The carriage stopped at the factory gate.
The elderly gentleman, Mr. Brownlow, surveyed the front of the factory with a calm, focused gaze, his eyes resting on the weathered walls.
Mrs. Bedwin, the housekeeper, had never been to the East End before. She followed closely behind him as he stepped down from the carriage, looking around with a mix of curiosity and fear, clearly having heard of Whitechapel.
“Is this the place?” Mr. Brownlow sighed.
It was less of a statement for others and more like a mutter to himself. “So many years have passed…”
Once the elderly gentleman and lady were steady on their feet, Arna jumped down from the carriage.
Since she had left the key with Nancy yesterday, she shouted, “Auntie—Nancy—I’m back!”
Almost at the same time, the factory door swung open.
Mrs. Hudson walked out, wiping her hands on her apron. “I thought you’d forgotten about us, Essas. About the time…”
She spotted the two strangers, raising an eyebrow. “So, are we entertaining guests now? Please, come in, both of you.”
“Uh,” Arna scratched her head, leading the horse inside. “It’s a long story, but they’re here to visit someone else.”
She asked, “Are the children alright?”
“Of course. They were up early,” Mrs. Hudson replied. “They pestered me for stories, then after breakfast insisted they had things to do. Now they’re busy inside.”
She complained, “They’re all too much like you!”
Arna craned her neck to look inside. Sure enough, the five half-grown children were diligently assembling parts.
Oliver, sitting in the middle, heard the noise. He slipped nimbly off his stool, ran to the kitchen, and grabbed a bag as he headed out.
It was his turn to feed the horse today!
He trotted over, lightly placing a sack of beans by the horse’s mouth, stroking its mane, barely lifting his head to look.
Until Mr. Brownlow, who had been watching him intently, finally got a clear look at his face and gave a soft gasp.
His cane clattered to the ground.
Oliver instinctively looked up—and froze.
His face turned pale. “I…”
He recalled the theft he had botched.
It was the day before Oliver came to the factory. Fagin had sent him out to “work,” and under the guidance of Doug and Charley Bates, he was taken straight to target some old gentleman’s handkerchief.
Needless to say, he failed. Or rather, after his companions had already snatched the handkerchief and fled like the wind, he finally grasped the nature of this den of thieves, panicked, and tried to run away.
Then he was mistaken for a fleeing thief. So many people chased him through the streets of London, and no matter how much Oliver insisted, “I didn’t steal it,” it was useless.
If not for the kind old gentleman who let him go, believing he didn’t seem like a thief, he would have been caught and sent to hard labor.
—But… what was this gentleman doing here now?
His eyes darted nervously left and right until he saw Arna still standing nearby. He steadied himself and clarified, “Sir, that theft… it really wasn’t me. I didn’t steal your things.”
But Oliver still felt a little ashamed.
True, he hadn’t stolen the handkerchief—but he hadn’t stopped it either. Of course, the money from what Doug and Bates had stolen was surely used by Fagin to buy food and feed everyone’s mouths.
Mr. Brownlow was taken aback, clearly not recalling what this was about. “Sorry, my boy. I…”
Just then, Doug, who had been keeping an ear on Oliver, suddenly stood up.
He signaled his partner and darted to the door, Charlie right behind him.
“Hey! Yeah, he’s right!” Doug shouted, sidestepping to stand between Oliver and Mr. Brownlow, arms spread wide as if protecting the little boy—even though he was just a child himself. “He really didn’t do it, he couldn’t! That handkerchief? We stole it—me and Bates, just for fun, alright?”
He jabbed a thumb at his own chest, then looked at Charlie, who nodded vigorously.
“That’s right, that’s right,” Charlie echoed. “We can give it back! We get four shillings a week, honest wages!”
His voice trembled as he bluffed, “Just… leave him alone, okay?”
Oliver’s eyes widened as he stared at the two, as if they’d sprouted second heads—now two people with four heads talking.
Staring at these kids, listening to them talk about “handkerchiefs” and “stealing,” Mr. Brownlow was completely at a loss.
After a moment, in the terrible silence, he finally remembered the handkerchief incident and the trouble it had caused.
He gave a wry chuckle. “No, I’m not here about the lost handkerchief—”
With that, he glanced again at Arna.
Only after Mrs. Hudson gave her arm a firm squeeze did Arna snap out of her daze.
“Oh, oh, right,” she hurriedly said. “Where were we? Mr. Brownlow isn’t here about the theft, but about…”
Thinking she’d have to start from last night’s events, go through fishing and a portrait, then to Oliver and how the painting looked like him, Arna took the lazy route and mumbled, “Well, it’s a long story.”
