Chapter 18: A Visit

After Oliver stepped out holding the dried apples, he still felt somewhat dazed.

No shock, no reprimand—just a plain, indifferent “Oh.”

Aside from instructing him not to tell anyone else about it, Mr. Esas seemed to offer no further reaction.

Oliver found himself troubled once again.

In his eyes, Mr. Esas was certainly a good man—generous, kind-hearted, magnanimous, and approachable. There was nothing amiss about him; his only flaw, perhaps, was a lack of cunning, a simplicity that made him seem unusually naive.

Oliver had once slipped away during breaks to visit other factories, where there were also children, but their conditions were vastly different.

They looked frail and exhausted, their faces grimy. The excessive and premature burdens of labor had worn them down to the point that they could barely muster a word.

They told Oliver that most factory owners were like that—relentless in squeezing every last ounce of profit from their workers before they would rest.

A kind-hearted factory owner was nothing but a legend.

After all, stuffing more money into one’s own pocket was far more important than the insignificant gratitude of the workers!

Though always proud of Mr. Esas’s kindness and simplicity, at that moment, Oliver wished he could borrow some of the scheming minds of those villains and implant them into Mr. Esas.

He was deeply troubled, patting his own head in frustration. “Idiot, think fast!”

If only he could come up with a good solution and tell Mr. Esas, they might avoid this whole mess.

Meanwhile, Arna, whom Oliver worried about, was indeed troubled too.

But her concern wasn’t about Fagin and the problems he brought—it was something else.

Arna knew the manufacturers could be lazy. Game companies, after all, often made mistakes; the world was a vast makeshift troupe, and errors were commonplace. It was rare if nothing went wrong.

Wrong scripts, incorrect card pools, reversed safe zones, easy modes harder than hell modes...

But she never expected the manufacturers to be this lazy!

In one afternoon, Arna had unexpectedly run into six other children, and the one before her now was the seventh.

The girl, named Bella, with a face full of earnestness, was one of the few factory children who often went home. She claimed her mother had once worked as a textile worker at Esas’s factory.

Her way of addressing Arna was more old-fashioned and distinct from the others, likely passed down from her mother.

But none of that was the point.

The point was that this little girl was whispering, lowering her voice, calling Arna “Master Esas,” and speaking in secretive tones about a big secret she had discovered!

“I heard it, my mom told me, and she said I must tell Master Esas quickly,” she chirped in a soft, clear voice. “Someone said that on Saturday you’ll get a surprise—um, something about thieves! Mom told me to tell you right away!”

She paused, seemingly trying hard to recall if her parents had said anything else, but for the moment, she couldn’t remember. She patted her head in frustration, as if the words were stuck in her throat and would fall out if she just gave a little tap.

Arna crouched down and gently touched her head.

“All right,” she sighed softly, “I understand.”

The panic in Bella’s eyes shifted to confusion.

“You understand?” she blinked.

“Yeah,” Arna said blankly. “I know everything.”

Her young apprentices had repeated the same topic to her nine times throughout the day; with Bella’s, that made ten.

Bella furrowed her brow.

She reached into her pocket, pulled out a dirty, flattened toffee candy, and solemnly placed it into Arna’s palm.

Arna’s sharp eyes recognized it as the very candy she had handed out to the children last week.

“For luck,” Bella said seriously, “eating candy brings good fortune.”

“Thank you, Bella,” Arna took the candy and ruffled the girl’s hair. “Go home now.”

Fortunately, she had only recruited ten apprentices; otherwise, the children might have spent the entire day spying on her.

Back on Baker Street, after dinner and some rest, Arna finally vented about the matter to her two roommates.

“Ten in all,” she said listlessly. “This whole afternoon, even when I drink or eat, the kids keep chasing me. They’re practically popping out from every corner.”

Holmes, fiddling with his violin, didn’t even bother opening his eyes.

“Ten informants, really?” His lips twitched. “Are you running a spy network? I’m impressed. Usually, even Scotland Yard’s pigeons aren’t this enthusiastic.”

The ever-compassionate Watson shot him a glare and set down his pen.

“Ten children?” He poured Arna a glass of brandy, nodding. “Looks like you’ve become the most popular factory owner in Whitechapel, right?”

“I wish not,” Arna snatched the glass and downed half of it in one gulp. “First Lucy—the mechanically gifted child—then Doug, then Oliver... and now Bella. She even gave me toffee as a lucky charm.”

She said with a frown, “This is not the dream I had.”

