Chapter 56: The 2 Pound Boy |
After that day, the children’s behavior grew increasingly bold.
Unlike before, they no longer entered houses, but most notably, they’d abandoned any pretense of hiding. When our eyes happened to meet, they didn’t avert their gaze but stared back with hollow, unflinching expressions.
I nursed a conviction that teetered on the edge of madness.
I became convinced that the children had excavated some vast warren beneath London, where they slumbered during daylight hours, only to emerge at nightfall and spread throughout the city like vermin crawling from the sewers.
This theory felt disturbingly plausible.
The children, once appearing only in ones or twos, had multiplied alarmingly in mere days. Now they roamed in packs of three or five as a matter of course. They not only orbited my vicinity but prowled every street in London.
As the situation evolved, they transformed into a genuine threat. I doubted my ability to defend myself should they decide to attack in earnest.
This transformation brought not merely threat but profound revulsion.
To me, the children increasingly resembled something inhuman. Their spindly limbs swaying in darkness evoked the appendages of insects, while their emotionless pupils resembled the fractured segments of compound eyes. I hesitated to claim I’d made eye contact with them. After all, one doesn’t make eye contact with flies.
This characterization contained no hyperbole. The children’s behavior grew increasingly repellent, making the term “insect” entirely fitting.
Each morning when I opened my door, I struggled to breathe through the stench of dried excrement smeared across it. Dead rats or crows dangled from my windowsill, maggots writhing through their flesh and dripping onto the sill below.
Their actions had long surpassed childish mischief, their malice rendering any excuse of innocence utterly meaningless.
And that wasn’t the end of it.
The graffiti, once confined to a corner of the floor, spread with the relentless persistence of a malignancy. Its vitality was truly remarkable; no matter how often I removed it, it would reappear in the same location, spreading more extensively than before.
Eventually, I surrendered the effort and ceded the entire exterior wall of the building to this creeping defacement.
While I could tolerate the graffiti, I couldn’t abandon the filth, so initially I paid rat-catchers or newspaper boys a pittance to clean it. But from a certain day onward, no children passed by my residence, making this impossible, and I ultimately resigned myself to neglect.
Over time, the first floor of my apartment building grew filthier with each passing night, deteriorating into a desolation reminiscent of a haunted house unfit for human habitation.
I found myself without means to resist.
The daylight hours belonged to adults, but nighttime London had become irrefutably the children’s domain. I couldn’t predict what retribution might follow should I violate their unspoken laws.
As the threat crystallized, I was forced to devise countermeasures.
My first action was to evacuate Marie to Frank Mansion. She stubbornly refused at first, but my resolve was so evident that she eventually yielded.
She too recognized the peril of our circumstances and had little choice but to follow my judgment. I entrusted her with a handwritten letter and four books—my correspondence to Arthur, along with the originals and English translations of both The Gospel of Blackriver and Marie Curie’s notes. She—
That same day, I took handwritten copies of the two blasphemous documents and visited the bank where my second oldest brother worked. Through his assistance, I secured them in the deepest vault of that austere institution, only then feeling some measure of relief.
With this, I addressed the most pressing concerns.
I remained ignorant of how these arcane grimoires had come to the children’s attention, but they were certainly objects beyond their capacity to handle. At the very least, I had averted the worst-case scenario of having these texts fall into their possession.
Afterward, I endeavored to overcome the escalating situation.
First, I began dividing my life strictly between day and night. During daylight hours, I traversed the city attempting to understand our predicament, while at night, I stood guard against intruders.
This sleepless existence gradually eroded both body and mind, leaving me increasingly haggard. Surprisingly, it was Wilson who came to my aid. Upon learning of my circumstances, he volunteered to guard the house for several nights running.
Thanks to him, I managed to enjoy brief periods of deep, restorative sleep.
Nevertheless, despite my exertions over the past few days, the situation showed little improvement.
The nightly threat to my life from hordes of children defied all rational solutions. Meanwhile, my sole clue remained a pocket watch inscribed with the name “Willie N. Jones.”
Each day I scoured the city searching for someone bearing this name, but I possessed absolutely no talent for tracking people. Despite having a distinct name and spending days in pursuit, I made no meaningful progress.
