The Happy Days of Being a Factory Owner in London – Chapter 22

Confession

I’ll confess, I’ll confess, alright?

When Arna launched her charge, chaos erupted in the room.

            

“There are ten of us!” the familiar NPC yelled, rallying his accomplices. “It’s time to pay him back for the beating!”

The men surged forward like rabid dogs. Sikes took the lead, rushing in with his knife raised, slashing down toward Arna’s left shoulder.

But in the next second, a teeth-setting crunch of bone rang out.

            

Arna swung the steel pipe in her hand, bringing it down low and ruthlessly hard against his kneecap, forcing a decidedly inhuman howl from the burly man.

“Damn it!” His knife swung wide, but he was a seasoned thug after all; he quickly adjusted his grip and kept slashing. “My leg—”

Arna dodged backward, effortlessly leaping out of their encirclement in two bounds. She crouched on the wooden rack bolted to the wall, peering down at the men like an owl from its perch.

            

“To be accurate,” Arna stated, not forgetting to toss food into her mouth, “there are only ten men. I feel insulted.”

In less than two seconds, the sandwich in her mouth vanished at a speed invisible to the naked eye.

The next second, she leapt down from above. With a flick of her wrist, the steel pipe twirled nimbly, striking a man down as if it had eyes of its own. Leaning backward, she abruptly thrust the sharp rear end of the pipe into the ribs of another man named Jem.

            

The guy named Jem slammed into the wall with a loud bang, collapsing like a punctured sack of flour.

Amid the chaotic brawl, he slumped groggily in the corner. He watched the factory owner casually hold a pastry in his mouth while driving an elbow into another attacker’s temple, his steel pipe temporarily pinned between two men.

One second, Aisas used his momentum to leap upward, tossing his head back to bite into the crisp, flaky pie. The next, his foot drove ruthlessly into another man’s ribs, making the thug double over in agony and vomit bile onto the floor.

            

And the pie was already gone.

He swore he had just seen Aisas take the first bite, leaving more than half the pastry remaining—but Aisas’s hands were now free. As he turned, his left hand pulled a second pastry from his coat pocket, while his right hand swung the steel pipe.

Immediately after, during another man’s sneak attack, Aisas’s knee snapped up, smashing the attacker’s nose straight into his face until it was as flat as a pancake.

            

Blood sprayed.

At the same time, the food in Aisas’s mouth vanished again before he even chewed.

Jem’s brain short-circuited.

            

Where did the food go?

It was impossible for a human mouth to chew that fast!

Was it swallowed whole? Or, or perhaps Aisas had a second set of teeth hidden somewhere else.

            

Other than that, the only explanation left was that what this young man was eating wasn’t food at all, but lizard meat, or some other magical concoction disguised as food by a witch’s spell!

“Damn it, he’s even eating while he fights!” Jem staggered to his feet, backing toward the door. “I, I want out…”

“This guy is—is a ghost! A demon!” he cried.

            

“Bullshit!” Sikes roared, limping on his busted leg. Less than three minutes had passed since the fight began; he would absolutely not allow anyone to surrender now. “He’s only human! He gets tired too, keep at him!”

At his command, two thugs lunged at Arna from the flank.

Bang.

            

Gunshots rang out. Two bullets buried themselves in the wall.

The remaining attackers froze. Their heads whipped toward the dark corner of the room, their movements grinding to a hesitant halt.

Behind the wooden crates, Holmes and Watson stood like ghosts. In the dim light, the barrels of their guns were still smoking.

            

Where did these two spring from?

Watson looked remarkably composed. “Halt. Nobody move.”

He raised his revolver, aiming it squarely at the burliest man.

            

Arna looked left, then right. She patted the dust from her clothes and took the opportunity to stuff a few more pieces of bread into her mouth.

“I suggest you reconsider your life choices,” Holmes said coldly. “Though considering your collective lack of fortitude, I doubt it will do much good.”

