I founded Tantric Buddhism in London

Watson sat by the window of the detective agency, browsing the books.

With the advancement of the industrial revolution and the extensive use of printing machines, the cost of disseminating written information has dropped significantly, and knowledge seems to have become cheap.

Nowadays, words are printed everywhere in the world, including books, newspapers, magazines... and even posters on the streets. The information in words is everywhere. Sometimes they contain precious knowledge... but more often than not, they are just printed information. Useless garbage.

At this moment, Watson was holding this collection of shit and piss jokes with no connotation, but he still pretended to be immersed in it, nodding slightly from time to time as if he agreed with the words in the book, but the corner of his eye kept scanning the window. street.

As early as Watson returned to Baker Street, he felt a hostile gaze as sharp as a knife quietly falling on his back.

There was no expression on his face, he just silently pushed open the door of the detective agency, opened the tight curtains to let the eyes of malicious people intrude in wantonly, and even sat down in a position convenient for the other party to observe and quietly read books.

The other party was quite cunning, lurking in the slow-moving crowd, but after going back and forth many times, Watson finally caught a trace.

He was a young man, with thick black eyebrows that were folded down like hooks at the ends, a mature mustache on his lips, and his collar was raised up to cover his neck.

Little did Victor Feuerbach know that his clever disguise had already been seen through, and he was still smugly thinking about waiting until the dead of night before sneaking in and cutting off the target's head with a sharp blade, dedicating it to the great leader!

………………

The night Harris died, it was in a luxurious manor outside the city.

Marquise Bute was sipping black tea in the study, when suddenly there was a light but urgent knock on the door.

The study door is always open, and the knocker just wants to inform his wife of his arrival.

That was the butler of the Bute family, who was in charge of all matters inside and outside the manor. He wore a slight smile and bowed slightly to the lady who looked over after hearing the sound.

"Madam, the master is waiting for you in the office."

"Oh, I see."

Mrs. Boot replied angrily, "Office, office, office... just stay in the office every day!"

Marquis Bute has not returned to the bedroom for many days. Recently, he has been staying in the office, eating, bathing and sleeping. She has to wonder if there is a dark room hiding a few canaries.

Even so, she still asked the head maid who had married from her mother's family to touch up her makeup and change into luxurious clothes.

The two clicks were just Mrs. Bute's courtesy. She pushed the door open without waiting for a response from inside.

As expected, the Marquis of Bute was sitting behind the large solid wood desk again with his head down writing and scribbling, not paying attention to his wife who suddenly broke in, letting the other party's carefully dressed up go to waste.

Mrs. Bute curled her lips and said, "If you have anything to do with me, tell me quickly."

Only then did Marquis Bute raise his head. Perhaps it was because of the thick glasses on his nose that his crow's feet were almost invisible, and his skin was even more elastic and firm. If it weren't for the few strands of white hair on his temples, and the piercing eyes He has experienced the maturity and vicissitudes of life, and at first glance he might have seemed like a young man.

"Harris is dead."

The Marquis calmly told the shocking news, but his expression was as cold as if he was talking about a wild dog that was run over by a carriage on the street.

Even Mrs. Bute was deceived by this calm attitude. She thought that her husband, who was as dull as a piece of wood, had finally come to his senses and could make jokes. But this joke was too much. Got it!

"Bah, bah, bah, what are you talking about? Why are you joking about your son's life and death?"

Marquis Bute raised his head and glanced at his wife. Although he always knew that her mind was not very bright, why could he not understand her words?

"I'm not kidding, Harris died this morning."

Harris is dead...

Harris is dead...

My precious son is dead...

Her husband's words kept echoing in her ears. The volume was sometimes high and sometimes low, and the quality of the sound was sometimes as sharp as a howl and sometimes as thick as a stone bell. Suddenly, Mrs. Bute's head felt extremely heavy, as if lead water was pouring from her ears and inside her skull. Swinging.

The carpet under her feet was exceptionally soft and smooth, as if she was stepping on newly picked cotton. Mrs. Butt stumbled and fell to the ground. She screamed strangely and then passed out. She saw something before the darkness completely eroded her vision. The husband continued to work hard.

Butt...you are so cruel!

When Mrs. Butt woke up, she had returned to the bed in the master bedroom.

The grief of losing her beloved son made her heart twist, and resentment and resentment gradually burst out from the depths of her eyes, and her voice was as shrill as the scraping of rotten wood.

"Maidmaid!"

"Go and urge Charlotte of the Holmes family to investigate as soon as possible who killed her cousin!"

The still-charming head maid showed a trace of embarrassment and embarrassment, and she hesitated to speak. Just before she went to the office to bring back the lady, she routinely knelt under the desk to solve the problem for the Marquis in front of the unconscious lady.

When the head maid got up, she wiped the turbid liquid from the corner of her mouth and accidentally saw the investigation report on the young master's death hidden in the orderly writing on the table.

She finally decided to tell what she saw and heard:

"Madam, it was Miss Holmes's assistant, John H. Watson, who killed Master Harris."

"What!!!"

Mrs. Boot's roar almost brought down the roof, "Get me a car right away. I'm going to go to Holmes's house. I want to ask my niece how the investigation turned into murder!!!"

At the right time, there was thunder and rain, and hurricane force winds were blowing. The rain pattered on the roof of the carriage, and the temperature inside the carriage dropped as cold as ice.

But the biting cold wind failed to calm Mrs. Bute's anger. On the contrary, it only fueled the fire.

She was so angry that her whole body trembled, her upper teeth bit her lower lip tightly, and traces of blood dyed the corners of her hanging mouth red.

After the Marquise left, the butler came to the office with quick yet elegant steps.

After he knocked three times and got the master's reply, he dared to open the door and enter.

"Sir, Madam has gone to the house of Marquis Holmes to inquire about the crime."

Marquis Bute said without raising his head:

"Just let her go. The Duke is a sensible person and will not behave like a random shrew like her."

"Yes, I will take my leave first. Sir, please take care of yourself and rest early."

"Um."

The butler turned and left and gently closed the door. Marquis Bute was the only one left in the huge office.

As if he had listened to the butler's advice, he blew out the oil lamp on the table, and the room fell into silent darkness.

Marquis Bute didn't seem to be in a hurry to fall asleep. He leaned down and rummaged for something in the desk cabinet.

Suddenly, cold white lightning flashed through the gap in the curtains, and the office became incandescent in an instant.

The most dazzling electric light struck the Marquis like a crack, revealing the object in his hand.

It was a glass of red wine, a glass of bright red grape wine served in a transparent goblet.

The Marquis shook the wine glass slightly, and the bright red wine rippled in the glass.

It is hard to imagine that the juice squeezed from the grape carcasses still shows such a lively and bright red color after being stored for such a long time.

Marquis Bute had a crazy look on his wooden face. He sniffed the wine carefully as if he was afraid of damaging the purity of the wine. He raised the glass and took a sip, letting the mellow and sweet taste reverberate on his tongue.

He let out a hearty moan, this was really a rare delicacy!

After finishing the glass of wine, the Marquis seemed a little tipsy. He slowly shook his head and sighed:

"Harris...you are such a useless piece of trash."