights that beneath the seemingly amiable relationship between the Church and the government, there was an ongoing and immensely brutal power struggle. This struggle had likely lasted for centuries, but the lower classes were unaware of it.

On the second floor, after walking a few steps along the corridor, he arrived at a door with a sign above it that read “Consultation”… He approached and lightly knocked on the door.

“Come in!”

A somewhat unfriendly female voice came from inside.

Sherlock pushed open the door, and in his sight, there was a large desk piled high with stacks of files, like a miniature fortress blocking the person behind it completely. Only the sound of stamping could be heard.

“Hello, I’ve come… to report,” Sherlock hesitated for a moment, then decided to use the word “report.”

The sound of stamping stopped, and a middle-aged woman with thick glasses peeked out from behind a stack of files. She looked Sherlock up and down for a while, at least ten seconds, before finally speaking:

“You’re the detective who was recommended? C… Ca…”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh, right,” the middle-aged woman, the type who seemed to be trapped in the office year-round, had an attitude of “so annoying” toward anyone seeking consultation. However, she couldn’t ignore the recommendation letter signed by the High Priest Office of the Church, so she reluctantly stood up and said, “Follow me!”

On the way, the woman introduced herself as “Evelyn Mary,” sounding like she came from the countryside.

She was shorter than Sherlock’s shoulder height, but walked swiftly, with her chest and belly trembling at the same frequency. Soon, she brought Sherlock to a door and toned down her attitude of being owed 50 pounds by the whole world. She lightly knocked on the door and said, “Father Thompson, do you remember the notice from yesterday, about Mr. Sherlock coming to report… He’s here.”

“Okay.”

A brief musical tone came from behind the door, and Miss Mary slowly pushed it open, indicating Sherlock to enter, but added, “Take off your hat. Father Thompson values etiquette.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock replied and took off his hat. In that instant, he noticed Miss Mary’s raised eyebrows when she saw his slightly messy hair.

“It seems the staff here are quite rigid,” he murmured to himself, then entered the office.

It was morning, but the entire office was dimly lit. The curtains were tightly drawn, with only a candle burning on the desk, emitting a unique scent of brown grass. It had been mentioned in some books, a

type of incense commonly used by contract holders during meditation.

And in the dim light, a man of about 40 years old was performing a common prayer ritual. He wore a complete white priest’s robe, meticulously groomed hair and beard, and a brass pendant swayed slightly in his hand. He continuously recited prayers.

From any angle, he appeared devout.

After a full five minutes, the prayer finally ended, and Father Thompson opened his somewhat grayish-white eyes, staring at Sherlock for a while before speaking:

“A detective?”

“Yes.”

“A covenant holder?”

“I just completed the initiation ceremony.”

“Are you a ‘Manipulator’ or a ‘Symbiont’?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock was taken aback. These two terms were unfamiliar to him.

His reaction only made Father Thompson show a sense of annoyance:

“As expected.”

He sighed and sat back in his chair, snapping his fingers.

The next moment, the curtains swiftly opened to both sides, allowing sunlight to pour into the room. Father Thompson gently extinguished the candle in front of him and said in a deep voice:

“Now, listen to what I have to say, and do not interrupt.”