Mr. Brownlow shot her an approving look.
He watched appreciatively as the young factory owner calmed the children and urged them back to work, then followed Arna into the office.
Once the office door was closed, Mr. Brownlow spoke.
“It’s indeed very similar,” he sighed. “That portrait was commissioned by my friend. The poor girl’s name was Agnes Fleming, as I’ve told you.”
He made a gesture. “But her background is not something to be taken lightly. If my guess is correct, it might involve some… family conflicts.”
So, until he was absolutely certain, it would be irresponsible to tell others the truth—especially to an orphan. Nothing is crueler than giving hope only to dash it.
Fortunately, judging by this factory owner’s conduct just now, she seemed to understand that kindly, which was why she glossed over the topic instead of pressing for details.
He had observed carefully: the factory was neatly renovated, the children well-fed, well-behaved, clever, and united. Their complexions were good—clearly they ate well. And the children all instinctively looked to the factory owner, no doubt greatly admiring this young gentleman.
Even if it turned out to be just a resemblance, this poor orphan Oliver was living here, and Mr. Brownlow felt completely at ease.
“I’ll look for more evidence later,” Mr. Brownlow said with a heavy exhale. “I hope everything goes smoothly.”
At this, Arna suddenly remembered her equally poor roommate.
“Actually, I have a friend who’s investigating this. His name is Sherlock Holmes,” she enthusiastically recommended, thinking everyone should make money together. “He should have found quite a few clues by now!”
If this clearly wealthy old gentleman hired Holmes to handle the matter, wouldn’t Holmes make a big profit?
Maybe she could then skim a finder’s fee…
The old gentleman pondered for a long time, then nodded.
“I’ll consider it,” he said, reaching into his coat and pulling out a checkbook.
The housekeeper beside him widened her eyes, but Mr. Brownlow insisted on taking the pen from her hand, writing down a number that would make most people’s eyes pop.
“Five hundred pounds,” he tore off the check and handed it to Arna, clearly treating it as a non-refundable sponsorship. “Consider it an investment, whatever the truth may be. Or a reward for creating such a refuge for these children. However you want to put it.”
Hit by a windfall, Arna grasped the slip of paper.
“Uh… thank you?” she said uncertainly.
When Editor Pike and his assistant James arrived near the factory, another carriage brushed past theirs.
Inside sat a dignified old gentleman and a neatly dressed elderly lady—likely his housekeeper.
“Looks like someone beat us to it,” Pike muttered. “As expected, all that glitters is gold.”
Assistant James asked worriedly, “Sir, should we head back first?”
“No, James. Judging by his attire, he must be an entrepreneur here to invest, or a wealthy aristocrat,” the editor said. “And when they want to push something—whatever it is—they need our readers’ support, exposure, or something else.”
He straightened his clothes, jumping out of the carriage before it had even stopped, and addressed the children who came up to greet him. “I’m the editor of a newspaper, Charles Pike. I’m here to visit the owner, Mr. Arna Essas.”
He was smoothly led into the office and met the factory owner.
Unlike the legendary image of someone who could take on ten strong men alone without losing, this factory owner was lean and tall, with curly hair tied back with a ribbon, bright blue eyes sparkling.
“I don’t recall meeting you,” Arna said to the stranger staring at her.
She had just sat down, not even having time for a sip of tea, when another new NPC showed up.
Though she couldn’t remember most NPCs in the game, she still wanted to ask—who the heck is this?
“Charles Pike, editor of the London Chronicle,” Pike said, introducing his assistant before getting down to business. “Indeed, I must apologize for barging in like this, but I couldn’t resist meeting the factory owner who has stirred up all of London.”
Arna stared at him blankly. “…Stirred up all of London?”
How did she not know she had that kind of ability? If she did, why would she still be running a factory? She’d have already taken the game’s side quest to ascend to the queen’s throne, wearing the queen’s clothes!
“Yes, your heroic deeds last night have become famous. Though I must say, most factory owners don’t usually double as their own security,” Pike laughed. “Of course, the best stories rarely speak for themselves, my friend. They just happen. My job is to find them before my competitors.”
His gaze swept over the pile of documents on the desk, finally resting on Arna with unconcealed interest. “I’m here to offer a platform—or a partnership, Mr. Essas. Help you sell what you’ve got for a high price. But first, you’ll need to tell me a few things. Starting with what exactly you plan to do here.”