Chapter 54: White Flowers and Eighty Pairs of Coffins |
After that, the conversation went nowhere.
Director Young seemed to be hiding some uncomfortable secret and refused to say anything. The more I pressed him, the clearer it became that whatever secret he was concealing had absolutely nothing to do with what I wanted to know.
Much to his relief, I had no interest in the personal indiscretions he was hiding. Since there was no point in asking further, I politely concluded our conversation and left the director’s office.
How could such a spineless self-preservationist become the head of an institution?
I muttered complaints about London’s shameful state of affairs while gripping the handrail and slowly descending the stairs. The housekeeper stood in exactly the same spot as before. I glanced at her and asked.
“The detective?”
“Downstairs.”
The housekeeper answered without even looking in my direction. Upon closer inspection, the area she was sweeping hadn’t changed at all. Employer and employee perfectly matched in their indolence.
I made my way to the basement. A sharp, acrid smell of dust rose from the stairwell, making my nose itch.
The scene in the basement was especially dreadful. The orphanage’s underground space was filled with what looked like coffins.
No, looking more carefully, they were beds constructed in the shape of wooden coffins. Twenty in each row, eighty boxes in total, each with a thin blanket. Faint moans emerged sporadically from inside these coffins; it seemed only children too ill to work remained.
Wilson was crouched in a corner of this grim basement. He stood up and approached when he spotted me.
“Have you concluded your business?”
“Yes.”
He pulled out a cigarette case and offered it to me, but I politely declined with a wave of my hand.
“You don’t smoke?”
“My mouth feels stale enough without cigarettes. I didn’t know you were a smoker either.”
“Picked it up recently.”
Whether that statement was true or not, his posture holding the cigarette lacked natural confidence. He lit it with a match while clenching it between his lips.
“Truth is, I’m at a loss about what to do.”
“Because of me?”
“The Investigation Bureau instructed me not to contact you until they decide how to handle your case. As you know, we’re a police organization. We can’t simply collaborate with a former convict as if nothing happened. And you…”
Wilson’s voice trailed off.
“Committed murder.”
“That’s right.”
After I forced those words from him, Wilson sighed.
“You’re being misled. There’s no chance that cunning fellow is actually concerned about an old man like me. What a deplorable character, causing his subordinates needless worry.”
“Cunning… Are you referring to the Director?”
“Is there another cunning person around? Anyway, can’t you simply pretend not to know?”
“That’s difficult. Currently, within the Investigation Bureau, you are probably a far more significant figure than you realize.”
I expected Wilson to elaborate, but he ended his statement without further explanation.
“So our meeting today remains confidential.”
The distinctive bitter aroma of burning tobacco and paper wafted gently through the air.
“You’ve changed,” I remarked.
“Have I? If anything, you seem completely unchanged despite your prison stint.”
“That’s to be expected—I’m an old man who has lived his share of years.”
As I spoke, I finally understood why I hadn’t immediately recognized Wilson.
Put simply, his face had transformed.
In mere months, he had become an entirely different person. New wrinkles etched into his skin as if he’d weathered life’s storms alone, a widened forehead, and sagging flesh beneath his eyes had dramatically altered this young detective’s appearance.
“Did you know? Here in the East End, thirty people die every day, each for different reasons. I was ignorant of this until my assignment here. I’ve since learned how narrow and biased my worldview was, and how meaningless it all is. In the face of fading life, nothing holds value.”
Wilson poured out these words like a lament.
“Perhaps detective work doesn’t suit you.”
“Perhaps not. At any rate, matters have grown complicated.”
With that, he casually broached the main subject—something his former self would never have done.
“About the child thief.”
“Does such a person truly exist?”
I asked, my voice laden with skepticism.
“You’ve already guessed it. Indeed, among the public, these serial disappearances are portrayed as the work of some grotesque figure who stuffs children into envelopes, but the Investigation Bureau is pursuing different leads. From the outset, the territory was too vast to be the work of an individual or single organization. Each incident stands alone—it’s become a social phenomenon.”
“Tell me more.”
Wilson hesitated momentarily. In that brief pause, I assessed the value of this information. Like before, this was clearly sensitive intelligence circulating only within the Bureau’s inner circles.