Sikes spat on the floor.

            

“All rubbish!” he yelled, spewing trash talk. “Just two flashy old men holding toy guns, with pitiful aim.”

He flashed a sinister grin. “Charge them!”

As three attackers lunged toward Holmes and Watson, Arna couldn’t hold back a laugh.

            

“Old men,” she repeated, chewing on the last biscuits from her bag. She sidestepped an attack from the others and nimbly kicked a thug standing guard on the periphery, sending him stumbling right onto his companion’s blade. She couldn’t resist teasing, “Looks like they’re from the same era as you, eh, Holmes? Seeing the old soul beneath your exterior?”

Holmes, who was only in his twenties, gave a soft huff and fired another shot. This one was no warning.

One man shrieked as a bullet tore through his thigh.

            

Watson’s expression was grim. Having no time for idle chatter, he took steady aim at another man’s shoulder. The bullet sank deep. A spray of blood painted the factory wall.

When the two men cleanly took down their four targets and prepared to follow up, they realized the remaining six thugs had all been laid flat on the ground by Arna. Their weapons were nowhere to be seen; they were entirely reduced to pained whimpers and pleas for mercy.

—How was she so fast?

            

Holmes glanced around the room, finally spotting Arna with her foot planted squarely on the leader’s head. Only then did he relax slightly.

He slowly answered Arna’s question.

“Me, old?” he mused, stepping over the groaning men at his feet to walk toward her. “Perhaps so. After all, compared to the avant-garde criminal strategies they just displayed, I must look quite antiquated.”

            

Watson put away his revolver with an exasperated sigh, catching his breath. “Good heavens, Holmes, must you really show off your sense of humor while standing amidst a pile of unconscious felons?”

He turned to Arna, who was currently gnawing on a piece of jerky. “And you, Aisas, for God’s sake, were you seriously having a snack in the middle of a brawl?”

“Clearly, our friend possesses an absolutely superb digestive system,” Holmes commented. His slightly dusty black boot stepped—intentionally or not—onto a grimy, bloodstained hand.

            

Sikes, who had been stealthily inching toward the door, let out a wretched scream. “No—”

“Leaving so soon, Mr. Sikes?” Holmes said in a mild voice. “Don’t be in such a rush. I still have a few dozen questions.”

He shifted his weight, pressing his heel down harder, eliciting another miserable howl from the vicious thief. “For instance, about who paid you to harass my friend and his employees. Unlike him, I do not snack during interrogations.”

            

Arna went to the kitchen to wash her hands before tearing open a fresh packet of biscuits. She chewed with puffed-out cheeks.

“You aren’t going to have any?” she asked, tossing a piece to Holmes.

Without even looking, Holmes raised a hand and caught the biscuit flawlessly, looking as practiced as if he had spent his entire life preparing to catch sudden unidentified flying objects.

            

He inspected it for a moment, then took a deliberate bite.

“Disappointing,” he announced, though he chewed twice and swallowed the biscuit anyway. “In my opinion, this was definitely not baked fresh today.”

Arna ignored him and tossed the remaining biscuits to Watson.

            

Having replenished the last sliver of her stamina, she dug out a pre-prepared coil of rope from the corner and tied the men up one by one to prevent any further escape attempts.

“You two are entirely unreasonable,” Watson grumbled. His complaining didn’t stop him from clumsily catching the rest of the biscuits. “I will hold onto these for now, in case you need them later.”

He sighed, having clearly given up on trying to control the chaotic situation.

            

Holmes shrugged. “Now, Sikes, about your employer…”

He paused and turned toward the approaching Arna, twitching his nose like a hound. “You smell wrong.”

Arna looked at him with sheer innocence.

            

Holmes continued to stare at her.

Three seconds later, Arna begrudgingly produced three greasy, crumpled banknotes.

“Fine,” she muttered, resigning herself to handing them out, one per person. “Looted it off Number Four.”

