Chapter 53: The Lost 7 Shillings |
East End of London. Or simply, the East End.
People had called it that for as long as anyone could remember. Though no clear boundary existed, just as migratory birds instinctively distinguish north from south, Londoners knew by instinct that where the sunlight grew dim, there lay the East End.
Every Londoner harbored prejudiced images of the East End.
Streets littered with mingled human and horse excrement. Gaunt orphans with hollow, mournful eyes. Unemployed young men lurking at every corner. The skunk-like stench of cheap perfume sprayed by prostitutes. Skies blackened by smoke billowing from factory chimneys. Small boats with shattered keels abandoned by the riverbank, now shrouded in moss. Rats that fearlessly carried fleas from person to person. Sewers that overflowed with foul water when it rained. Weeds that bloomed only to wither immediately, adding dreary browns to the already bleak streets. The distinctive sweet yet acrid scent of opium.
All of these things.
Remarkably, this place lived up to every expectation. The East End was indeed a wonderland—one where all their imagined filth and nauseating fantasies had concentrated into reality.
But it hadn’t always been this way.
Although now buried underground, the glorious Roman city of Londinium once spread outward from this very spot. And that wasn’t all—until medieval times, this area had been London’s thriving center. The Tower of London, now surrounded only by grim rumors, had once served as a royal bedchamber.
That such a historic eastern edge of London should decline over time was simply the natural order of things.
Eventually, the East End embraced all of London’s original sins and gloriously martyred itself. Just as the Lord Jesus Christ was anointed with oils and perfumes, the East End received its burial shroud of manure and sewage.
The only difference was the smell.
With that crucial distinction, one attained eternal life, while the other was abandoned to contempt and humiliation.
This vast wasteland in London’s east had bound itself to me through deep, malevolent connections.
Jacob’s Island—once notorious as London’s foulest cesspool, though now submerged beneath the Thames.
Whitechapel—the world’s largest red-light district where all of London’s prostitutes congregated, and beasts lurked in every alley.
This was the stage for two events that had shaken my very existence.
Thus, every monstrosity of London recognizable by name alone resided here. And I, like a rat unable to abandon its sewer, had returned to these putrid streets.
Fenchurch Street in the East End was eerily quiet.
It wasn’t entirely devoid of pedestrians, but compared to the bustling noon crowds of central London, it might as well have been deserted. This was a street that came alive at night rather than during daylight hours.
Yet signs of human presence lurked everywhere. Between buildings ran narrow passages barely wide enough for a single person, and in every alley clustered several beggars of indeterminate occupation.
They chattered enthusiastically about something, but their native dialect was so thick and riddled with vulgarities and slang that I couldn’t comprehend a word.
I felt as though I’d entered a foreign country where language offered no connection. Though I could converse perfectly well in France some 300 kilometers away, here, just one kilometer from home, I was rendered both mute and deaf.
This was certainly not a place to linger. As I hurried along, I suddenly halted.
I hadn’t reached my destination. A child had appeared before me, blocking my path, looking up with frightened eyes. He seemed to have some business with me.
“What’s the matter?”
The child did not answer.
Meanwhile, I sensed several presences creeping up behind me and immediately grasped the situation. I tightened my grip on my walking stick and thrust it backward in a reverse jab.
“Ugh!”
“Begone if you don’t wish to taste my cane!”
A child struck by the end of my stick stumbled backward. Despite my warning, the children continued reaching for my coat.
Being mere children, they stood no chance against me. I swatted away each approaching hand with precise taps of my cane.
“Ow!”
“You little devils! Disappear this instant unless you fancy a proper thrashing!”
Only then, seeming to realize I wasn’t some feeble old man to be trifled with, the children exchanged wary glances and slunk away. I turned around with a contemptuous snort.
The bewildered child who had first appeared before me still stood there, frozen with fear. A truly inept little thief. He could have fled ahead and rejoined his companions later.
He was clearly unaccustomed to this line of work.
“P-please forgive me, sir…”
“Did you not hear me say begone? At once!”
When I struck the ground with my cane and snarled, the child finally scurried past me to chase after his wretched companions.
“The end of days, truly the end of days.”
These gangs comprised entirely of child robbers had become a common sight in London. I quickened my pace, utterly disgusted by such a reality.
“Poor Tom born in the morning, buried in the ground by evening~”
As I walked examining building nameplates, my attention was drawn to singing coming from somewhere nearby. Strange as it was, the sound genuinely emanated from this very street.
It was a child’s voice, yet it lacked the reverence of a hymn—instead, it carried the haunting cadence of a macabre nursery rhyme.
“Poor Jenny born in the morning, becomes an orphan by evening~”
The singing grew louder as I continued forward.