“Never mind. I’m an outsider after all—if you can’t speak of it, so be it.”
“It would be simpler if I could collaborate with you on the investigation as before.”
When I deliberately displayed signs of being affronted, Wilson, after some deliberation, finally capitulated and began to speak.
“A healthy boy with blonde or black hair fetches 5 pounds, red-haired 4 pounds. Girls, regardless of hair color, are 4 pounds if healthy. These are the industry-standard purchase prices offered by American slave traders.”
I recalled my conversation with Director Young. This was the moment the 5 pounds he had pleaded innocence about revealed its true nature.
“Recently, American slave traders who had been operating in Ireland have finally extended their reach to mainland Britain. The Investigation Bureau apprehended one illegal slave trader and extracted various information by offering freedom in exchange. According to him, London orphans are the most convenient commodity. No one reports them missing, they consume less food during long voyages, and they’re compliant—easy to manage.”
“Bastards,” I involuntarily muttered.
Wilson immediately echoed my sentiment: “Yes. Absolute bastards.”
“Dear me, I’ve corrupted your pristine vocabulary. I’ll mind my language.”
Wilson didn’t laugh. The ash that had formed on his lips fell to the floor. The ember faded weakly against the cold stone beneath.
“I’m afraid,” Wilson confessed. “Look at this basement. How withered must the hearts be of children raised in such desolation? Will they ever understand love? One day they’ll enter factories, spending their lives dying slowly between presses and cogwheels. And what of children raised by parents who know nothing of love? What happens when they infiltrate our society? How horrific would a world ruled by such individuals be? Aren’t we fundamentally failing them?”
His voice, once barely audible, now trembled with emotion. This place nurtured life, yet served as a tomb where souls perished.
That explained why children slept atop coffins. When they ascended to the world above, like cicada larvae shedding their waste, these children entombed their humanity and departed.
“I almost wish the child thief were real—that we could simply shoot the monster and end this nightmare.”
“What’s preventing us?”
Wilson fixed his gaze on me.
“If werewolves exist, why not a monstrous kidnapper?”
Wilson and I shared a hollow laugh. Our laughter, too feeble to rise upward, echoed briefly in the basement before vanishing.
After parting with Wilson, I set out for home.
No pretext or reason remained to continue investigating. If Wilson spoke truly, the newsboy’s disappearance, though tragic, lay beyond my reach. I had no recourse but to trust the Investigation Bureau or military.
When I closed my eyes, I could vividly picture a boy crossing the Atlantic—his face gaunt and skeletal, confined to a sailing ship’s cargo hold, swaying like a leaf with each crashing wave.
I forced these thoughts from my mind. I truly possessed no talent for finding missing persons.
Glancing upward, I realized the sun was already setting.
London’s winter days are cruelly brief.
The city’s densely packed buildings cast long shadows with even the slightest westward tilt of the sun. By mid-afternoon, the entire city drowns in darkness.
I hastened my steps. After sunset, the East End metamorphoses into something altogether sinister. Certainly no place for an infirm elderly man such as myself.
As I limped along with determination, I halted abruptly.
“Help me, please!”
The cry emanated from within a narrow alley. In these streets, chaotically developed without planning, alleys twisted like spider webs. Though the voice sounded near, I couldn’t gauge its true distance.
“Aagh! Aagh!”
The pleas had transformed into screams. Without hesitation, I rushed into the alley. Fortunately, the voice wasn’t far. The passage contained a sharp right-angle turn, with the screams originating from beyond it.
On the wall, shadows stretched ominously. At a glance, I counted five or six silhouettes—a manageable number. If I could quickly incapacitate one or two with a preemptive strike, I could easily drive the rest away in such a confined space.
With this calculation in mind, I gripped my cane like a weapon and swiftly rounded the corner.
“Stop right there!”
I shouted deliberately to seize the initiative. My raised cane stood ready to strike, but upon reaching them, I found myself unable to advance. Instead, like countless fools who’d gazed upon Medusa, I froze before the eyes that watched me.
And how could I not? Who could maintain composure witnessing such a ghastly scene?
The shadows belonged to children. I had misjudged the elongated silhouettes cast by the setting sun.