            

“Number Four?” Watson clutched the banknote, looking as if he were choking on the biscuit he hadn’t even eaten yet.

He could hardly believe it. “During the fight—you were doing this on the side? And you numbered them?”

“No, of course not,” Arna stated firmly. “The banknotes ran toward me! They ran at me three times, very fast, and I couldn’t dodge!”

            

While Watson stood there, conflicted, shaking the banknote in his hand, Holmes had already skillfully chosen to become an accomplice and tucked the money into his overcoat pocket.

He crouched down. “How about we discuss your employer and that bottle of poison?”

Sikes spat out a mouthful of blood and a torrent of curses. “I don’t have one! Damn it, I don’t have an employer. I came here on my own.”

            

Holmes gave a soft hum, leaning down until he was mere inches from Sikes’s terrified face.

“There is no need to lie to me, Bill. I already know this wasn’t your idea.” His gray eyes searched Sikes’s expression and movements like a hawk. “Come now, just give me the name.”

Sikes’s face twisted as he snarled. “You two are dead! I’ll gut you—”

            

Holmes tilted his head, entirely unmoved.

Then, he deliberately shifted his center of gravity.

Sikes howled once more.

            

“Let us try again,” Holmes said cheerfully. “Who sent you? Handing a bottle of poison to Oliver and ordering him to use it—who instructed you to do this? We had best hurry; the police will be arriving shortly.”

Sikes clenched his teeth, stubbornly resisting.

Arna brushed the biscuit crumbs from her sleeves, quite amazed. “So tough?”

            

She looked around the room—from the badly hacked table to the walls with two bullet holes, and finally to the pile of trampled newspapers. “…It’s a lot tougher than my belongings.”

The thought brought a surge of grief. “My walls! My crates! So many newspapers I dug out of the trash bins, which I was planning to give away! The table I built with my own hands—”

The more Arna thought about it, the angrier she got.

            

No, she couldn’t just get mad for a second and then meekly hand these people over to Scotland Yard!

Glancing once more at the stubbornly silent Sikes, Arna began rummaging through her inventory.

After digging around for a while, inspiration struck. She pulled out the failed product she had haphazardly thrown together earlier. “Good thing I saved this and didn’t throw it away. I knew nothing is ever useless!”

            

With a sinister grin, Arna dashed into the kitchen, grabbed a vegetable-washing basin, mixed the leftover alcohol, the substituted bottle of poison, and that pile of thick, sticky sludge together, and rushed back holding the basin high.

【Successfully created a new recipe!】

【Recipe Name: ■■■■】

            

【Is this meant for human consumption? It seems so. It’s edible, but has no positive effects, nor any negative effects, except that it tastes awful—is tasting awful part of its effect? It’s best not to feed this to humans. And certainly don’t feed it to pigs; pigs are innocent!】

Just as I thought. I am a culinary genius!

Strutting proudly, Arna pried open the mouths of the bound criminals and shoved a glob inside each one.

            

The face of the first man force-fed instantly twisted; his eyes bulged.

The texture was like gravel mixed with some unknown sludge. For some reason, aside from the overwhelming stench, he felt his tongue catch on fire, accompanied by the prickly numbness unique to eating certain weird fruits.

The food stubbornly clung to his tongue. He began to struggle, whimpering and dry-heaving, shaking his head frantically to spit it out. “What is this—hurk—”

            

“Damn it.” The second man wriggled backward desperately when Arna crouched down, trying to escape, but Arna effortlessly pinned him in place and stuffed the freshly made dish into his mouth.

The effect was remarkably pronounced. His face turned green, and his throat spasmed. “No… please… don’t…”

After feeding them one by one, even Sikes began to thrash violently. He flipped and writhed like a hooked fish, his face scrunched up exactly like a crumpled paper bag.

            

“No need to thank me.” Arna was very pleased with how immensely grateful these men appeared. “You deserve it.”