“What’s your dream then?” Holmes, still tuning his violin, teased. “To become the confessor of little criminals?”

“I want to be a big factory owner!” Arna said dissatisfied, her cheeks flushed from the alcohol.

She couldn’t find any cookies, so she gave up on the idea of throwing biscuits at him. “At least I don’t want kids crawling under tables, saying Fagin wants this and that.”

“Well then, our aspiring tycoon,” Holmes finally looked up, “there’s something obvious we can glean from this: Fagin’s reputation and control are clearly slipping. In my day, kids were dead before they could even snitch.”

Arna scoffed at his affected seriousness. “Your day? Last Tuesday? Or today?”

Watson rubbed his temple and seized the moment to speak. “The real question is—what do you plan to do? You can’t just...”

“Wing it?” Arna waved lazily. “I don’t see a problem. Fagin looks pretty dim-witted, so his plan just leaked out like that.”

“No,” Holmes chuckled, “he just didn’t consider one thing.”

“What?” Arna looked at him. “That the plan should be kept secret?”

To be honest, Fagin’s plan was hardly secretive.

“He didn’t consider that children talk,” Holmes finished, his arm moving slightly, making the violin emit a note. “Especially when they’re well-fed.”

He reassured the worried Watson, “Don’t worry. Esas’s creativity in handling this matter is trustworthy. Moreover, statistically, Fagin is more likely to end up in the Thames than in the vault.”

Arna leaned back, arms crossed. “Yeah, relax, Watson. Actually, I have a plan.”

Holmes perked up. “Does it involve your axe?”

Arna: “...No.”

“Golden sword?”

“That would be a waste,” she said flatly.

“Fishhook?” Holmes guessed again.

“No, and fishing rods don’t have that function!”

Holmes narrowed his eyes, scanning her up and down. “...Then what’s your plan?”

“Pretend to be drunk, wait until they make a move, then knock them all down, capture and tie them up,” Arna clenched her fists, looking at the other two expectantly. “Then call Scotland Yard. How about that?”

Isn’t that plan perfect?

Holmes’s bow suddenly stopped, releasing a sharp screech.

His eyebrows shot up, almost disappearing into his hairline. “Ah, a classic ‘let the criminals commit a greater crime, then beat them up’ strategy.”

He said slowly, “Its simplicity is excellent, with only one flaw: a fatal mistake during execution.”

Watson sighed. “You can’t be serious, Esas... Look, Holmes said these are ruthless criminals.”

“Especially Sykes. I met him once,” Holmes added cheerfully. “He’s strong enough to snap you in two at first sight.”

Arna sneered. “Actually, none of them can fight.”

She gestured. “And I have a plan. A surprise.”

“That’s not a plan, that’s a suicide note,” Watson commented. “Holmes, say something.”

Holmes pinched his nose.

“Ah, yes, let me summarize,” he said with dangerous calm. “You intend to pretend to be knocked out by anesthetics and alcohol in a room full of criminals—or worse, at least three times your number—and then single-handedly subdue, bind them, and finally call the authorities? Did I miss anything? Like lighting explosives or bringing a gun?”

Arna considered seriously for a moment, then said regretfully, “You covered everything except I didn’t buy explosives or guns.”

And those guys probably have less fighting strength than two slimes.

Single-handedly, piece of cake!

Watson made a strangled sound. “Christ, Esas. Holmes didn’t mean that—”

Holmes suddenly made a gesture, cutting off Watson’s words.

“Shh,” he said, setting the violin on the table and tiptoeing to the window, gently pulling back the curtain a little.

His eyes sparkled as if he had just seen something amusing.

Curious, Arna sidled up and looked out alongside him.

Just one glance and she was stunned.

Watson looked at Holmes, then at Arna, and finally, unable to contain his curiosity, followed over.

They saw a woman hurrying down the street toward 221B Baker Street, and Watson’s eyes widened.

“That’s... Miss Nancy,” he murmured.

“Yes,” Holmes lowered the curtain. “Looks like the number of informants has risen to eleven.”

He raised a hand, silently counting.

Three. Two. One.

The door downstairs was knocked.

Then came Mrs. Hudson’s footsteps and the creak of the door opening.

“Oh my, Miss Nancy!” Her voice was warm but tinged with confusion. “What a surprise! Come in, dear. Though I’m afraid the gentlemen might have already gone to bed...”

“Actually, I came to see you, Mrs. Hudson. There’s something I’d like to discuss,” Nancy said politely, clutching her shawl. “Perhaps somewhere... quieter.”