Chapter 55: The White Flower with Five Petals |
It might seem obvious, but my apartment is located not far from the Thames River.
On quiet nights, I could even hear the water flowing. It might actually be sewage I’m hearing, but that thought is so unpleasant that I’ve simply decided to believe it’s the river.
However, nights quiet enough to hear such sounds were rare.
The river, no matter how hideously transformed, still harbored life within it. Thus, all of London’s vermin claimed the Thames as their great mother. Her revolting offspring tormented us day and night with their unpleasant noises and putrid stench.
So, peaceful nights of falling asleep to the gentle sound of flowing water were impossible. Living near the Thames meant waging a constant battle against pests.
Allow me to introduce one of them.
Every night, they crawled out from the fetid sewage of the Thames and clustered on every lit window in sticky, writhing masses. Thames water dripped from their bodies, leaving slick traces wherever they touched, and the gastric juices they periodically regurgitated speckled the glass with foul residue.
One couldn’t dare leave windows open for fear of when these revolting hellspawn might invade. Whenever I happened to glance toward the window, I’d be greeted by their wrinkled compound eyes and twitching proboscises pressed grotesquely against the glass.
Far from enjoying the view, I considered myself lucky not to contract some disease. The most terrifying aspect was that one would inevitably encounter these creatures not just near the Thames, but anywhere in London.
By now, you must be curious about what this hideous creature might be—something that seems to have crawled out when God accidentally left the gates of hell ajar.
The pest was the moth fly.
Originally, they only bred and lived in particularly foul waters, and even then, were only visible during summer and late autumn. But when five million Londoners simultaneously poured industrial and household waste into the sewers, the Thames’ temperature rose, and the pests became visible year-round throughout London.
So, the pointillist paintings that appeared on windows each night were, in a sense, unpleasant self-portraits of London’s citizens. Though few may remember, London has been this paradise for pests for less than a hundred years.
In years when moth flies were particularly rampant, the London Fire Brigade would intervene by setting fires in the sewers, but even that didn’t reduce their numbers. People tried various measures, like smearing rancid oil on windows or placing candles on outer windowsills, but nothing helped.
I too had long suffered from these moth flies.
Being shut up indoors, I had developed a temperament that made it difficult to concentrate during daylight, so I tended to rely on the mysterious curtain of night created by Earth’s rotation.
My room often had lights burning until late, and on days when electricity failed, I would work by candlelight. So my hardships can be easily imagined.
Also, in the mornings, crows would peck at the sleeping moth flies stuck to my window, and the noise of bird beaks striking glass was enough to disturb my morning sleep.
I had thought moth flies would be the only pests to torment me from beyond the window for life, but recently another pest had begun lurking outside.
These moved when the lights went out—the opposite of moth flies. But they made more noise, and their harmfulness was incomparably worse.
The pest was children.
They would approach when I pretended to sleep and try to open the window, retreating with smiles when our eyes met. As if playing some twisted game. I tried to catch or chase them away through deception a few times, but the results were always disappointing.
As a result, I suffered from severe insomnia due to the paranoid delusion that I must not fall asleep. In just a few days, my health deteriorated rapidly, and stress-induced overeating damaged my stomach as well.
It was truly a strange situation.
They were clearly children, yet somehow I had begun to regard them as pests rather than people.
Just as one doesn’t distinguish between individual insects, these children lacked any meaningful characteristics to tell them apart. They mostly looked similar, came in great numbers, and when I chased one away, another would invariably appear.
Dawn finally brought liberation. They would vanish completely as if they had never existed—the one advantage they held over the moth flies that remained stuck to my windows in slumber.
But true to their pest-like nature, they too left their mark—graffiti that reappeared every night despite my repeated attempts to erase it.
Drawn on the floor was a white flower with five petals. It resembled the graffiti found at the site where that American was attacked, yet wasn’t quite identical.
Coincidence, or some kind of message?
What once might have seemed like innocent childish scrawling now felt deeply ominous. Of only one thing was I certain.
My life was under threat. From mere children, no less.
With matters having escalated to this point, I had to devise some countermeasure despite my exhausted state. Unfortunately, I knew few experts in such unusual predicaments.
“So that’s why you’ve sought me out?” Wilson asked.
“If I were exploring ancient ruins or hunting unknown beasts, I’d have numerous people to consult. But when it comes to having one’s life threatened by children not yet ten years of age, I found myself without a confidant.”
Wilson nodded gravely after hearing my account. His earnest character was something I genuinely appreciated at times like this.
“You might have come to me sooner.”
“You know perfectly well I’m not in a position to do that. If you don’t, then let me enlighten you—I am simply not in such a position.”