I had no intention of following it, yet somehow the voice seemed to serve as a signpost indicating my destination. Perplexed by this coincidence, I turned into the alley from which the singing emanated.
“Poor Tom, poor Jenny, if you ask where they’ve gone,”
Standing there was a single, disheveled boy. Upon seeing me, he clamped his mouth shut and feigned ignorance, though there was clearly no other child nearby who could have been singing.
There was something profoundly unsettling about the boy.
Unlike an ordinary child, he appeared as someone fundamentally lacking something essential. Whatever he had lost, I could scarcely imagine him merrily singing nursery rhymes.
For reasons I couldn’t explain, I found myself troubled by him and inadvertently asked an unnecessary question.
“Boy, might you know the whereabouts of the Fenchurch Boys’ Home?”
Without uttering a sound, the boy simply extended his finger to point directly ahead. I read the nameplate on the building straight before us.
“Fenchurch Boys’ Home”
I had asked like a blind man standing directly before his destination.
“My thanks.”
Striving to conceal my embarrassment, I affected urgency and hastened toward the building.
It was a building shrouded in such malevolence that “orphanage” seemed a cruelly inappropriate designation.
Every window had been meticulously boarded up, and the narrow yard, enclosed by sharp iron railings, appeared perfectly designed for injury. The courtyard lay sodden where accumulated snow had been left uncleared, with decaying leaf fragments embedded in the mud. Clearly, not a single sweeping had occurred since at least the previous autumn.
I pushed open the door, its surface layered with the filthy residue of countless hands, and stepped inside.
“They’ll say the angels took them away~”
The final verse of the child’s song echoed behind me, fading into silence.
───Thunk.
Inside reigned an oppressive stillness.
It was a quietness utterly inconceivable for a dwelling of dozens of children. More unsettling still, a peculiar tension pervaded the interior—a solemn atmosphere reminiscent of a cathedral or workhouse.
“Who are you?”
A housekeeper greeted me. She had been listlessly scraping the floor with the end of her broom, but upon noticing me, fixed me with a wary stare.
“I’m looking for a child.”
“You’ve come to rescue a child?”
A misunderstanding arose.
“No, I merely wish to speak with one of the children residing here.”
At this, the housekeeper’s eyes rolled in a calculating, self-preserving manner.
“Has some child caused trouble?”
“I’m uncertain how many more times I must repeat myself, but I have simply come to find a child. A boy who sells newspapers—might you know of him?”
After my repeated denials, she finally appeared convinced I posed no danger and relaxed somewhat. Her unusual level of tension had struck me as a harbinger of something ominous.
“He stands about this tall, and his hair is…”
I began describing the boy’s features from memory, but found myself interrupted.
“I know nothing of the children. Ask the old master.”
The woman who cut me off tilted her broomhandle toward the staircase. It was remarkable, truly. The moment she determined I presented no threat, she immediately extinguished all interest in my presence.
Her drooping eyes harbored the hard-earned wisdom of surviving in this world.
Indifference! Why had I not recognized its value sooner!
Making an effort to conceal my displeasure, I tipped my hat and offered a courteous, “Thank you.” She received my pleasantry with equal disinterest. Sensing keenly the shifting social order, I proceeded with leaden steps up the staircase.
At the top stood a door that appeared surprisingly well-maintained compared to its surroundings.
As I approached, the sounds of two men quarreling reached my ears from within. Though knowing better, I found myself instinctively leaning closer to eavesdrop.
“…Why should I comply with such demands?”
A voice thickened with phlegm.
“…Five pounds per head, do you comprehend what that means?”
A younger voice.
“…If anything, I am the victim here! I’ve been robbed!”
The phlegmy voice resumed.
They continued their conversation, entirely oblivious to my presence. Even from the fragments I caught, it was clearly an unsavory discussion concerning financial matters, leaving me hesitant about the propriety of interrupting.
Yet, unable to wait indefinitely for their exchange to conclude, I finally rapped upon the door.
───Knock knock.
The voices ceased abruptly. A palpable tension stretched across the thin barrier between us.
“I shall return another time.”
“No matter how frequently you call, my answer remains unchanged.”
The younger voice approached the threshold. With a series of creaks, the handle turned from within and the door swung open.
“Professor Herbert?”
The young man revealed in the doorway inquired with unmistakable surprise. He appeared to recognize me perfectly, though I struggled to place him.
During my moment of hesitation, he spoke with evident discomfort, his countenance a troubled amalgam of conflicting emotions.
“Congratulations on your release from prison.”
“I rather think that’s not a matter for such open congratulation… nevertheless, I thank you.”
At this stilted greeting, recognition finally dawned on me. I responded with an equally strained civility.