Six children. With faces bearing an unsettling innocence, they had pinned a middle-aged man to the ground, taking turns stabbing him with glass shards. Blood spattered their grimy faces, and their small, delicate hands dripped crimson.
“What in God’s name…”
Seizing upon my bewilderment, they scattered like children caught in some mischievous prank. Watching their retreating forms, I hurried to the fallen man, who groaned incessantly, his fingers clawing desperately at the ground.
“Are you alright? Can you stand?”
Beads of cold sweat dotted his forehead, but contrary to appearances, his condition wasn’t critical.
His abdomen bore several stab wounds, but the makeshift weapons had been short, and the random nature of the attacks had spared his vital organs. His firm abdominal muscles had likely served as additional protection. The bleeding was minimal—not even requiring pressure to stanch it.
“You’ll survive this. Up now, quickly! London Hospital is just ahead—this is no place to collapse!”
I urged him as I helped him to his feet. The man’s immobility was purely psychological. I continued my verbal encouragement, giving him no opportunity to dwell on what had happened.
As he rose, I noticed a crude drawing on the ground where he had lain.
It was a white flower with five petals, sketched with what might have been stone or chalk. Overlapping with the horrific scene still imprinted on my retinas, it struck me as inexplicably sinister and foreboding.
I hastily departed with the man, as if fleeing some unseen threat.
London Hospital. A 150-year-old institution in Whitechapel.
Returning after half a year, I found it transformed into an unrecognizable ruin. Vagrants camped at its entrance, while the interior—which should have been sterile—lay equally buried in filth.
Once, patients had filled every floor; now the second and third stories were cordoned off, the stairs inaccessible. Even on the first floor, blood had not completely faded from walls and floor, its metallic scent still faintly permeating the air. The interior, reflecting the dim bulbs, was bathed in a soft pink glow, resembling the inside of some vast, living organism.
“Patient?”
A visibly exhausted nurse processed him brusquely. Not just her—every visible staff member appeared profoundly fatigued, their vacant expressions suggesting minds that had retreated from reality. One could scarcely distinguish caregiver from patient.
Yet they operated with an inexplicable bond. Though the nurse remained seated after registration, a doctor and another nurse appeared with a stretcher as if summoned telepathically, bearing the man away.
They moved as a single entity. Looking closely, their bodies seemed almost fused together. Their shoes and gowns, permanently stained crimson, touched the floor, making them appear as appendages of the hospital building itself. Where they passed, a blood-colored miasma lingered like pheromones.
I surveyed my surroundings.
Once crowded with patients from across London, now only scattered vagrants occupied the waiting area. Some patients appeared critically ill, though they were indistinguishable from common thugs.
I doubted whether any could afford treatment. Surely their destitution and the hospital’s deteriorated state were not unrelated phenomena.
This place labored under a curse.
The curse of Dr. Jekyll’s inhumane experiments had seeped into the very foundation of this hospital. During the werewolf incident, no place had suffered greater devastation.
Half the skilled medical staff had perished, unable to escape. Not one patient with connections to the patronage of higher society had survived. In retribution, the survivors found themselves rejected from every medical institution, eventually forced to return to this blood-soaked hospital.
I turned toward the wall.
Among several hanging frames, the least dust-covered contained a royal medal. The decoration itself was merely symbolic—its true significance lay in the funding it represented to resurrect the failing hospital.
Though the facility had barely survived through royal patronage, nobody wished to enter a hospital where patients had died en masse.
This was the wretched result.
The term “curse” was no hyperbole. The surviving medical staff remained eternally bound to this damned hospital. These pitiful earthbound spirits would spend their lives treating Whitechapel’s destitute who couldn’t pay a penny, their faces permanently etched with exhaustion.
I worried whether the man who had been taken into the operating theater would emerge intact.
Fortunately, my fears proved groundless.
The man who had been wheeled into surgery with a deathly pallor emerged with healthy color in his cheeks. Having acquired some surgical knowledge through certain unusual experiences in my past, I could see that the procedure had been performed admirably.
“Thank you, sir. I truly believed death awaited me.”
