Fishing with a catch is always pleasant.
After spending a full three hours fishing on the River Thames, Arna hauled the bucket, now filled to the brim, onto her carriage and drove towards Bruton Street.
Because her supply was both large and fresh, her regular customers often enthusiastically introduced her to new clients. The household she was visiting today had ordered a considerable amount of perch in advance and paid a deposit.
Considering Mrs. Hudson’s usual schedule for appearing at the Baker Street house, Arna planned to finish selling the fish before going to pick her up and bring her home.
In the murky fog of London, she couldn’t help but yawn, letting her mind drift to thoughts that made her drowsy.
Expand production, expand production… I need to find a way to earn more money…
The carriage shock absorbers produced by her factory were quite good, but selling them to NPCs in the game at a price higher than the system’s buyback price still required a different approach.
Thinking along these lines, and guided by the number plate her major customer had given her, Arna knocked on the door.
Soon, a kind-faced elderly lady opened it.
“Oh, you must be the young lad delivering the fish, aren’t you?” she said gently. “Come in, poor child. The weather is awful; you must be exhausted. You need to come in for a cup of tea.”
This kindly housekeeper, who introduced herself as Mrs. Bedwin, led Arna inside. First, she helped her put the bucket in the kitchen, then ushered her to sit on a chair in the room, placing a plate of pastries and a cup of tea in her hands.
“Never work on an empty stomach,” she said. “You don’t look like you’re used to eating breakfast, either.”
As Arna sat in the chair by the fireplace, her eyes naturally fell upon a portrait hanging on the opposite wall.
It depicted a very beautiful woman, somehow familiar. Arna felt she had seen that face somewhere before.
Seeing her staring at the portrait, Mrs. Bedwin chuckled.
“What’s the matter?” she teased. “A beautiful painting, isn’t it? The way you’re looking, you can barely tear your eyes away.”
“She looks a bit like someone I know,” Arna said.
She thought for a moment longer, then it dawned on her. “Like a child in my factory!”
Mrs. Bedwin was taken aback by this remark. “Oh my, you have a factory too? Such diligence. Your efforts would make half of London feel they aren’t working hard enough.”
Regarding the mentioned child, she said cheerfully, “I don’t actually know the person in this painting. It belongs to my master.”
Just then, the elderly gentleman, still in his morning robe, descended the stairs from the upper floor.
“Oh dear, a terrible morning,” he muttered, his brow furrowed with slight irritation. “I’m looking for my pocket watch, Bedwin. Where did you put it—”
Spotting an unfamiliar face, he changed his tune. “A guest of yours?”
“I think the watch is on the third shelf of the bookcase. I found it under the carpet yesterday when I was tidying up, so I put it there for you,” Mrs. Bedwin said good-naturedly. “As for this guest, he’s the young lad mentioned in a letter from another lady, the one who always goes fishing on the Thames.”
She gestured towards Arna. “He brought us fresh fish, and says he has seen the person in this painting before.”
Mr. Brownlow was stunned.
“Ah—perhaps it’s just a passing resemblance,” he murmured, his voice trembling slightly. “The world is full of coincidences.”
Based on the usual plot-setting habits of the unscrupulous game developers, Arna’s instincts told her there was definitely a hidden story here.
Remembering the intricate inheritance dispute that Holmes had mentioned, she asked curiously, “So you do know the person in the portrait, right?”
Mr. Brownlow gave her a deep look.
“Agnes Fleming,” he said softly. “A gentle soul, lost too soon.”
Arna blinked.
Sure enough, this must be one of those side quests!
“The person I know is a nine-year-old child,” she said slowly. “The exact same face. A beautiful, pitiful orphan. No parents, had a rough time in the past, only recently wandered to London.”
Watching the old gentleman’s face gradually lose color, she added, “And he’s being targeted by someone, probably related to an inheritance. That’s not my idea; I have a friend who’s a detective. That’s his deduction.”
Mrs. Bedwin gasped sharply. “Sir, perhaps this isn’t—”
Brownlow waved a hand, fell silent for a moment, then stepped closer.
“This child, is he alright?” he asked.
“He’s fine,” Arna said. “He’s my apprentice now.”
She extended an invitation. “Would you like to go see him? I don’t know what your relationship is…”
But anyone willing to spend good money on her fish couldn’t be a bad person, right!
And by the way, she knew it—side quests could only be triggered by players.
Rather than trusting her own deduction skills, which were roughly zero, she might as well just go with the flow, take on more daily tasks, and sooner or later she’d get a chance.
Holmes missed out big time for not coming fishing with her!
*
London, Scotland Yard.