“How you’ve matured since our last encounter, Detective Wilson.”
At this trite pleasantry, scarcely deserving of response, Wilson merely offered a rueful smile.
Peter Wilson.
The once-righteous constable who had not hesitated to plunge into the perilous Jacob’s Island armed with nothing but moral conviction now wore an expression of practiced smoothness.
“I shall take my leave downstairs.”
“Yes, I’ll join you shortly.”
I had intended to suggest precisely that, but Wilson, ever perceptive, preempted me.
He passed by without so much as grazing my coat and descended the staircase. I observed his retreating figure momentarily before closing the door and fully entering the chamber.
Within the spacious office sat a solitary elderly gentleman.
“Have you also come regarding the disappearances?”
He appeared perhaps a decade my senior, though his deliberately pitiful expression aged him by another ten years. I immediately discerned his theatrical performance.
“I’ve already divulged everything to the others. I truly know nothing.”
“What disappearances do you speak of?”
“You’re unaware? You haven’t come about the missing children?”
I nodded slowly.
“I sincerely hope not.”
At my response, the old man’s weary façade dissolved, and he straightened his previously hunched shoulders. With newfound posture, he regarded me through narrowed eyes as one might regard an unwelcome intruder.
“Then what business brings you here? I am exceedingly busy.”
At the old man’s suddenly imperious tone, I clicked my tongue in disdain. Master and servant alike in this establishment possessed quite remarkable impudence.
“You are the orphanage’s superintendent, Director Young, I presume?”
“Correct. To be more precise, I am indeed the administrator, but not the person ultimately responsible. To understand the distinction would require comprehension of the orphanage’s operational structure, which is exceedingly complicated to explain.”
Young concluded with finality. His demeanor made it abundantly clear he felt no obligation to elaborate further.
“That will suffice. I seek a particular child.”
“Has one of our orphans committed some offense?”
True to my initial impression, this Young fellow seemed determined to evade accountability for any earthly matter. He appeared poised to deliver a child directly to the magistrate should I merely request it.
“I am simply looking for him. The boy previously mentioned he resided here.”
“Do you know his name?”
“I do not.”
“Then finding him is impossible. Have you any conception of how many children dwell in this establishment?”
“I can describe his appearance. He stands approximately this tall, with golden blonde hair. He invariably wore a navy flat cap…”
Young regarded me with vacant incomprehension.
With dismay, I realized a startling truth. While I had believed myself well-acquainted with the boy, the description I offered would hardly distinguish him from countless others. Had I ventured into the street and seized any random child, my description would scarcely be more specific.
“He recently lost his front tooth.”
“That detail hardly narrows our search. Can you provide any other information?”
“He worked selling newspapers. Whether this employment was arranged through your establishment, I cannot say.”
At this, Young rose from his seat, retrieved a substantial ledger from the bookcase, and deposited it upon his desk. Adjusting his spectacles, he moistened his fingertip with his tongue and began turning the pages.
It was a registry of the facility’s children. As he perused the document, Young inquired:
“I wonder—why precisely are you searching for this child?”
“The lad who routinely sold me newspapers has vanished. I merely find myself concerned.”
He blinked as though I had uttered something utterly incomprehensible.
“That constitutes your entire motivation?”
“Indeed.”
“Most… peculiar of you.”
I found no grounds upon which to dispute his assessment.
“Here we are—newspaper vendors.”
Young indicated several names with his forefinger. The registry contained names alongside brief personal particulars, and curiously, the newspaper sellers were grouped in sequence.
“We assign occupations alphabetically. Thus, all newspaper vendors appear on this particular page.”
He answered a question I had never posed. As his dry finger skimmed across the entries, he muttered:
“Not this one, nor this one either…”
“What do you mean by ‘not’?”
Young indicated the small ‘X’ marks inscribed beside numerous names.
“These children are no longer present at our orphanage.”
“Have they been discharged?”
He shook his head somberly.
“They were taken by child thieves. All seven newspaper sellers—gone.”
For the first time since I had entered the room, the old man’s veneer cracked to reveal a glimpse of genuine emotion.
“The detective who just departed has accused me of selling these children to American slave traders—preposterous! Why would I ever engage in such a practice?”
What I witnessed was not grief, but indignation at the accusation.
“Each child receives a weekly allowance of 5 shillings from the parish, and when dispatched to work, they dutifully return with 2 shillings per week. By merely maintaining them for four months, each child generates 5 pounds of profit. So I ask you—what earthly reason would I have to sell them? You appear acquainted with the detective; I implore you to make him see reason.”
Thus he pled his case, outrage born not from concern for the children’s welfare, but from the arithmetic of his interrupted revenue.