Plan Seven

Considering the rather long walk from East London back to Baker Street, and the fact that there was a free carriage available, Arna didn’t hesitate to hitch a ride with Lawyer Green back to his downtown law office, planning to walk home later.

But shortly after returning to the office, Lawyer Green stopped Arna as she was about to leave, eagerly handing her a box containing an old land deed.

“Keep this safe,” he said. “If you ever consider… transferring the land to someone else, feel free to consult me.”

After receiving the deed, Arna noticed a new location light up on her panel.

[Acquired: Deed to a dilapidated old factory x1]

[Dilapidated Old Factory: A precious legacy left to you by your grandfather through his hard work. Though overgrown and abandoned now, land is still land.]

[Unlock profession: Factory Owner?]

[Yes/No]

Arna stuffed the box into her storage compartment and tapped the confirm button with one hand.

The panel flashed red, bluntly reminding her that the unlocking conditions were unmet.

[Basic conditions not satisfied. Missing required condition: “Employed Workers.” Missing required condition: “Clean and Tidy Factory Premises.” Seriously? Does anyone really think owning a piece of land makes them a factory owner?]

Beneath the message, the current market wage for hiring workers was helpfully displayed.

At this rate, Arna’s savings could only pay to employ one worker for a few months.

Mocked by the system, Arna thought: …Enough! I know I’m poor, no need to rub it in!

Thinking about the locked panel made her uneasy; she wished she could earn all the money today, finish renovations tomorrow, and have the factory up and running the day after. Not even fishing or scavenging could tempt her now.

She walked back to Baker Street, heavy-hearted, climbed upstairs with a heavy heart, then collapsed onto the sofa, sighing deeply.

“Ah,” Arna said gloomily, “making money is so hard.”

Watson, seated by the fireplace annotating his medical journal, nodded in agreement.

“Spending is easy; earning is hard—that’s always the case,” he sighed. “I remember my early months practicing medicine in London—trudging through the foggy streets at night to deliver babies, all to save on carriage fares.”

He put down his pen, stood to stretch, then brought over a plate of small biscuits and a cup of hot tea to Arna. “Since you missed lunch, have some simple afternoon tea first.”

Arna grabbed a biscuit and nibbled it, restoring some stamina lost from the earlier fight.

“Thank you, Doctor Watson,” she muttered, “You’re so kind.”

“You’re welcome,” Watson replied, sitting back down and leisurely sipping his tea.

At the cozy atmosphere, Holmes, sitting at the other end of the sofa and flipping through a newspaper with a magnifying glass, twitched the corner of his mouth.

“Ah,” he said without looking up, “I heard the clink of coins in your pocket, Aiseth. Before you drain this poor doctor’s afternoon tea, why not tell us how many ribs you broke today?”

Watson choked on his tea, “...What?”

“I don’t know,” Arna admitted honestly, “I wasn’t counting.”

She munched her biscuit and casually tossed one to Holmes. “And that’s not enough money anyway, certainly not enough to fix the factory.”

“So that’s your worry now,” Holmes said, catching the biscuit without looking, “Then just sell it.”

He examined the biscuit briefly. “Accept bribes.”

Watson set his teacup down with a click.

“So, can someone explain to me—”

“Obviously,” Holmes interrupted, finger raised triumphantly, “as I said before, Aiseth inherited a factory from her grandfather. Due to poor management, it’s in bad shape and completely shut down.”

He continued, “Our fishing champion here had some intense… negotiations with a few illegal squatters there and managed to obtain some compensation.”

“Two,” Arna said weakly. “I’m thinking of finding their hideout to earn some money and repair the factory. That kid said Fagin sent him.”

Holmes suddenly stiffened as if catching a scent and turned sharply toward her.

His sharp eyes scanned Arna from head to toe before he stood abruptly and paced the room. His coat flapped behind him like an overzealous crow’s wings.

“In theory, you’ve been dealing with the notorious pickpockets and robbers around Little Red Flower Hill—cunning, clever, leaving no traces, using nimble-fingered children to steal, while being completely unaware of the venomous snakes hiding in their own den,” he said slowly, eyes gleaming with dangerous interest, “But if you intend to use less-than-honorable methods like today…”

At that moment, Watson finally caught on to what they were discussing.

“Holmes,” he said gravely, “Absolutely not! You can’t encourage—”

“I’m not encouraging anything, Doctor,” Holmes waved dismissively as if brushing away the objection, “And Aiseth’s courage today has already proven itself, hasn’t it?”

“We need something—false information, or a world-shattering treasure—to lure their attention,” he went on, fingers weaving an invisible web of connections, then turned to his bookshelf, flipping through complex maps of power dynamics noted in his journals. “First, gather evidence by some means, then catch them red-handed, have the police arrive, and sweep them all up. I have a few contacts in the London police who would gladly be handsomely rewarded for this.”