A group of reporters in vests and crumpled hats had gathered around the Metropolitan Police headquarters, chattering excitedly among themselves.
Clearly, they had heard about the big event that occurred late last night—whether from East End residents, casual police chatter, or descriptions from other thugs—something had happened near Whitechapel!
The police had arrested over a dozen people in one go, raiding numerous houses overnight. Something terrible must have happened.
“Over a dozen men, tied up like Christmas turkeys and left on the doorstep, with solid evidence, they say,” the reporters whispered. “This must have been a truly horrible atrocity, so many people!”
The noisy reporters crowded on the steps, staring at the opening door like hungry pigeons.
“Inspector! Inspector Lestrade!” one of them shouted. “What the hell happened last night? You can’t just keep quiet, Inspector!”
“Was the arrest carried out by one person? I heard it was at Isaacs Textile Factory?”
A flustered clerk shouted for quiet and the like, but almost no one obeyed.
Lestrade had been busy all night raiding several fences’ hideouts, trying to prevent their accomplices from moving evidence, and had only rested for less than two hours. He was still bleary-eyed, his collar rumpled, clearly having slept temporarily on an armchair in the police station.
“Ahem,” Lestrade cleared his throat. “Scotland Yard, through meticulous investigation, has successfully dismantled a major criminal operation targeting a certain factory in Whitechapel. The suspects are currently being processed—”
One of the reporters snorted.
“The infamous thieves and exploiters of children, we all know that,” he said loudly. “Inspector Lestrade, were there any gunfights? Were any officers injured? Or did you personally bring these criminals to heel?”
Lestrade was sweating slightly. “Ah, yes, some strategic work, you understand. No one was injured. The children are currently being cared for by a reputable benefactor until further arrangements are made.”
“And the factory owner?” another reporter pressed. “Some say it was a vigilante who took them down. Is that true?”
“Witnesses say the factory owner single-handedly defeated their entire gang!”
“And used poison!”
Lestrade gripped his sleeve tightly.
“There was no poison!” he said sharply, and then saw the reporters scribbling furiously in their notebooks, immediately regretting it.
Damn it.
He cleared his throat again, forcing a smile. “What I mean to say is, while citizen assistance is… appreciated, the coordination of Scotland Yard is also extremely vital…”
“So you admit he helped?”
Lestrade’s smile became brittle.
“Ah, yes,” he said grudgingly. “Some auxiliary work. Of course, his unconventional contribution has been extremely valuable and has been noted by us… In fact, Scotland Yard is considering a commendation for brave citizens to recognize his contribution.”
The reporters burst into new shouts.
“So he is a vigilante!”
“Will he cooperate with Scotland Yard regularly?”
“Can we arrange an exclusive interview?”
Nearly overwhelmed by the barrage of questions, Lestrade had to raise both hands to call a halt. “Alright, gentlemen, that’s all for now! An official statement will be released at the appropriate time!”
Among the throng of journalists, a tall man silently pushed his way out, adjusted his glasses, put away his notebook, and walked towards a nearby carriage.
His assistant, James, followed him, whispering, “Chief editor, aren’t you going to ask more? We haven’t heard the rest of the statement…”
“No, James. While the others are busy feasting on the scraps Lestrade has carefully portioned out, I’d rather hear the story from the source,” the chief editor replied without looking back, hopping onto the carriage and giving orders to the driver. “Isaacs Textile Factory.”
The assistant blinked. “…Source?”
The chief editor smiled. “Exactly. Mr. Arna Isaacs. No one thought to ask him a real question, did they? The real story isn’t here. Instead of listening to Lestrade’s half-truths, why not go ask the factory owner what his next move is?”
He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “In other words, what did he do to make these terrible gangs swarm in?”
The assistant’s eyes widened. “What if he doesn’t want to say…”
This insightful chief editor wagged a finger. “If he doesn’t want to talk about that, then we’ll talk about his machines and future plans. Every factory owner likes to talk about their business ventures.”
He spoke in a worldly-wise tone. “Think, boy! A young man inherits an abandoned factory, attracts a bunch of thugs, and subdues them with his bare hands, giving Scotland Yard no chance to intervene. That’s not recklessness; that’s calculation. What does it mean?”
The carriage wheels creaked and rumbled, heading towards Whitechapel, splashing through a puddle of mud.
The assistant looked at his boss and dutifully asked, “What does it mean?”
“It means he has something to sell and needs more attention.”
His boss smirked, clearly seeing a profitable collaboration ahead, intending to be the first to shake hands with the factory owner and seize that valuable opportunity.
Arna: Huh? Me? I thought that much?