The Happy Days of Being a Factory Owner in London – Chapter 24

Reporters

Profitable?

A fruitful fishing trip was always a pleasant experience.

            

After fishing in the River Thames for a solid three hours, Arna lugged her brimming buckets onto the carriage and drove toward Bruton Street.

Because her supply was both copious and fresh, her major patron enthusiastically introduced her to new clients. The household she was visiting today had ordered a large quantity of perch in advance and had already paid a deposit.

Considering Mrs. Hudson’s usual schedule at the Baker Street house, Arna planned to finish selling her fish before picking her aunt up to head home.

            

Amidst London’s dim fog, she couldn’t help but yawn, her mind drifting to sleep-inducing matters.

Expand production, expand production… I have to find a way to make more money…

The carriage shock absorbers produced by her factory were quite good, but if she wanted to sell them to other NPCs at a price higher than the system’s base recovery value, she would need to figure out an alternative method.

            

Pondering this, Arna checked the house number provided by her patron and knocked on the door.

Soon, a kindly-faced old woman opened it.

“Oh, you must be the one delivering the fish, yes?” she said warmly. “Come in, you poor child. The weather is so dreadful; you must be exhausted. Come in and have a cup of tea.”

            

The kind-hearted housekeeper, who introduced herself as Mrs. Bedwin, led Arna inside. She first had Arna set the buckets down in the kitchen, then fussed over her, settling her into a chair in the sitting room before handing her a plate of pastries and a cup of tea.

“You can’t work on an empty stomach,” she said. “And you don’t look as though you’re in the habit of eating breakfast. That is not a good habit at all.”

As Arna sat in the chair by the fireplace, her attention was naturally drawn to the portrait hanging on the opposite wall.

            

It depicted a very beautiful woman who looked somewhat familiar. Arna couldn’t shake the feeling that she had seen this face somewhere before.

Seeing her staring continuously at the portrait, Mrs. Bedwin chuckled.

“What is it?” she joked. “A beautiful painting, isn’t it? From the look of it, you can hardly tear your eyes away.”

            

“She looks a bit like someone I know,” Arna said.

She thought for a moment longer before realization dawned on her. “She looks like one of the children at my factory!”

Mrs. Bedwin was taken aback by this. “Oh my, you own a factory as well? How industrious. Your hard work would make half the men in London feel they aren’t applying themselves.”

            

Regarding the mentioned child, she added with a smile, “I don’t actually know the person in this painting. It belongs to my master. But the world is so large; it isn’t particularly strange for a few people to look alike.”

Right then, an elderly gentleman wearing a dressing gown came down from the upstairs rooms.

“Oh, it’s dreadful, this morning,” he said, his brows furrowed in mild frustration. “I’m looking for my pocket watch, Bedwin. Where did you put it—”

            

Catching sight of an unfamiliar stranger, he shifted his sentence. “Is this a guest of yours?”

“I believe the pocket watch is on the third shelf of your bookcase. I found it had fallen there while I was straightening the rug yesterday, so I placed it up there for you,” Mrs. Bedwin said good-naturedly. “As for this guest, this is the young lad another lady mentioned in her letter. Apparently, he is always fishing in the River Thames.”

She gestured toward Arna. “Not only did he deliver fresh fish to us, but he also claims to have seen the person in this painting.”

            

Mr. Brownlow froze.

“Ah… is that so?” he murmured, his voice trembling slightly. “This world is full of coincidences.”

Based on typical game narrative conventions, the moment an NPC started speaking hesitantly, Arna knew there had to be a hidden backstory. It wasn’t just a coincidence caused by reused character models.

            

Remembering the convoluted inheritance dispute Sherlock Holmes had mentioned, she asked curiously, “So you know the person in the portrait, right?”

Mr. Brownlow gave her a deep look.

“Agnes Fleming,” he said softly. “A gentle soul, lost far too soon to the mire of this world.”

            

Arna blinked.

Just as I thought. This must be one of the side quests!

“The person I know is a nine-year-old child,” she said slowly. “He looks exactly like her. He’s a poor, handsome orphan with no father or mother. He didn’t have a good life before, and he only recently wandered into London.”

            

Watching the old gentleman’s face gradually turn pale, she added, “And he might be targeted by someone because of an inheritance. I’m not just guessing; I have a friend who is a detective, and that was his deduction.”

Mrs. Bedwin drew in a sharp breath. “Sir, perhaps this isn’t—”

Brownlow waved a hand, fell silent for a moment, and stepped closer.

            

“This child… is he alright?” he asked.

“He’s doing quite well,” Arna said. “He is my apprentice now.”

She extended an invitation. “Would you like to come and see him? Although I don’t know what your relationship to him is…”

            

But anyone willing to spend big money buying my fish can’t have too bad of a character!

Besides, she knew it: side quests could only be triggered by the player.

Rather than relying on her deduction skills—which were roughly equivalent to zero—it was better to just go with the flow and grind out more daily quests. The opportunity to trigger something would always present itself.

            

This was what Holmes got for refusing to come fishing with her. He was missing out big time!

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London, Scotland Yard¹.

A flock of reporters, clad in waistcoats and wearing crumpled hats, had already surrounded the Metropolitan Police headquarters, chattering all at once.