Then, amid this impasse, the situation improved from an entirely unexpected quarter.
“Professor, I’ve found someone named Willie N. Jones.”
“What are you doing here?”
I blurted out stupidly.
“You were looking for Willie N. Jones, weren’t you? Am I right?”
“No, I mean—why on earth are you here?”
Unable to comprehend the situation, and half-wondering if I’d lost my wits, I rephrased my question more deliberately.
“People like me tend to materialize wherever we’re needed.”
That single sentence plunged me into utter bewilderment.
There were so many aspects of this statement demanding correction that I found myself at a loss for where to begin. And thus, Alice Plezense Riddle abruptly inserted herself into our narrative—an utterly unforeseen element.
“Sir, who has arrived?”
As our conversation extended, Wilson emerged into the entrance hall.
Evidently not expecting another person to appear from within the house, Alice’s face registered surprise before she awkwardly retreated behind the half-open door.
It was a remarkably juvenile display of timidity.
“Is this gentleman also from the academic conference? Have I arrived at an inopportune moment?”
Though Wilson was plainly watching, Alice deliberately whispered in a voice calibrated for my ears alone. Such behavior could hardly be considered courteous with another person standing right before us.
“It’s rather complicated to explain. I’m not entirely certain I should divulge those details to you. Allow me to make introductions—this is Peter Wilson, a detective with the Criminal Investigation Bureau. He’s currently providing personal protection at my request.”
“Wow.”
At my introduction, Alice emitted what I can only describe as the most vapid exclamation I’ve ever encountered.
“Wilson, this young lady… is Alice Plezense Riddle, a student under my tutelage at the university.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Wilson greeted her with a manner neither excessively formal nor discourteous. Alice, fidgeting awkwardly, eventually mumbled a barely audible “Nice to meet you” in subdued tones.
I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment at my student’s unseemly behavior. As if somehow perceiving my discomfort, Alice turned to me and asked in an animated tone:
“It makes perfect sense that a professor like yourself would be acquainted with a detective. But requiring personal protection? It seems you’ve embroiled yourself in yet another conspiracy!”
Another? Her phrasing suggested I actively sought out trouble. I am, in truth, entirely the victim in these affairs. I responded with undisguised indignation:
“Whether I divulge the details will depend entirely on your explanation. If my arithmetic serves me, this marks the third time I’m asking: Miss Riddle, how precisely did you discover my search for Willie N. Jones, and what compels you to appear at my doorstep at this ungodly hour?”
At my inquiry, Alice finally seemed prepared to answer, emitting a vacant “Ah” with an expression of mild embarrassment.
As I attempted to decipher her meaning, she announced without preamble:
“I’ve been following you, Professor. That’s how I discerned you were conducting an investigation. Willie N. Jones and the graffiti depicting white flowers—I’m correct, aren’t I?”
“Good heavens!”
It was the most dreadful response conceivable. I sighed profoundly, pressing my palm against my forehead.
“But since I’ve located this individual for you, surely that’s fortuitous in the final analysis?”
Alice studied my countenance with visible apprehension.
“Absolutely not!”
I declared unequivocally. Then, exhaling wearily, I flung the front door wide open.
“You’d better come inside.”
Suddenly bereft of her improvised barrier, Alice employed my person as a makeshift screen to conceal herself from Wilson. Not that an eighteen-year-old maiden could hope to completely obscure herself behind me.
Having previously conducted an interview with Lord Henry Riddle, I regarded her juvenile antics with distinct disapproval.
Nevertheless, we proceeded into the reception room and seated ourselves in this awkward configuration. Once seated, Alice transformed into a model of decorum. She uttered not a syllable and remained perfectly still, adopting the composed demeanor of a well-bred lady.
The reason, needless to say, was Wilson’s presence.
Seizing upon her momentary docility, I issued a solemn admonition:
“Since you’ve taken the liberty of investigating me and have evidently discerned something of our predicament, I’ll neither conceal nor falsify matters. I—and perhaps London itself—may well be in peril. Once you’ve heard the explanation, you’ll find it impossible to regard this as someone else’s concern. My candid counsel would be to feign ignorance, return home, and maintain your ordinary existence.”
