The Happy Days of Being a Factory Owner in London – Chapter 25
by MonoOperations
Sell for a high price?
The carriage rolled to a stop outside the factory gates.
The elderly gentleman, Mr. Brownlow, observed the building with a calm, focused gaze, his eyes lingering on the weather-beaten walls.
Mrs. Bedwin, the housekeeper, had never been to the East End. She stepped out of the carriage close behind him, looking around with a mix of curiosity and fear. Clearly, she had heard of Whitechapel’s reputation.
“This is the place?” Mr. Brownlow sighed.
He seemed to be speaking more to himself than to anyone else. “After all these years…”
Arna waited until the old gentleman and the old woman were steady on their feet before hopping down from the carriage.
Since she had left her keys with Nancy yesterday, she shouted, “Aunt—Nancy—I’m back!”
Almost immediately, the factory door swung open.
Mrs. Hudson walked out, wiping her hands on her apron. “I thought you’d forgotten us, Aisas. You promised to come pick me up on time so we could return to Baker Street…”
She spotted the two strangers standing nearby and raised her eyebrows. “So we have guests to entertain now? Please, come in, you two.”
“Er,” Arna scratched her head, leading the horse inside. “It’s a complicated story. They’re here to visit someone else.”
She asked, “Are the children doing well?”
“Of course, they woke up bright and early,” Mrs. Hudson replied. “They pestered me to tell them stories, and after breakfast, they clamored that they had work to do. They’re busy inside right now.”
She grumbled, “They’re all far too much like you!”
Arna craned her neck to look inside. Sure enough, the five half-grown children were already diligently assembling mechanical parts.
Oliver, who was sitting right in the middle, heard the noise. He slid nimbly off his stool, bolted for the kitchen, and hurried back out with a sack in hand.
It was his turn to feed the horse today!
He jogged over, his steps light, and held a bag of beans up to the horse’s mouth. He stroked its mane without bothering to look up at whoever the new guests were. It had nothing to do with him, anyway.
That was until Mr. Brownlow, who had been watching him intently, finally caught a clear view of his face and drew in a sharp breath.
His walking stick fell to the ground with a clatter.
Oliver instinctively looked up. Seeing the old gentleman’s face, he froze.
His face instantly turned pale. “I…”
He remembered that botched robbery.
It had happened the day before Oliver arrived at the factory. Fagin had sent him out to “work,” and under the guidance of the Dodger and Charley Bates, they had made straight for a certain old gentleman’s handkerchief.
Unsurprisingly, he had failed. Or rather, it wasn’t until his companions had already snatched the handkerchief and bolted that he realized they were petty thieves. Terrified, he had tried to run away as well.
But because he ran, he was taken for the fleeing thief. A massive crowd had chased him frantically through the streets of London, and no matter how much Oliver pleaded, “I didn’t steal it,” it was of no use.
If the kind old gentleman standing before him hadn’t followed them all the way to the magistrate’s office to clarify that Oliver didn’t seem like the thief, and if the bookstall owner hadn’t arrived to testify on his behalf, he would have long since been convicted of theft by that muddled magistrate and sentenced to the reformatory for hard labor.
—But, but what was this gentleman doing here now?
His eyes darted nervously from side to side. It wasn’t until he saw Arna standing nearby that he found his courage and clarified, “Sir, that robbery… I truly didn’t do it. I didn’t steal your things.”
Still, Oliver felt a twinge of shame.
Even though he hadn’t stolen the handkerchief, he hadn’t successfully stopped the others from stealing it either. And, of course, a portion of the money Fagin made from selling Dodger and Bates’s stolen goods was likely used to buy the food that went into all their mouths.
Mr. Brownlow was taken aback, looking as though he had absolutely no idea what the boy was talking about. “I’m sorry, child, I…”
Just then, the Dodger—who had kept one ear peeled on Oliver—shot to his feet.
He signaled his partner and darted swiftly to the door, Charley hot on his heels.
“Oi! Yeah, he’s right!” the Dodger shouted. He planted himself sideways between Oliver and Brownlow, spreading his arms wide as if to protect the younger boy, even though he was but a child himself. “He really didn’t do it; he ain’t got the skill! That handkerchief—we nicked it, me and Bates. Just for a laugh, alright?”
He jabbed his thumb at his own chest, then glanced at Charley. Charley Bates nodded vigorously.
“That’s right, spot on,” Charley chimed in. “We can get an advance on our wages and pay you back! We get four shillings a week now—real, honest wages!”
His voice trembled as he put on a brave front. “Just… don’t go after him for it, alright?”
Oliver’s eyes widened. He stared at the pair as if they had sprouted second heads, as though two boys were now speaking with four heads between them.
Being stared down by these children, who were going on about “handkerchiefs” and “stealing,” Mr. Brownlow was utterly bewildered.
After a moment, in the dreadful silence, he suddenly recalled the entire affair caused by his missing handkerchief.
He spoke, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. “No, I am not here because of the lost handkerchief—”
Saying this, Mr. Brownlow cast another glance at Arna.
It was only after Mrs. Hudson gave her arm a hard pinch that Arna snapped out of her daze.