He expressed his gratitude the moment he appeared. Though his wounds weren’t fatal, the operation was certainly not trivial—he possessed remarkable constitution.
“You are my savior, sir.”
“I merely assisted someone in need. Have you means to settle the hospital bill?”
He blinked in momentary confusion, then comprehension dawned and he nodded with a smile.
“They won’t demand payment for that as well. I wish I could offer you some compensation, but…”
I shook my head as his voice trailed off.
“You hail from the American South, I presume? Whatever brings you to our shores, I doubt you carry substantial funds. Think nothing of it.”
“You have a discerning ear, sir.”
The man appeared impressed, though my deduction had been elementary.
His manner of speech unmistakably betrayed the refined drawl of Southern American gentry. It required no great leap to surmise he was merely visiting. After all, what Southern gentleman, enjoying all the comforts of his station, would permanently relocate to England?
“Mike Davis of Wilmington, at your service.”
“Philemon Herbert.”
I shook hands with Davis. He gripped firmly and pumped with enthusiasm—remarkable vigor for a man fresh from surgery. I subtly flexed my fingers afterward, a gentle correction of his overzealous manner.
“Tell me, what transpired? How did those children come to assault you?”
“I cannot say.”
Davis shook his head.
“I was merely walking when they fell upon me. It happened with such swiftness that I had no opportunity to defend myself. When my senses returned, my limbs were pinned by children as they dragged me into that alley…”
His voice faded. I needed no elaboration on what followed.
“They made no attempt to rob you?”
“The children uttered not a word to me.”
The situation defied conventional explanation.
Davis was a foreigner. It seemed improbable that he could have cultivated enemies and become the target of vengeful violence in so brief a time. Robbery seemed the most plausible motive, yet too many elements remained inexplicable.
His expression grew contemplative before suddenly brightening with recollection.
“Now that I consider it, while the children didn’t speak, they did sing.”
“Sing?”
“Yes, they chanted some sort of nursery rhyme in unison.”
Davis began to hum an awkward melody.
“Hmm… hmm… Tom… hmm… hmm… Jenny… There were lyrics, you understand, but they escape my recollection.”
He abandoned his attempt after less than two verses, offering an embarrassed smile. Yet even from that brief, clumsy rendition, I recognized the song immediately.
Naturally, I could hardly forget a melody I’d heard only hours before.
“Perhaps it went: ‘Poor Tom born in the morning’?”
“That’s it exactly. Is it a well-known English rhyme?”
I shook my head. Had it been common, I certainly would have encountered it before. I had heard this song for the first time merely hours ago, yet here it was again.
This struck me as far more than mere coincidence. As a precaution, I informed Davis about contacting the police and strongly advised him to avoid the East End henceforth, then took my leave of the hospital.
Something malevolent was stirring once more in London’s shadowy underbelly. By the time I perceived it, as always, the darkness had already risen to lap at my ankles.
That night, I extinguished my lamp and retired to bed.
Just as consciousness began to slip away, I was jolted awake. A soft singing drifted through my window—a child’s voice, lilting with an unnerving innocence as it carried the melody:
“Poor Tom born in the morning, Buried in the ground by evening. Poor Jenny born in the morning, Becomes an orphan by evening. Poor Tom, poor Jenny. If you ask where they’ve gone, Say the angels took them.”
The haunting melody, which I had expected would eventually cease, persisted relentlessly. The child repeated the same verses. Again. And again. And again.
Something was terribly amiss.
If someone were singing loudly enough to be heard on such a night, surely a resident or constable would have intervened. I pictured a solitary child, back to the Thames, singing in the desolate street.
It defied all rational explanation. I opened my eyes, believing I might still confirm what was happening.
As I turned toward the window, I saw it.
A child’s face pressed against the glass, mouth forming the words of the song as vacant eyes stared directly at me lying in my bed.
When our gazes met, the child darted away like one caught in mischief. I rose hastily and approached the window, where I discovered scratch marks around the locking mechanism—the unmistakable work of a hand saw.
The singing had been a clever ruse to mask the sound of the child attempting to breach my window.
That night, sleep eluded me entirely.
As it did the next night, and the night after. The child remained a constant presence outside my window.
Waiting, ever waiting, for me to surrender to slumber.