Scotland Yard, the nerve center of London law enforcement.
This imposing white building situated between 4 Whitehall and Great Scotland Yard was an exceedingly uncomfortable location for me. My criminal record certainly contributed to this unease, but its position was the primary concern.
Since medieval times, this street had served as the heart of London’s administration. Countless political adversaries of mine conducted official business here, and after discovering that enemies of the Frank Academy had deeply infiltrated the London government, the area felt even more treacherous.
Neither the London Metropolitan Police nor the Criminal Investigation Department to which Wilson belonged inspired any sense of security in me.
That’s why I had summoned Wilson outside the building, and we now stood whispering with our backs pressed against a wall in an alley beyond prying eyes.
“What I’ve explained to you isn’t a citizen requesting public service. It’s more akin to a personal favor asked of an acquaintance. Can you possibly help?”
In truth, I harbored few expectations. Given Wilson’s rigid character and our friendship not being profound enough to warrant risking danger.
“I’ll help as much as I can,” he replied without hesitation.
Surprised, I questioned him again. “Are you certain? This could prove dangerous.”
“In the past half year of detective work, there’s one thing I’ve relinquished.”
“And what might that be?”
“Dying of natural causes.”
I was rendered speechless by the young detective’s bold declaration.
“By giving that up, I found I could gain so much more.”
“It seems to me you’ve rather miscalculated the exchange. Perhaps reconsider later. But as I’m not in a position to refuse kindness, I gratefully accept your assistance.”
Whatever his reasons, his ready willingness to help was truly a blessing.
“May I ask you one question?” Wilson inquired.
“At this moment, I’ll answer anything except my safe combination,” I replied.
I paused briefly before adding with a hint of self-deprecation, “Not that I actually possess a safe at home.”
“I see. But tell me, why seek me out? As a former military man, surely you’re acquainted with people far better suited to rough work than myself?”
I had intended it as a jest, but Wilson responded with such clinical dryness that it bordered on awkward, then pressed his question.
“The reason is precisely because I’m a ‘former’ military man. Far from keeping company with able-bodied young men, I haven’t contacted even those old soldiers I might call comrades in years. Besides, they’re all colonels and captains now—hardly of an age to be chasing after ten-year-old miscreants.”
Scott might have been helpful, but I doubted someone of his prominence would eagerly involve himself in such peculiar matters.
“What about your family? I hadn’t intended to investigate, but your brother’s reputation precedes him. I’ve heard that your eldest brother, Baron Basil Herbert, has returned to England. Wouldn’t he be more proficient at handling this sort of situation than myself?”
“We’re not close enough for me to request such favors.”
Hearing a name I never expected from Wilson’s lips, I instinctively frowned and dismissed the suggestion with perhaps more sharpness than intended.
Of course, my eldest brother wouldn’t be entirely useless in such a situation, but when weighing the options between soliciting his help versus simply meeting my demise, death seemed the more appealing alternative.
“I understand,” Wilson replied.
Wilson calmly accepted my answer. Yet somehow, the entire exchange felt strangely artificial to me.
These questions seemed utterly uncharacteristic coming from him. This was the same man who had leaped into Jacob’s Island on the brink of collapse without a single question. Why would he suddenly concern himself with such trivial matters as my personal relationships?
“Very well. Then it seems I am your only recourse. I cannot assist during daytime hours due to my duties, but I shall aid you beginning this evening.”
Still unable to resolve my nagging doubts, I slowly nodded. Then suddenly, my eyes caught sight of something—a drawing etched on the floor in a shadowy corner, and my attention immediately shifted.
Except for being in a spot one wouldn’t ordinarily glance at, it was remarkably conspicuous. Its form differed slightly from those I’d encountered before, but if forced to describe it, I would say it was unmistakably:
A white flower with five petals.
“What troubles you?” Wilson asked, noticing my sudden distraction.
“That graffiti—how long has it been there?”
Wilson turned to examine the floor.
“I couldn’t say. Who would have the audacity to deface a place like this…”
He narrowed his eyes in evident displeasure at the brazen vandalism in front of a police building. A possibility immediately formed in my mind, and I shared it with Wilson without hesitation.
“Your jurisdiction covers the East End, correct?”
“To be precise, it’s West Ham—the northern part of the Thames in the East End.”
“That will suffice. If you happen to patrol today, kindly look for more of these drawings.”
“You mean night patrol? I’m afraid I cannot assist you this evening then.”
“Consider the search for these markings as your assistance.”
As I concluded, Wilson fell silent, his expression turning contemplative. After a moment, he asked:
“There’s something you’re withholding from me. Is there a connection between these children and this graffiti?”
