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Holmes noticed the papers in Zhang Heng’s hand.

“Oh, that case was quite an interesting one. Although it was not much of a challenge, it was still the early days of my detective career, and it took me three days to complete the investigation. Now, a case like that would only take me one afternoon.”

Zhang Heng chuckled. He did not despise the slight display of overconfidence; rather, such confidence was fundamental to Holmes’ persona, the very reason he was loved and sought after by hundreds of thousands of readers. In fact, in his daily dealings, Holmes was a very humble person, but when it came to his field of expertise, he guarded his territory with pride like a lion.

Zhang Heng had just finished his glass of milk when someone knocked on the door downstairs.

Mrs. Hudson opened the door to find a triumphant-looking Gregson standing outside, where all that anxiety that bogged him down before this seemed to have vanished. He wafted upstairs and cleared his throat.

“Has any of you read today’s newspaper?”

“I haven’t had the time,” Holmes looked at their guest with interest.

Gregson presented both gentlemen with an issue of the Echo.

“Take a look. It’s fresh off the press.”

Zhang Heng took the paper and read the report on the front page aloud.

The reporter first introduced the unnamed female corpse found on the Thames yesterday, then talked about how Inspector Gregson cleverly uncovered the factory where the deceased woman had worked, eventually confirming the identity of the Jane Doe. The article also briefly mentioned that a Mr. Holmes aided the police, but it was mentioned once in the entire article. Instead, several paragraphs were solely dedicated to touting the ‘brilliance and wit’ of Inspector Gregson.

As Zhang Heng read those words out aloud, Gregson’s face flushed pink. “You have provided me with a lot of assistance, especially John’s Textile Factory’s link to the case. But you were not entirely correct. Anyway, the part in the front is not important... please continue reading.”

Holmes wasn’t crossed at all. In fact, he smiled in content as if he was already used to it. As a matter of fact, it was precisely why Scotland Yard kept coming to him for counsel-he didn’t care much for status and reputation and, therefore, wasn’t inclined to have an apoplectic fit over the Yarders taking the limelight away from him. The truth was quite the reverse, where his interests in those strange cases exceeded all that need for trivial fandom.

Zhang Heng continued reading. The article went on about how Gregson had so promptly brought his men to the textile factory, thereby confirming the girl’s identity there and then. Her name was Molly, and she had come to London a year ago, joining her aunt, who had helped her find a job in the textile factory. Because she wasn’t a skilled worker, Molly was paid peanuts, but the same couldn’t be said for her daily workload. She worked laboriously, earning barely enough to make ends meet. Because her aunt had four children to support, there was only so much help she could offer. So Molly had only herself to rely on in the city —that was until she met Paul.

Paul was a year older than her and had come to London three years earlier to work at the chemical plant next door. Despite his age, he was considered an old fox in the chemical plant, often stirring up trouble when he could. The reporter painted Paul as a treacherous, cunning, and lazy villain, who beguiled the innocent and naïve Molly with sweet words until he finally couldn’t keep up with the act. It revealed his true colors.

After doing a bit of digging, Gregson discovered that Molly had gone to see Paul after work that night. The inspector and his team hurried over to Paul’s residence, where he found Molly’s clothing that witnesses claimed she wore on the night of the tragedy. With such damning evidence, Paul was no longer able to deny his hand in the crime.

In the latter part of the article, the reporter wrote an affecting conclusion:

The people of London are blessed to have an outstanding officer, the likes of Inspector Gregson, who managed to solve a remarkably unusual case in only half a day. He appeals to the public, who, in turn, would provide relevant information, willingly cooperate with the police, and, together, maintain the order of the city.

Those words tickled a delighted Gregson to tears, and he said to Holmes, “I don’t mean to be disrespectful to you, but with all due respect, Sherlock, even the smartest of us, makes mistakes. You truly are remarkable – you were able to tell that she worked at John’s just by looking at her body. Concerning your deduction about the murderer, it’s only natural that there should be a little discrepancy. At the end of the day, it’s still up to us, the police, to get things done right.”

“That Paul boy is different from what I described the murderer to be?” asked Holmes indifferently.

SO

“There’s a slight variance,” Gregson replied with a smile. “The part about him being someone she knows is right, and the part about him having sexual thoughts about her was unmistakable. When we raided his residence, we didn’t just find her clothes under the bedthe bastard had been thinking about it for a long time, but that’s nothing unusual. In many of the cases I’ve worked on, it’s always the men who can’t seem to have the slightest control over their urges. It’s such a pity that the child Molly was so young. ...”

me

Holmes interrupted the inspector.

“What about the rest of my deductions?”

“His height was different. That little bastard wasn’t six-feet tall. He’s only about five and a half feet. He was really quite the feral beast. We had two men holding him down, and he just kept struggling, even trying to bite off one of our officers’ ears. I had no choice but to make him an honest man, with a bit of roughing up, of course. He wasn’t that strong, though. Definitely stronger than Molly, but no stronger than the ordinary man. He was also pockmarked with scars and bruises from many fights, but there were no scratch marks on his

arm.”

“You got the wrong man!” Holmes remarked. Gregson snorted and chuckled.

“Just listen to yourself, Sherlock. I know that your deduction wasn’t exactly spot-on, and it might be a little embarrassing for you, but people in our line of work do make mistakes. No matter how good someone is at something, they would still mess up once in a while. Which is why we often say that the most important thing while handling a case is getting the evidence!”

“Having proof is right, but you’ve got the wrong man,” Holmes shook his head. “That kid Paul is not our killer.”

“How is that possible? Think I’m just some rookie who just joined the force?” Gregson argued. “I have been a police officer for many years and handled countless cases! There can’t be any mistakes with such conclusive evidence. What more, that little bastard broke down, admitting that he had always wanted to do Molly.”

“Having such thoughts doesn’t constitute for a crime,” Holmes retorted. “At this age, they are all curious about the body of the opposite sex, but that does not make him a killer.” “The clothes-how do you explain the clothes, then? There were bloodstains on them!” said Gregson. Holmes did not answer the inspector right away. Instead, he turned to Zhang Heng and asked, “Are you available this morning? It looks like we shall have to make another trip to save an innocent soul from wrongful incarceration and prevent the real villains from escaping the law!”