Lionel Soerl slowly regained consciousness from a drowsy state.
He struggled to open his heavy eyelids, and a clean white ceiling came into view.
Sunlight streamed through the glass window, falling upon him.
He was covered by a rough but clean white sheet, and the air smelled of carbolic acid disinfectant.
Although the surroundings were simple, they were very tidy.
He tried to push himself up to get a better look, but with a slight effort, he nearly tumbled off the bed.
The sound immediately startled the nurse.
A rush of hurried and light footsteps approached, and a young nurse, wearing a white apron and a serious expression, appeared by his bedside.
"Sir! Please lie still, don't move around!"
The nurse skillfully supported his shoulder, helping him lie back down on the pillow.
Lionel weakly asked,
"Where am I?"
The nurse gently replied,
"The hospital, sir. St. Thomas' Hospital."
Then she touched Lionel's forehead:
"Your fever has gone down a bit... You've been unconscious for almost a full day."
Lionel tried hard to recall:
"Who brought me here?"
"Mr. Harold Thompson, he paid your admission deposit."
The nurse said while feeding him a few sips of warm water.
Hearing that Harold Thompson had brought him, Lionel finally relaxed.
Shortly after he lay down, a steady, rhythmic sound of footsteps came from outside the ward; soon the door was pushed open, and a doctor entered, surrounded by a group of young people.
The doctor was tall and thin, about forty years old, with a lean face, high cheekbones, and sharp, focused eyes.
He walked directly to Lionel's bed, and the nurse quickly and respectfully stepped aside.
The doctor's voice was calm and clear:
"Good morning, sir. Feeling better?"
Lionel managed a faint smile:
"Much... much better, thank you, Doctor."
The doctor nodded, picked up the medical record card hanging at the foot of the bed and read it:
"Mr. Lionel Soerl, French nationality. Acute high fever, accompanied by severe chills, muscle pain, and weakness... hmm."
He put down the medical record and his gaze refocused on Lionel:
"I am Dr. Joseph Bell, Professor of Surgery at the University of Edinburgh Medical School.
I am currently leading these young people in an exchange at St. Thomas' Hospital.
When you were admitted, your condition was urgent, and I happened to be involved in your diagnosis."
Dr. Bell briefly examined Lionel's tongue coating:
"Your illness is not complex, but it came on fiercely.
Overwork, irregular diet, and London's terrible air—which we call 'miasma'—
Invaded your already exhausted body through your pores, leading to this acute febrile illness.
But don't worry, young people recover quickly. As long as you take quinine and antipyretics on time, ensure rest and a clean diet, you will recover soon."
His diagnosis and treatment plan were concise and clear, as if stating an already established fact.
Then, he asked Lionel:
"Mr. Soerl, do you mind if I use you as an example for my students to learn how to diagnose?"
Lionel did not object, he merely closed his eyes.
Soon, he heard Dr. Bell ask the young students around him:
"Gentlemen, this is a typical case of acute febrile illness caused by environmental discomfort, excessive fatigue, and 'miasma' infection.
Now, suppose, when this gentleman was brought in, he was not accompanied by that gentleman, and we had no way of knowing his identity.
How would you determine his basic situation, or even help determine the cause of his illness, through observation?"
The students exchanged glances, appearing somewhat nervous and hesitant.
They carefully observed Lionel, seemingly struggling to find anything particularly noteworthy.
One student tentatively said,
"Sir... he looks very weak, as if he's been on a long journey?"
Dr. Bell commented blandly,
"Too general."
Another student noticed a detail:
"His fingers... they're very fair and slender, as if he hasn't done manual labor?"
"Better, continue."
But after that, there was silence; the students seemed unable to find any more clues.
Dr. Bell shook his head slightly, appearing somewhat disappointed, and then said,
"Well then, allow me to demonstrate."
He walked around the bed before continuing:
"Although this gentleman is weak at the moment, several basic characteristics cannot be concealed."
"Firstly, look at his complexion and hair texture. The skin on his face and hands is relatively delicate, but it's not the pallor of someone who's lived a pampered life.
Especially the skin color at his wrists, which has a slight difference in shade from the skin covered by his clothes. This suggests he is not a born city dweller and may come from the countryside."
Dr. Bell's tone then shifted:
"His hands, with long fingers, neatly trimmed nails, and palms lacking the hard calluses of labor.
Only the inner side of his right middle finger's first phalanx has a subtle, nascent callus, which is typically caused by prolonged penmanship."
The students let out soft gasps of amazement and observed more carefully.
Bell continued:
"Secondly, look at his posture and muscle type. Even while confined to bed, his shoulders and neck appear somewhat stiff when he lies down, which is also a common characteristic of long-term desk work."
"Thirdly, note his belongings. Although he changed into a hospital gown upon admission, among the few personal items he brought—on the cabinet over there—there's a stack of manuscript paper and a portable inkwell and quill, rather than the more common pencil.
The corners of the manuscript paper are worn, which indicates that writing is not just work for him, but likely a passion or professional necessity, and his economic status is at least middle-class."
Dr. Bell finally concluded:
"Putting all of this together, Mr. Soerl is a well-educated young gentleman from a French village or small town.
He might be a journalist, a writer, or perhaps a clerk or copyist.
Excessive fatigue reduced his resistance to London's 'miasma,' thereby inducing this acute febrile illness."
After Dr. Bell finished speaking, the ward was silent, and the students were all dumbfounded.
Lionel couldn't help but ask,
"That's basically correct—but how did you determine I was French? Without Mr. Harold Thompson's introduction."
Dr. Bell smiled:
"Your head shape, specifically—your skull, sir.
You are 'brachycephalic,' with a rounder skull top—you are from southern France, or at least your ancestors were."
Lionel was finally convinced:
"I thought you had read my works, heard my name..."
Dr. Bell looked puzzled:
"Are you famous, Mr. Soerl?"
Lionel: "..."
He regretted saying that extra sentence.
Dr. Bell turned back to his students:
"Observation and logic are the cornerstones of medical diagnosis, gentlemen. Never rely solely on appearances and the patient's self-report; trust the details your eyes see.
They will tell you the truth."
After speaking to his students, he said to Lionel:
"Very good, Mr. Soerl. Thank you for your cooperation. Please rest assured and recuperate. I will come again this afternoon."
Then, he left the ward with the group of students who were still reflecting and marveling.
After Dr. Bell left, silence returned to the ward.
Lionel was still savoring Dr. Bell's deduction, feeling a sense of déjà vu...
About fifteen minutes later, the ward door was gently pushed open again.
A young head peeked in, looked left and right, then nimbly slipped inside.
He looked about twenty years old, tall and sturdy, with thick curly hair and a beard.
He quickly walked to Lionel's bedside, lowering his voice, but barely concealing his excitement:
"Mr. Soerl! Please forgive my presumptuous interruption. Are you... are you feeling better?"
Lionel looked at him with some surprise:
"I'm much better, thank you. You are...?"
The young man respectfully began to introduce himself:
"My name is Arthur Conan Doyle, I am one of Dr. Bell's students, just arrived from Edinburgh.
I... I am a reader of yours, and I just couldn't resist coming to see you privately."
Lionel: "..."
(End of chapter)
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