“Don’t mention it,” Watson echoed dryly, pointing at the pile of semi-unconscious criminals. “I believe this is the first time anyone has ever used that phrase after forcing men to eat that pile of… whatever that was.”

He inspected the basin suspiciously. “You must have stolen these ingredients from Satan’s laundry basket. They look like cats frantically hacking up hairballs.”

            

The smell alone was like overnight leftovers mixed with gutter mud and stirred with fish scales. It was a horrendous odor that would send even rats fleeing.

“I didn’t steal it, I made it,” Arna said, looking around. “See? They definitely want seconds.”

“Indeed,” Holmes nodded solemnly, standing up. “That must be it.”

            

One of the thugs instinctively gagged again. Tears streamed down his cheeks, carving two clean tracks through the dust on his face.

“No, no, no, please, don’t,” he gasped. “I’ll talk, I’ll—I’ll talk! Just, God, don’t make me eat that stuff again!”

“Yeah!” another chimed in. “Just ask what you want!”

            

Looking at the basin that was still more than half full, Arna pretended not to hear them, adhering to the principle that food must never be wasted. “Don’t rush, it’ll be quick. There’s enough for everyone. You definitely need to eat something to restore your stamina after a fight.”

What was there to ask? She would ask after she finished feeding them all!

The criminals shuddered, casting pleading looks at the other two men in the room.

            

Before they could beg for mercy, the door was pushed open.

A chorus of horrified gasps followed.

Mrs. Hudson stood rigidly in the doorway. Behind her were the parents of the apprentices who lived nearby.

            

Upon hearing from Mrs. Hudson that the factory owner, Mr. Aisas, needed help and that the homeless orphan apprentices needed protecting, these people had bravely grabbed wooden clubs and kitchen knives and rushed over.

But now, they all stood with their mouths hanging open, staring in shock at the scene before them.

Ten burly men—a full ten of them—lay paralyzed on the floor amidst total wreckage, clearly the aftermath of a vicious battle.

            

The sharp-eyed East End parents even recognized a few familiar faces—the most notorious sort of neighbors, up to no good.

The instant Mrs. Hudson walked in, Arna shoved the remaining food back into her inventory.

The next second, she shrank behind Holmes, looking precisely like a cat that had just knocked over Mrs. Hudson’s expensive vase while chasing a butterfly.

            

“…Oh, dear Lord,” Mrs. Hudson said dryly, breaking the silence.

Her tone was exactly the same as if she had discovered a murder in her living room first thing in the morning.

To his credit, Holmes did not look intimidated at all by the large crowd.

            

Instead, he straightened his cuffs, took two calm steps forward, and offered an explanation without a change in expression. “As you can see, the situation is… clear. Evident. Mostly resolved.”

Arna, now fully exposed to everyone’s view: …Curse you, Holmes!

She had no choice but to brace herself and agree. “Yes, exactly.”

            

The father of one of the apprentices pointed a trembling finger at the man closest to him. “Is he… crying?”

Arna cleared her throat and started spouting nonsense. “That, that’s a food allergy.”

She shot a threatening glare over, scaring the criminal into nodding profusely.

            

Mrs. Hudson, who saw right through the facade, pursed her lips tightly and called her by her full name. “Arna Aisas.”

As everyone knew, being called by one’s full name rarely heralded anything good.

Arna shrank a little more.

            

Sensing the impending storm, Holmes smoothly interjected. “Ah, Mrs. Hudson! You are just in time. We were just planning to have a chat with these fellows about their employer.”

He glanced behind the crowd. “Is Miss Nancy looking after the children?”

Mrs. Hudson nodded with a stern face. “Someone has gone to notify Scotland Yard.”

            

The East End parents exchanged looks.

“Is there anything else you need help with?” one of the mothers whispered, still gripping her rolling pin. “Mrs. Hudson, gentlemen, please don’t hesitate to ask if you need anything.”