“Oh, right, right,” she said hurriedly. “Where were we? Mr. Brownlow indeed isn’t here about the robbery. He’s here because…”
Thinking about how she would have to explain everything from last night’s events to the fishing trip and the portrait, and then to Oliver’s resemblance to the painting, Arna felt lazy and gave a vague summary. “Well, it’s a very long story. Why don’t we find some chairs and sit down?”
Mr. Brownlow cast her an approving look.
He watched with admiration as the young factory owner reassured the children and urged them to get back to work, before following Arna into the office.
As soon as Arna closed the office door, Mr. Brownlow spoke up.
“He does indeed look very much like her,” he sighed. “That portrait was commissioned by a friend of mine. The poor girl’s name was Agnes Fleming; I’ve already told you that much.”
He made a gesture. “But his parentage is not a matter to be taken lightly. If my suspicions are correct, it may involve certain… internal family conflicts.”
Therefore, until he had concrete evidence, telling anyone the truth would be highly irresponsible. For an orphan, nothing was more cruel than giving him hope only to plunge him back into despair.
Fortunately, judging by the factory owner’s conduct just now, he clearly understood this as well. Otherwise, why would he have vaguely glossed over the topic instead of interrogating the boy?
He had observed carefully: this factory was cleanly renovated, and the children were raised well. They were well-behaved, clever, tight-knit, and possessed rosy cheeks. Moreover, whenever the children spoke, they would occasionally glance at the factory owner, undoubtedly harboring deep admiration for their young boss.
Even if it turned out that it was merely a coincidental resemblance, Mr. Brownlow felt entirely at ease leaving the poor orphan Oliver to live here.
“I will seek out more evidence moving forward to uncover the truth,” Mr. Brownlow said, letting out a heavy breath. “I only hope everything goes smoothly.”
Mentioning this suddenly reminded Arna of her roommate, who was just as poor as she was.
“Actually, I have a friend who is currently investigating this very matter. His name is Sherlock Holmes.” Embracing the spirit of ‘let’s all make money together,’ she enthusiastically tried to recommend him to Mr. Brownlow. “He should have found quite a few clues by now!”
If this clearly wealthy old gentleman commissioned Holmes for the case, wouldn’t Holmes be able to make another fortune?
Maybe she could even take a cut as a finder’s fee…
The old gentleman considered this for a long time, then nodded.
“I will take it into consideration,” he said. He then reached into his coat and produced a chequebook.
The housekeeper beside him widened her eyes, but Mr. Brownlow persistently reached out to her, taking the pen she carried. He wrote down a figure large enough to make most people’s eyes widen.
“Five hundred pounds.” He tore off the cheque and handed it to Arna, evidently treating it as a sponsorship he had no intention of recouping. “Regardless of what the truth may be, you are free to use this money as you see fit. Consider it an investment, or a reward for providing these children with such a home. Call it what you will.”
Struck by this sudden windfall, Arna gripped the slip of paper.
“Um… thank you?” she said uncertainly.
When Editor-in-Chief Pike and his assistant James arrived near the factory, another carriage brushed past theirs.
Seated inside was a respectable old gentleman, along with a neatly dressed old woman who appeared to be his housekeeper.
“It seems someone has beaten us to the factory,” Pike murmured. “Sure enough, gold will always shine.1“
His assistant, James, asked worriedly, “Then, sir, shouldn’t we head back for now?”
“No. Look at his attire, James. That must be an entrepreneur coming to invest, or a wealthy gentleman,” the editor-in-chief said. “And when they want to launch something—no matter what it is—they need the support of our newspaper’s readers.”
He straightened his clothes and hopped down before the carriage even came to a complete halt, speaking to the children who came up to greet them. “I am the editor-in-chief of a newspaper, Charles Pike. I am here to call upon the owner of this establishment, Mr. Arna Aisas.”
He was smoothly led into the office, where he met the factory owner.
Contrary to the rumors of a brawny figure capable of fighting off ten burly men single-handedly without losing, this factory owner was lean and tall. His curly hair was tied back with a ribbon, and his blue eyes shone brightly.
“I don’t recall meeting you,” Arna said, being stared at incessantly by this stranger.
She had only just sat down and hadn’t even had time to take a sip of tea before yet another new NPC came knocking.
Even though she couldn’t actually remember most of the NPCs in the game, she still wanted to ask: Who is this guy?
“Charles Pike, editor of the London Chronicle,” Editor-in-Chief Pike said. After briefly introducing the assistant behind him, he got down to business. “Indeed, I must apologize for this presumptuous intrusion, but I simply could not resist meeting the factory owner who has stirred up all of London.”
Arna looked at him blankly. “…Stirred up all of London?”
How come she didn’t know she had such an ability? If she did, why would she still be running a factory? Wouldn’t she have already ascended the throne via a game side-quest, sitting on the Queen’s throne and wearing the Queen’s clothes?
“Yes, your heroic deeds from last night have made you famous. Though I must say, most factory owners do not moonlight as night watchmen to personally protect their own factories.” Editor-in-Chief Pike chuckled. “The best stories rarely speak for themselves; they simply occur in some hidden corner. It is my job to find them before my competitors do.”
His gaze swept over the stack of documents on the desk before settling back on Arna with undisguised interest. “I am here to offer a platform, Mr. Aisas. If we cooperate, I can help you sell whatever you have in your hands for a high price. Of course, this requires you to tell me a few things first—starting with what exactly you intend to do here.”
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