## Chapter 181: The Gentleman Who Escaped from the Asylum
The air in the Wheatstone Instrument Shop was thick with the scent of polished wood and brass. Arthur, hat in hand, stood before the counter, where two gleaming gramophones sat like proud sentinels. He offered a curt nod to Wheatstone.
“Thank you for your cooperation, good sir.”
Wheatstone, one hand resting on the counter, the other pressed against his forehead, sighed, “May you never have cause to thank me again.”
Arthur remained unfazed by Wheatstone’s rudeness. With a calm demeanor, he replied, “I believe you’re being hasty. I believe we shall meet again very soon, either at the Royal Society or here in your shop.”
Wheatstone waved a dismissive hand. “Alright, alright. So, Mr. Hastings, now that you have your gramophone, what about the missing gun?”
Arthur tilted his head slightly, as if struggling to recall.
Wheatstone’s face creased with suspicion. “You wouldn’t dare renege on our agreement, would you?”
Arthur’s voice remained steady. “I don’t know where you got this information about a missing gun from Scotland Yard. But I must say, Scotland Yard has very strict internal regulations, and every one of our officers is meticulous about managing their firearms. Therefore, it is absolutely impossible for us to have a situation like a missing gun.”
Wheatstone’s jaw dropped, and he remained speechless for a moment. “You… how do you do it?”
“Do what?” Arthur asked, feigning confusion.
Wheatstone gestured with his hands, a mix of frustration and bewilderment on his face. “That… that ability to lie with a straight face.”
Arthur, with an air of amnesia, declared, “Mr. Wheatstone, your words are nonsensical. I believe you must be unwell. Should I take you to the Royal Bethlem Hospital on my way back? I’m a very caring individual, you know.”
Wheatstone’s brow beaded with sweat.
Any Londoner knew what the Royal Bethlem Hospital was – a place for the mentally ill.
He frantically waved his hands. “No, no, no. I just didn’t sleep well last night, a bit on edge, nothing serious. I’ll be alright, thank you very much. You don’t have to worry about my health, Mr. Hastings. Farewell, I won’t see you out.”
Arthur nodded. “Then, Mr. Wheatstone, please take care of yourself. I believe we will need you again in the future.”
As Arthur turned to leave, he noticed a young man standing outside, holding an umbrella.
The young man’s face seemed vaguely familiar.
But before Arthur could place him, the young man pushed open the shop door and stormed in.
“It’s you! Finally, I’ve caught you! I knew you’d be back! Sigma, you won’t escape my grasp today!”
“Sigma?” Arthur stared at the young man’s face, his mind working overtime.
He finally recognized him – William Thackeray, the Cambridge student who had been angered by Eldred in the shop.
And “Sigma”… was that supposed to be Xu Zhimo?
It wasn’t entirely his fault that the young man couldn’t pronounce the name properly. The sounds were still a bit challenging for a true British gentleman.
Under normal circumstances, Arthur might have stopped to chat with him. But he clearly didn’t have the time for idle conversation.
“Sir,” Arthur began, “you must be mistaken. I am neither σ (Sigma) nor α (Alpha). I have no connection to those Greek letters, and I have no interest in using σ to calculate averages or α to calculate angles. Now, please move aside, I have important things to attend to.”
But Thackeray was not easily dissuaded. The proud young man stared intently at Arthur, his face contorted with a mixture of anger and frustration.
“You… you think I wanted to find you? Damn it! How am I supposed to explain this to you? Goddamn it, maybe I shouldn’t have believed your lies and that rude friend of yours. I went back to school and searched every literary club, but there wasn’t a single person named Sigma, not even in the alumni records, not a single name that sounded so strange.”
Arthur offered a reassuring gesture. “It’s alright, it’s normal that you couldn’t find him. If you had found him, I’d start questioning the reality of the world.”
Thackeray clenched his fists, his face flushed with anger. After a long pause, he asked in a choked voice, “So, you were lying to me from the start? That poem, it was your work all along?”