She frequently heard her son say at home that Mr. Aisas was a good-tempered eccentric. Thinking about it now, the ‘good-tempered’ part was probably fake, but the ‘eccentric’ part was definitely true.

            

—But thank the Lord, it was truly lucky for that little rascal in her house that the boss had a good temper with the children!

Just look at these men; their legs were broken!

How fortunate she was to see her son return home every week with two perfectly functioning legs. After all, her child was quite the troublemaker at home, so he surely wasn’t perfectly behaved at the factory either.

            

Mrs. Hudson sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Thank you for your trouble today,” she said, escorting the families out alongside Arna. Maintaining a polite smile, she kept up the small talk while her blockhead of a nephew remained entirely silent. “Mind the step—yes, it’s quite a mess in here, I’m so sorry. No, no, no need to trouble yourselves, we have it under control—”

The moment the heavy iron doors creaked shut, her pleasant expression vanished instantly. “For God’s sake, open the windows! It smells absolutely dreadful in here!”

            

She pointed at the thugs still groaning on the floor, treating them as if they were merely misbehaving servants. “And you lot! Stop leaking on the floor!”

Arna hurriedly opened all the windows, then obsequiously poured a cup of tea and handed it to Mrs. Hudson.

“Aunt, have a sip to soothe your throat.” She blinked her eyes innocently.

            

Mrs. Hudson slowly took the teacup, her eyes fixed entirely on Arna.

Arna spoke with profound honesty. “I was wrong.”

She had no idea what she was wrong about, but admitting fault first was always the safest bet.

            

Mrs. Hudson sighed and took a sip of tea.

As if resigning herself to fate, she muttered, “…At least you didn’t set the place on fire.”

Holmes’s gaze drifted away in an eerie manner.

            

Nearby, Watson was checking on the criminals’ health, ensuring they would still be alive when Scotland Yard arrived so as to avert a total tragedy.

Thank God, the hodgepodge mixture seemed to have neutralized most of the poison’s toxicity. Not a single man showed signs of being poisoned, which was fortunate, as he hadn’t brought his portable leather bag or medical kit with him today.

Hearing the mention of arson, he instantly recalled Holmes’s original plan and instinctively looked at his friend.

            

Holmes was intently studying the ceiling, as if a particular stain up there was utterly fascinating, completely ignoring the downed criminals on the floor.

Arna narrowed her eyes.

“You were planning to burn down my factory?” she said in disbelief.

            

“Just a minor thought. A diversionary tactic,” Holmes replied, immediately changing the subject. “Alright, now we are still missing a name.”

Before Holmes could say anything else, Sikes let out another weak, dry heave from the floor.

“Monks, is that enough? That’s his name. He’s the one who instructed me to have that brat—what was his name, Oliver?—have him administer the poison,” he mumbled. “I’ll tell you whatever you want, just, Scotland Yard… when are they getting here… damn it!”

            

That sentence seemed to flip a switch. The rest of the criminals immediately began to chorus their complaints.

“I can’t take this anymore, just take me to prison!”

“Even those coppers arriving would be better! I told you, we shouldn’t rob people with real skills! Stick to honest thievery!”

            

“…I’ve never resented their response time so much.”

During the ensuing interrogation, Arna ordered the criminals to keep their voices down and happily harvested a massive amount of interesting clues all to herself, entirely ignoring Holmes’s disapproving looks.

Are you kidding me? Does ransacking a boss’s lair even count as robbing?

            

That’s called striking for justice—taking back what was temporarily stored there!

Time ticked by. The rumble of carriage wheels finally stopped at the factory gates.

Watson, having listened to far too much howling, rubbed his temples. He felt a profound sense of relief at the tardy arrival of the police. “Well, at least we don’t have to drag them to the cells ourselves, do we?”

            

Arna pricked her ears at the sound of rapid footsteps approaching outside. “Shall I go greet the police then?”

The corner of Holmes’s mouth ticked upward slightly.

“Right after you’ve finished doing all their work for them?” he drawled lazily. “How cruel.”