Arna listened attentively for a moment.

“Then,” she asked, “what happens to those kids?”

Holmes suddenly froze.

“Ah,” he said dryly, exhaling slowly, “I suppose that’s the… worst part of the plan, my dear friend.”

Uncharacteristically casual, he tossed the book aside, turned, and sat in the armchair, fingertips pressed together.

“Lestrade will arrest them—all of them, including the children—and pat himself on the back for a job well done,” he said. “Then the court will send the kids to reformatories, where they’ll learn how to be compliant slaves exploited by their employers. I’ve seen this routine a hundred times.”

Watson cleared his throat.

“Actually,” he interjected, “there are also charitable orphanages.”

“Overcrowded ones?” Holmes retorted sharply, “Like poorhouses, where apprentices are taken without cost, crawling under machines to earn a meager scrap?”

Watson’s beard trembled as he sighed deeply, falling silent.

The room fell into a heavy silence.

After a while, Arna hesitantly asked, “Isn’t child labor illegal?”

In fact, she had a new idea.

As if hearing a starting pistol, Holmes suddenly lifted his gaze, leaning forward with keen interest as he studied Arna.

“Of course not!” he exclaimed. “The Factory Act only prohibits child labor under nine years of age—even then, only if they haven’t ‘demonstrated sufficient maturity.’”

He shook his head contemptuously, glancing at Watson. “The reality of enforcement versus the letter of the law, right?”

Watson remained noncommittal, exhaling slowly through his nose.

Holmes shifted gears, tapping the armrest with his fingertips as he turned back to Arna. “But you have a better option.”

He said slowly, “Apprenticeships. For children nine and older, providing an environment to learn a craft under strict supervision is quite honorable—”

The panel flickered with a message, a new popup appearing, but Arna didn’t look; she understood his next words.

“Also a good reason to offer a low price,” she said.

The solution to her current predicament, better than grabbing stolen goods, was to seize the more valuable labor in their hands.

And hiring apprentices is far cheaper than employing adults.

“Absolutely legal,” Holmes added.

“My goodness, Holmes,” Watson murmured, “You can’t teach him to exploit legal loopholes. This is… this is—”

He swallowed the reprimand he was about to give. “There must be a better way.”

“No. This is also a good excuse,” Holmes continued, “a pretext to sweep the thief gang clean. Stealing factory property—Watson, you know the law only comes into play when gentlemen claim their possessions are stolen.”

But his next words came swiftly, like a hound sniffing out a new scent. “But how do we ensure there isn’t a bigger monster lurking in the shadows, devouring those children whole?”

Arna froze.

Her game panel flickered, signaling a major plot point requiring careful dialogue choice.

She saved the game on a whim, then said seriously, “Then you two have every reason to worry.”

Her two roommate NPCs stared in surprise as she said earnestly, “I promise they’ll only get one meat meal every two days, have to expend enough energy after eating, spend four painful hours daily studying with books and teachers, and only then can they return to mindless mechanical work and sleep. Their souls will be drained utterly by labor.”

Holmes and Watson exchanged glances.

Seconds later, Holmes burst out laughing.

“Well then, it seems the last little problem is solved, Doctor,” he said cheerfully, leaping smoothly from his chair. “The new factory owner is a blind, soft-hearted country fool planning to hire some cheap apprentices.”

He spun on his heel and dramatically pointed into the distance. “Then this arrogant country fool leaves valuable things right in the factory, forgetting to guard against these little rascals. The most valuable thing hangs on your person, worth enough to send everyone abroad for a new life. At that moment, the gang leader arrives with his crew, ready to start their new life. The rest, Doctor, I believe you’re willing to help complete, right, Watson?”

“…Though I admit it’s a good plan,” Watson said weakly, “you can’t treat the children merely as pieces of evidence.”

“They’re coerced little witnesses,” Holmes winked. “And I think we can send our loyal little squad to spread some rumors.”

He snapped his fingers. “Now, everything’s ready—just lacking some valuable items. I suppose you can borrow something that looks precious to pass off as your ancestral treasure…”

Speaking of valuables, Arna suddenly perked up.

She first pulled out her golden sword, which had lost one durability point, from her storage, then went back to her room to retrieve her hammer, axe, and hoe, eagerly placing them on the table.

“These should look pretty valuable, right?” she asked.

Looking at the shiny golden farming tools, Holmes and Watson exchanged surprised looks.

Finally, Watson reluctantly spoke, “…These aren’t pure gold, are they?”

“No,” Arna said honestly.

“But it looks like the gold content is at least half,” Holmes picked up the golden hammer, examined it carefully, then deliberately glanced at Watson. “Hmm, roughly equivalent to Doctor Watson’s annual salary.”

The next moment, he earned a sharp glare from the good-natured doctor.