            

Evidently, they had caught wind of the major event that took place at midnight. Whether from East End residents, loose-lipped constables, or descriptions from street thugs, the consensus was clear: something had happened near Whitechapel! Something huge!

The police had arrested over a dozen people in one fell swoop and raided numerous houses overnight. Something terrible must have occurred.

“Over a dozen of them, trussed up like Christmas turkeys and dumped on the steps. They say the evidence is irrefutable,” the reporters murmured among themselves. “It must have been a horrifying atrocity!”

            

The clamouring journalists crowded the front steps, staring at the opening doors like a flock of starved pigeons.

“Inspector! Inspector Lestrade!” one of them shouted at the top of his lungs. “What exactly happened last night? You can’t just say nothing, Inspector!”

“Is it true a single person apprehended them single-handedly? We heard it was at the Aisas Textile Factory!”

            

Harried clerks shouted for quiet and order, but practically no one complied.

Lestrade had been busy all night raiding several fences’ dens to prevent accomplices from moving the stolen goods. Up to this point, he had rested for less than two hours.

Bleary-eyed, he had washed his face and forced himself to look alert before stepping out. His collar was thoroughly rumpled. Sleeping makeshift in an armchair at the station had left his arms and neck rather sore.

            

“Ahem.” Lestrade cleared his throat. “Through meticulous investigation, the Metropolitan Police have successfully dismantled a major criminal operation targeting a certain factory in Whitechapel. At present, the police are still interrogating the suspects—”

One of the reporters scoffed.

“We all know the man is a notorious Jewish thief-maker² and gang leader,” he said loudly. “Inspector Lestrade, was there a shootout? Were any officers injured? Did you personally extract confessions from these criminals?”

            

Lestrade broke a slight sweat. “Ah, yes. We handled several strategic operations, you understand. No one was injured. The children are currently under the care of a reputable patron until further arrangements can be made.”

“What about the factory owner?” another reporter interjected. “Rumour has it a vigilante took them down. Is that true?”

“Witnesses claim the factory owner defeated their entire gang single-handedly!”

            

“And that poison was used!”

Lestrade gripped his own sleeves tightly.

“There was no poison!” he snapped. Then, seeing the reporters scribbling madly in their notebooks, he immediately regretted it.

            

Dammit.

He cleared his throat, forcing a smile. “What I mean to say is, while citizen assistance is… commendable… the coordination of Scotland Yard was also of the utmost importance…”

“So you admit he helped?”

            

Lestrade’s smile grew brittle.

“Ah, yes,” he managed. “Some auxiliary assistance. Of course, his unconventional contributions were extremely valuable, and we are quite pleased to have received the factory owner’s aid… In fact, Scotland Yard is considering issuing a commendation for courageous citizenship to honour his contributions.”

The reporters erupted into fresh shouts.

            

“So he is a vigilante!”

“Will he be cooperating with Scotland Yard on a regular basis?”

“Can we arrange an exclusive interview?”

            

Nearly drowned out by the barrage of questions, Lestrade had to raise both hands to call a halt to the circus. “Alright, gentlemen, that is all I can tell you for now! An official statement will be released in due course!”

Amidst the swarming pressmen, a tall man quietly slipped away. He adjusted his spectacles, pocketed his notebook, and strode toward a carriage parked nearby.

His assistant, James, trailed after him, lowering his voice to ask, “Mr. Editor, aren’t you going to ask any more questions? We haven’t heard the rest of the statement…”

            

“No, James. While the rest of them are busy snapping up the carefully portioned scraps Lestrade throws them, I prefer to hear this story from the source,” the editor replied without looking back. He hopped into the carriage and barked an order to the driver. “Aisas Textile Factory.”

The assistant blinked. “…The source?”

The editor chuckled. “Exactly. Mr. Arna Aisas. No one thought to ask him a real question, did they? The true story isn’t here. Rather than stand around listening to Lestrade spout half-truths, it’s better to go ask the factory owner what he plans to do next.”

            

He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Or, to put it another way—what exactly did he do to cause such a terrifying gang of thugs to swarm his property?”

The assistant’s eyes widened. “And if he isn’t willing to speak…?”

The shrewd editor wagged a finger. “If he isn’t willing to speak, then we shall talk about his machinery and his future. Every factory owner loves to boast a little about their commercial ventures.”

            

He spoke with the tone of a man who had seen it all. “Think about it, lad! A young man inherits an abandoned factory, draws a horde of thugs, and subdues them bare-handed, leaving Scotland Yard with no chance to intervene. That isn’t recklessness; that is calculation. What does it mean?”

The wheels of the hackney carriage creaked as it rattled toward Whitechapel, splashing through puddles of mud.

The assistant looked at his superior, asking dutifully, “What does it mean?”

            

“It means he has something to sell, and he needs more attention.”

His superior smiled. He clearly saw the potential for a highly profitable partnership in this, and he fully intended to be the first man to shake the factory owner’s hand and secure that golden opportunity.

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The author has something to say:

            

Arna: Huh? Me? I thought about all that?

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That’s all for today’s update!

Mrs. Bedwin and Mr. Brownlow are also characters from Oliver Twist, and they are wonderful people!

            

The next update is tomorrow at 12:05 AM, remember to come check it out~ It’ll be a double update again~

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