With each extension of my warning, her emerald eyes gleamed with increasing brilliance, like sunlight dancing across a verdant lake. I promptly abandoned any hope of dissuading her.
Through years of association with Arthur, I had grown remarkably accustomed to the futility of persuasion.
“It’s quite all right, Professor. Please tell me everything.”
Wilson turned to me, his gaze fraught with misgiving.
His expression plainly conveyed concern about revealing the disturbing truth to this seemingly ordinary young woman. Yet it was manifestly clear that even should I maintain silence, she would proceed independently into even greater peril.
In this respect, Alice bore a striking resemblance to myself.
“If you insist.”
I provided a concise account of my recent experiences.
The children who materialized nightly, the break-in of several days prior, the dropped silver timepiece, and the white floral graffiti adorning various locations throughout London.
“How peculiar,” Alice whispered after absorbing the narrative, her voice calibrated for my ears alone.
“What aspect strikes you as peculiar?”
“I cannot fathom why the detective is assisting you.”
I blinked in surprise.
“Consider it logically. Nothing in your account provides sufficient motivation for a detective to aid you while concealing his actions from his police colleagues. Regardless of personal acquaintance, isn’t it rather extraordinary that he would hazard danger and sacrifice sleep merely to stand sentinel for you?”
Alice continued her whispered observations. Her direct manner of speech, distinctly reminiscent of her father, probed unerringly into matters I myself had silently questioned.
“Yet the same peculiarity applies equally to you, does it not?”
At my retort, Alice fell silent. Her wordlessness conveyed more than any verbal response could have.
Both Alice and Wilson were extending me courtesies far beyond the ordinary. Whatever motives propelled their generosity, I preferred to set such questions aside until I had resolved our immediate crisis.
“Now for your part of the bargain. Who precisely is this Willie N. Jones?”
She lifted her chin with unmistakable pride and began:
“This Willie N. Jones character appears to operate a house of ill repute.”
“Indeed, this is unmistakably my timepiece.”
Willie N. Jones turned the silver watch over in his pudgy hands, his face alight with pleasure.
“That ungrateful little wretch dares lay his thieving fingers on his master’s property after all my benevolence? Sir, I implore you—should you locate the boy, inform me without delay. I shall compensate you most generously.”
He spoke through clenched teeth, barely containing his rage.
“What do you intend should you find him?”
“I shall sever his hands as an exemplary lesson regarding his deplorable tendency toward larceny.”
I scrutinized his countenance for any indication of macabre humor, but he appeared entirely earnest. Perhaps, I reflected with unease, he had enacted similar punishments previously.
“I suppose I ought to offer recompense for recovering my watch.”
Jones surveyed me with the calculating expression peculiar to misers. I hastened to provide the answer he so transparently desired.
“That won’t be necessary. Instead, might I trouble you for some information?”
“Information? Splendid! If mere conversation will suffice as payment, what secrets could I possibly withhold?”
As anticipated, his demeanor brightened instantly.
“I’m curious about the child who purloined this watch.”
“Tommy, you mean?”
“His name is Tommy?”
“I presume so. Tommy, Jack—what significance has a guttersnipe’s name?”
Jones dismissed the matter with a wave of his hand, as if discussing some trivial inconvenience.
“He’s an orphan I acquired from the countryside for two pounds, intending to employ him for menial tasks. I believed I’d secured a bargain, but it transpired I was most thoroughly deceived.”
“Deceived?”
“When one parts with two pounds for a child incapable of the simplest labor, what else would you call it but deception? Physically frail, mentally deficient—a worthless creature who cannot manage even rudimentary cleaning, good for nothing but consuming victuals. His sole asset was a stentorian voice, so I set him to work as a caller for my establishment. Only then did he demonstrate a modicum of utility.”
He spoke with grotesque pride, as if recounting some magnificent act of charity in molding the boy’s development. Then, his expression hardening, he raised his voice indignantly:
“Yet after I had transformed him from a useless urchin into something approaching human usefulness, approximately a fortnight ago, the little ingrate absconded! And had the audacity to steal my watch in the process!”