            

Amidst the atmosphere, Mrs. Hudson took another sip of tea and murmured, “Lord give me strength.”

She set the teacup down. “Do as you will. Once the inspectors arrive, I am going upstairs to check on Nancy and the children.”

---

For Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, tonight was supposed to be a peaceful evening.

            

Though he was on duty at the Metropolitan Police Headquarters, London had been fairly quiet lately. Incidents were sparse, and few people had come in to report crimes. He was even in the mood to pull a beef pie from his bag and warm it by the fireplace.

Just as he took a bite of the heated pie, savoring the fragrant, perfectly salted grease, a frantic series of footsteps echoed outside. The door burst open.

A sweating, wild-eyed cab driver rushed into the room. His hat was askew, and he was panting heavily, having clearly run quite a distance after parking his cab.

            

He leaned on a desk to steady himself, shouting before he even caught his breath. “Inspector—someone needs help! You have to hurry! It’s, it’s the old Aisas Textile Factory, there’s been an incident!”

Wonderful. A chaotic incident was exactly what he needed right now.

Lestrade sarcastically bid his break time farewell in his mind and set the pie aside.

            

“What happened?” He bolted up, his mind filling with possibilities. “Murder? Robbery?”

The cab driver waved his hands frantically. “I don’t know the details, but it’s down in Whitechapel—there’s a huge crowd! The factory owner’s aunt asked me to fetch you, Inspector! They seemed to have guns!”

He was clearly an unreliable narrator, clumsily describing the scenes he had heard about. “Something about children and poison, honestly, I can’t remember!”

            

Lestrade cursed and didn’t bother listening to the rest.

He snatched his coat and bowler hat from the rack and bellowed at the nearby officers. “Everyone, move out! I’m afraid a major incident has occurred in Whitechapel tonight!”

Three young constables briskly followed him. The group squeezed into a carriage and sped toward Whitechapel.

            

When Lestrade cautiously led his men into the old textile factory, an indescribable odor hit his nose.

The air was thick with blood, sweat, and a bizarre, indescribable stench, worsening his already foul mood.

Something terrible must have happened. He only hoped there were survivors in the wake of this tragedy.

            

Raising his kerosene lamp, he mustered his courage while his companions hesitated, taking the lead into the only illuminated room in the building.

In the dim light, the very first person Lestrade saw was an old acquaintance, a familiar friend, and a frequent subject of his visits: the consulting detective from 221B Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes.

How was his information network so fast?

            

He had actually received the news before Lestrade did.

The next thing he saw was the floor covered in bodies. Or rather, the corpses of the victims.

Bodies were strewn everywhere, their limbs twisted, their faces scrunched up in agony like old newspapers left out for years. Some hadn’t even grown cold yet, twitching on the ground like fish that had just died minutes ago.

            

This was a premeditated massacre.

Lestrade’s heart instantly sank to the bottom of his chest. He hardly dared to search for which corpse belonged to the young factory owner who had recently inherited the place.

He was supposed to be a young man with a bright future, and now he was lying on the cold floor, keeping company with the dirt and ants.

            

“Good God—” he said furiously. “This must be a horrific conspiracy! Holmes, do you have any ideas as to how these poor souls were murdered? Or any clues regarding the matter, or the monster responsible for this?”

It was true that he had seen many cases, many of which far exceeded this one in cruelty and methodology.

But never had a perpetrator committed the act right under his and Holmes’s noses and escaped—perhaps only minutes ago! This was undoubtedly a provocation, a terrifying disregard for life, and a heinous display of malice!

            

He could only hope his old friend had some leads.

In the dim light, Lestrade noticed the corner of Holmes’s mouth twitching, forming a peculiar expression.

Holmes’s lips curled up, then dipped down, before finally straightening out into a flat line as he said in an even tone, “Actually, my friend, the person responsible for this is right here in this very room.”