“You seem remarkably accustomed to such peculiar cases. Imagining that mere scribbles could be connected to an unprecedented attempted murder.”
He offered a knowing half-smile.
“It’s merely speculation, but I’ve been considering that what’s happening to me might be nothing more than the prelude to some greater calamity. And this graffiti might serve as the thread connecting several seemingly disparate incidents.”
—Ding dong deng dong…
The resonant chimes of Big Ben striking four o’clock carried from barely 200 meters away. We both turned our gaze toward the clock tower, then simultaneously turned back to face one another, as if by silent agreement.
“Do exercise caution. There’s an unsettling undercurrent flowing through the East End lately.”
“You take care as well.”
I parted ways with him and headed straight home.
On my journey back, I counted the children on the streets—their numbers seemed drastically fewer than usual.
By the time I reached my apartment, the sunset had impaled itself like a crimson skewer upon the spire of St. Martin Ludgate.
“You’ve returned early today, sir.”
I handed my coat and hat to Marie, who had come to greet me at the entrance. Then I moved slowly inside with her support.
“I’ll be departing as soon as dawn breaks tomorrow, so make the necessary preparations.”
“You’ve been remarkably diligent of late.”
Her tone carried a hint of impertinence.
As if to suggest I hadn’t been diligent before. I briefly contemplated voicing my displeasure, but being of good nature, I refrained and instead inquired about more pressing matters.
“Has anything occurred during my absence?”
“I cleaned your room, sir.”
“No, not that. Has anyone come inquiring after me, or has anything notably unusual transpired?”
Marie stared ahead momentarily as if gathering her thoughts, then turned to me and replied.
“No, sir. Nothing whatsoever.”
“Very well then.”
“Something has happened again, hasn’t it?”
“Yes, perhaps…”
—CRASH!
I couldn’t complete my thought. The violent sound of shattering glass and the rushing whisper of air as indoor and outdoor atmospheres collided sliced between us.
The source was unmistakable. Still supported by Marie, I hastened toward my room.
—THUMP!
As I flung the door open and burst inside, a small shadow started in fright and scrambled desperately toward the window. The figure attempted to leap through the broken opening but became entangled in something and struggled, emitting strangled whimpers.
“Stop right there!”
I hurled my cane with surprising force, striking the intruder squarely across the body.
“Agh!”
A voice—childish and cracking without having reached puberty—cried out in pain. Simultaneously, the caught pocket tore with a sharp ripping sound, and the child’s small form tumbled headlong out the window.
I reached the windowsill moments too late; the child was already fleeing down the street, a diminishing silhouette against the darkening cobblestones, rendering pursuit futile.
“The little devil!” I snarled, scanning the disarray of my chamber.
Scattered glass fragments glittered across the floor alongside a solitary brick—the crude instrument of entry. How the window had been breached was painfully obvious to anyone with even a modicum of intellect.
As I stooped to retrieve my cane from beneath the window, something caught my eye—a silver pocket watch glinting among the debris. It must have fallen when the child’s pocket tore during the hasty escape.
The timepiece, though somewhat crudely crafted, was undeniably valuable—certainly not an item one would expect to find in the possession of such a raggedly dressed urchin. Turning it over, I found a name engraved on its back: “Willie N. Jones.”
“This cannot possibly be the child’s own property. Stolen goods, I presume?” I muttered.
At these words, Marie visibly startled and stepped backward, her eyes widening.
“It wasn’t me, sir!” she blurted out.
“Of course not!” I snapped. “Cease such foolish utterances and dispose of this.”
Pursuing this line of conversation would benefit neither of us. I picked up the brick from the floor and thrust it toward her, deliberately changing the subject.
While Marie went to fetch a broom to clean up the glass shards, I paced the room contemplatively, a troubling question forming in my mind.
Had I not concluded that these children were intent on taking my life?
If so, the intruder who had just fled seemed more akin to a common burglar than an assassin. Even the awkward manner of escape lacked the unnerving, inhuman purity the other children had consistently displayed.
I moved to the exact spot where the child had stood. Then, with deliberate slowness, I turned to face the direction the intruder had been looking when I burst into the room.
What could they possibly have been searching for?
As I methodically scanned the area, my gaze suddenly fixed upon something that made my blood run cold. A small, worn chest sat against the wall—unremarkable but for one detail.
The lock remained intact, but there were unmistakable signs that someone had attempted to force it open—fresh scratches marring its ancient surface.
Could the child somehow have known what lay within?
If so, the entire situation had just become immeasurably more complex. I found myself utterly at a loss as to how to interpret these new circumstances.
And with good reason—for contained within that humble chest was none other than the dreaded grimoire known as “The Gospel of Blackriver.”