“I see. Is that the entirety of your account?”
“What more could possibly be of interest?”
Jones asked with genuine incomprehension, as if the life of a child were a matter of supreme triviality.
Though I had distinctly inquired about the boy, I’d gleaned nothing substantive regarding this Tommy, whose very name remained uncertain. I knew only that he had served as a caller for a brothel—enticing passersby inside with practiced cries.
“No, you’ve been most informative. My thanks for your cooperation. Would you object if I made inquiries among your… employees?”
“By all means, proceed as you wish, sir. Though I confess I cannot fathom why a gentleman of your evident standing would trouble himself over such a worthless guttersnipe.”
I rose from my seat and stepped out into the corridor.
The brothel languished in afternoon torpor, not yet having commenced its evening trade. From the walls exuded a noxious miasma—opium commingled with stale tobacco—so potent that I suspected a prolonged stay might induce hallucinations without the need to partake in either vice.
I questioned various individuals until, noticing my persistent inquiries, several idle prostitutes gathered around, each offering fragmentary recollections.
“A boy called Tommy? Yes, I believe there was a child who performed the cleaning.”
“Surely the child thief spirited him away?”
“I remember him clearly. The proprietor subjected that poor creature to the most savage treatment. Any child with a modicum of wit would flee such circumstances.”
“He possessed light fingers, that one. Would pocket any unattended trinket that caught his eye.”
These accounts, while marginally more illuminating than Jones’ dismissive narrative, offered little of genuine utility. Most responses merely echoed common prejudices regarding orphans, offering no reliable insights into the boy’s true character.
Contrary to my expectations, I departed the establishment with my investigation no further advanced.
Despite my reluctance to abandon the inquiry, the encroaching dusk compelled my retreat. Just as I prepared to depart, a figure emerging from the brothel’s interior halted my progress.
“Sir, I understand you seek information regarding Tommy?”
Before me stood a woman enveloped in a cloud of heavy perfume and cosmetic powders. Attired in a silk bonnet festooned with ribbons and tightly laced into a fashionable corset, her face blanched ghostly white with powder, she possessed an unsettling, doll-like artificiality.
I struggled to differentiate among the establishment’s women—all bearing identical thick cosmetics, identical cloying perfumes, identical gaudy attire designed to attract the same clientele.
Yet I recognized this particular woman. She had distinguished herself by repeatedly insisting, in tones more refined than her companions, that she possessed no knowledge whatsoever of the matter—a protestation so emphatic as to arouse my suspicion.
“Indeed I am. And you are…?”
“Lucy, sir.”
I saw no purpose in inquiring after her family name.
“Have you recalled something pertinent?”
“Yes, sir. Though it’s merely hearsay…”
This self-proclaimed Lucy began her account with the unmistakable demeanor of one concealing some deeper knowledge.
“The common belief holds that the child thief absconded with Tommy, but in truth, on the eve of his disappearance, he uttered the most peculiar statement.”
“What manner of peculiarity did he express?”
“An angel, sir. He claimed to have beheld an angel.”
I furrowed my brow at this unexpected revelation.
“He declared this existence wasn’t truly his life. That angels appeared only to virtuous children, conveying them to a realm of genuine happiness. Those were his precise words, I’m certain of it.”
Though she had prefaced her account as mere rumor, her conviction was palpable. It was evident that deception and subterfuge were foreign to her nature, despite her profession.
Even as she spoke, she visibly trembled, her fearful gaze searching my face for reaction. Her complexion had turned so ashen that the pallor showed clearly through the thick layers of powder. I found myself perplexed by her evident terror—why would she risk sharing this information while so transparently frightened?
“An angel… I see. Thank you, Lucy. This is exceedingly valuable information.”
At my reassurance, relief flooded her features, transforming her deathly pallor to something approaching animation.
The child thief.
This specter had emerged once more from the shadows. What I had previously dismissed as the work of American slave traders now reappeared in a more enigmatic guise—a mysterious abductor with an almost supernatural presence.
Angel and thief.
Two entities of such fundamentally opposing natures, yet inexplicably entwined within this single, disturbing narrative.