            

Cloaked in the shadows of the night, his expression was incredibly subtle and strangely inscrutable.

Those words struck Lestrade’s heart like a heavy hammer, making it pound violently.

His eyes went wide. He exchanged a horrified look with the constables behind him, feeling a chill run down his spine.

            

In this room? Who? The killer actually had a habit of staying at the scene to observe after committing the crime?

Even more terrifying—why hadn’t Holmes immediately apprehended him? No, something was definitely wrong here.

His back went cold as he vigilantly scanned the room. Only then did he realize that, besides Holmes and Watson, there were others present.

            

One was someone Lestrade recognized: Holmes’s landlady, Mrs. Hudson. Though he had no idea why she was here so late at night, given her age and ordinarily pleasant demeanor, she obviously couldn’t be the killer Holmes was referring to.

The respectable old woman simply gave him a nod, stepped past them, and headed upstairs.

The other was a young gentleman standing against the light, his true face obscured by the shadows. He remained completely indifferent to Holmes’s words, projecting an aura of arrogance and apathy.

            

Lestrade steadied his nerves.

“Then, this must be—”

The next second, Lestrade realized something was very wrong.

            

Something suddenly lunged at his legs, hugging his calves and gripping his ankles tightly, like a drowning man clinging to driftwood.

He slowly lowered his head.

A dark, grimy head was desperately pressing against his leg. Not far away, the other corpses were squirming toward him, dragging themselves across the floor as if the dead had suddenly reanimated¹.

            

Was he dreaming? Why were the corpses moving? Were these ghouls?

Surely, this was what it would look like if Satan himself descended. Or was this the remnants of some bizarre cult from a third-rate novel, having just completed a sacrifice, waiting to summon a horrific entity to claim his soul?

The experienced, battle-hardened inspector’s mind went completely blank.

            

A moment later, he let out a scream that tore through the night, springing backward with astonishing agility as if he had been attacked by a hellhound. “Ah—ghosts! Get it off, get it off me! Holmes!”

He babbled incoherently, “Christ, it’s alive!”

“What? A ghost? No!” The head attached to his leg shrieked just as loudly, clinging even tighter as Lestrade kicked his leg, trying to shake him off. “Help!! Inspector, help! Save me!”

            

The voice wept bitterly. “I am an honest thief! Save me!”

The scene instantly devolved into total chaos.

The other constables scrambled frantically to “rescue” their inspector, trying to pry the man off. The rest of the thugs, still bound, were now thoroughly inspired and began thrashing and howling in earnest.

            

Holmes laughed silently. His shoulders shook as he watched the scene with the sheer delight of a child watching a puppet show from beneath the stage.

Watson, torn between professional duty and utter disbelief, ultimately opted to cover his face with one hand.

In the end, it was Arna—who still retained a shred of conscience—who casually picked up a broom and tapped the weeping burly man on the shoulder.

            

“Let go,” she said, not forgetting to seize the opportunity to pitch her leftover food. “Or I’ll have to feed you a little more…”

The man violently shuddered and instantly released his death grip on Lestrade’s boots.

Lestrade was now panting as if he had just run a marathon.

            

He took a few deep breaths and straightened his disheveled coat, finally realizing that this was a disastrous farce. “…I hate all of you.”

---

Even after Holmes explained the entire sequence of events, Lestrade still found it incredibly hard to believe.

“…So, you’re telling me all ten of these men came to rob—young Mr. Aisas, for his two thousand pounds in assets?” He glanced at Arna, who didn’t look particularly muscular at all. “And they planned poison, sedatives, and a spy—all these methods—and every single one failed?”

            

Holmes gave an affirmative hum. “Indeed. Give the inspector those locations, Aisas.”

Taking advantage of Lestrade sending the other constables out to hail more carriages, he shot Arna a meaningful look.

Arna crossed her arms, refusing to budge like a petulant child. “No.”

            

It belonged to the player! All of it belonged to the player!