“No, no, no,” Arthur admitted, always honest about such matters. “I simply borrowed it. Or you can call it plagiarism, or theft, whatever label you prefer, it’s up to you. Mr. Thackeray, I know you dislike my friend, so you naturally dislike me too. It’s nothing serious, I understand, it’s human nature. But now that I’ve admitted to plagiarism, you should be satisfied, right? If you’re satisfied, please move aside, I’m truly in a hurry.”
But instead of calming down, Thackeray felt even more disrespected.
The young man with an inflated ego, lips pursed and body trembling, said, “You’re insulting me! Do you think I’d take credit for your honor? Oh, sorry, Mr. Sigma, you’re wrong. While I crave fame, I wouldn’t achieve it by sullying my honor!”
Arthur was completely baffled by his incoherent outburst.
Even Wheatstone, the social anxiety sufferer behind the counter, couldn’t help but comment, “Mr. Hastings, it seems we have a patient here who needs to be sent to the Royal Bethlem Hospital more than I do.”
Arthur, confused, asked, “Mr. Thackeray, what are you talking about?”
“Talking about?”
Thackeray finally realized his outburst and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. “Mr. Sigma, I must apologize first. Because I wanted to compete with you, I submitted your poem, “Farewell to Cambridge”, to Cambridge University’s poetry competition without your permission.
But at the same time, I must congratulate you, because your work won first place in the school competition and won the Headmaster’s Gold Medal. I don’t know why your poem is better than mine, but you won, and your poetic talent is clearly superior to mine.
Perhaps my friend was right, I am not suited for a literary career. I can’t catch up with Alfred, nor can I catch up with you.”
Arthur’s scalp tingled as he listened. He scratched his head and asked, “Wait, you said “Farewell to Cambridge” won the gold medal? I think it’s a pretty good poem, but compared to Mr. Tennyson, especially compared to “Timbuktu”, there’s still a gap.”
Thackeray felt increasingly frustrated. “I’m glad you acknowledge Alfred’s talent, but his “Timbuktu” was last year’s gold medal winner. This year, Alfred didn’t participate, so your gold medal is well-deserved.
To be honest, the reason I was so eager to find you was to invite you to the awards ceremony in Cambridge next month. I can’t claim your honor.”
“Go to Cambridge to receive the award?” Arthur sighed. “You might as well kill me. If my classmates found out, I’d be ostracized from the alumni network.”
Thackeray, surprised, asked, “Are you a graduate of Oxford?”
Arthur frowned. “Mr. Thackeray, while I respect you, I must strongly demand that you retract your personal attack!”
“Ah… so you’re not connected to Oxford.” Thackeray breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s good… It’s good that you’re not a graduate of Oxford. If the school knew I let an Oxonian win the poetry competition, even if I wasn’t expelled, I’d be ridiculed by my classmates for a while.”
“That’s right, I have nothing to do with Oxford,” Arthur stated firmly. “My friend is the real Oxonian.”
Thackeray was stunned for a moment. He recalled the events of that day and suddenly felt a sense of liberation. He mumbled, “That explains it… I knew there was a strong, stubborn Oxonian aura about him.”
He was lost in thought, replaying Arthur’s words, when he suddenly realized that Arthur had vanished without a trace.
He frantically searched the shop, but couldn’t find any sign of Arthur.
“This…”
Thackeray rushed to Wheatstone. “Sir, do you know where the gentleman who was just here went? He must have come here to order instruments, right? Do you have his home address, or his work address?”
Wheatstone, recalling Arthur’s antics, looked at the young man who seemed even more naive than he was, and replied with malicious intent, “Sir, don’t listen to the nonsense that gentleman was spouting. His name is Sigma, Arthur Sigma. His home address is the Royal Bethlem Hospital on Liverpool Street in the City of London.”
Thackeray wasn’t a seasoned Londoner, but he had heard of the place.
He asked with a mixture of doubt and curiosity, “Royal Bethlem Hospital? Isn’t that where they keep the mentally ill?”
Wheatstone stared intently at Thackeray’s eyes, one hand gently patting his shoulder. “Sir, you mentioned that you’re a Cambridge student who enjoys literature. Then you should know that it’s quite common for poets to have some mental illness. Mr. Sigma can write award-winning poetry, if he doesn’t have a little mental illness, I think it’s impossible.”
(End of Chapter)