Holmes called her name again. “Aisas.”

“They’re mine now,” Arna declared, looking for all the world like an evil dragon guarding its hoard. “Finders keepers!”

            

She shot an accusatory glance at the pocket where Holmes had stashed the banknote. Her meaning was clear.

You already accepted a bribe, and you’re not going to be an accomplice to the end?

Lestrade was somewhat baffled by their silent exchange.

            

He blinked. “…What locations?”

Watson sighed and pinched his nose. He felt he had sighed more times recently than in the entire first half of his life combined.

“Presumably, the locations of these fellows’ stashes,” he said as delicately as possible. “Aisas obtained these locations through some… negotiation tactics.”

            

But clearly, Arna was currently unwilling to share them.

Lestrade’s mustache bristled. “That’s evidence! Stolen goods!”

Arna glanced at her ruined walls and stood firm. “That’s my compensation! Mine!”

            

“Perhaps handing these over will earn you some reward stipends for being an enthusiastic citizen,” Holmes suggested with a blink. “I know Lestrade can apply for it from his superiors.”

He added leisurely, “Perhaps even a small honorary title. A verbal commendation, nothing too formal.”

Arna’s eyes lit up.

            

Lestrade looked as if he would rather swallow his police whistle.

Holmes patted his shoulder, treating it as a consolation. “Think of all the paperwork you’ll be dodging, my friend.”

He leaned close to Lestrade’s ear and lowered his voice. “Ten men arrested, and you didn’t have to fire a single shot! If you truly wish to claim part of the credit for yourself, I, at least, won’t mention how you screamed like a child.”

            

Lestrade’s eye twitched. He looked over at Watson.

Watson: “…I will not be submitting this case to the newspapers.”

“Fine,” Lestrade finally compromised. “Where are the damn locations?”

            

---

After turning over all the stash locations, Arna grieved the loss of her treasure-hunting spots while simultaneously feeling as if she had forgotten something.

She looked at the frowning Holmes and felt he must be sharing the exact same sentiment.

By the time the constables returned to the factory with enough carriages to haul away the multitude of criminals, it was already late into the night.

            

Arna walked outside happily, not forgetting to chase after Lestrade—who was directing the scene—to ask, “What kind of verbal commendation will it be?”

She ventured a guess. “Enthusiastic Citizen? Brawling Master? Good Samaritan of London?”

Lestrade silently stepped a little further away. “I don’t know yet. That depends on my superiors’ approval.”

            

He couldn’t help but look at Holmes. “Somehow, if young Mr. Aisas has always been like this, I wouldn’t find it particularly surprising.”

Holmes stifled a laugh. “It’s a welcome improvement for you too, isn’t it?”

The room was nearly cleared out. Arna walked out with the rest of them, still muttering terrible things like, “What’s wrong with issuing a few more titles?” and “It doesn’t even cost them a penny.”

            

Lestrade gave a perfunctory response, feeling he had suffered enough frights for one night.

Just then, from the massive staircase in the center of the factory, something came tumbling down, roll-roll-roll, finally coming to a steady halt half a meter from Lestrade. It revealed the bruised and swollen old face of a man.

“Oh, Fagin!” Arna finally remembered what she had forgotten. “Almost forgot!”

            

She had wondered why the workers had come downstairs to find her earlier; they must have been intending to show her the ringleader.

Forgotten by everyone, the old Jewish thief Fagin, who had independently shimmied his way all the way from the office to the stairs, forced a smile.

How was this any different from walking right into a trap? This was not the outcome he wanted!

            

He looked around awkwardly. “…Good evening, everyone. Fine weather we’re having tonight, isn’t it?”

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The author has something to say:

Just like that, I posted 10,000 words in one breath! (Struts around proudly)

            

I’m adjusting the update schedule these next two days. There will be a double update tomorrow at 12:05 AM too!

The “ran toward me” joke is a meme from Chicago hahahahaha, “He ran into my knife!”

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