Chapter 58: 427,500 Missing |
The sky is dark. It’s partly because it’s late, but more than anything, the storm clouds hang thick and heavy. It will rain tonight, or if not, the heavens have surely made a mistake.
I had parted from Alice and returned to my residence.
I hadn’t noticed it before retiring, but on the windowsill, a dead rat was slowly decomposing. Unfortunately, there was no one here to clean it up. I could have removed it myself, but I felt utterly unmotivated and merely sat there instead.
Young Wilson, on the other hand, was far more energetic. I had hoped he might discover the dead rat and dispose of it, but he was too preoccupied for such tasks.
Wilson was stacking newspapers neatly on the desk.
“I’ve brought as many as I could find.”
The printed text blurred together. Daily Mail, Daily Telegraph, Financial Times, Illustrated London News, The Sketch, The Times…
Essentially, all of London’s prominent newspapers had been gathered. Though I referred to them collectively as newspapers, in reality, they shared little camaraderie. They were merely different arrangements of the same letters, yet even now they seemed to awkwardly push against one another.
Perhaps The Sketch was the aristocrat among them? The money-obsessed Financial Times would stand behind it, leaving the Daily Mail with nowhere to position itself.
Was it their awkward relationship, or simply the limited surface area of the desk?
The desk, crammed with newspapers, felt suffocatingly small. Even an avid reader would recoil at this chaotic jumble. Moreover, I was hardly an enthusiast of the printed word.
What provided some breathing room was Wilson’s meticulous nature.
He arranged all the newspapers alphabetically, and then by publication date, ensuring my eyes wouldn’t get lost. Oh, and regarding the publication order, he had even included past issues of some papers.
I had merely asked him to gather as many different types as possible, but he had gone above and beyond, collecting editions across time. All preparations exceeded my expectations.
This was yet another example of his diligent character.
“You’ve discovered something, haven’t you?”
Wilson asked expectantly. Unfortunately for him, the reality was quite the opposite.
“No, in fact, I know nothing. That’s why I’m trying to investigate now. It’s most peculiar. In my opinion, someone should have noticed this by now, but it seems I’m the only one aware that no one else is aware.”
I mumbled, my voice still thick with sleep. Each time my hand touched the papers, Wilson’s carefully arranged order became disheveled.
“Actually, the change is simple. It can be expressed in just two words. But how it came to this, I simply cannot fathom. With just one or two isolated incidents, one wouldn’t even realize they’re connected. So I need to understand everything happening in London to at least outline the situation.”
Wilson shook his head with a troubled expression.
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Children have disappeared.”
I opened an article from each newspaper.
“Bait Prices Soar: 1.25 Shillings Per Pound… Tenfold Increase From Last Month”
“London Sewers Overflow After a Year – Was Last Year’s Maintenance Pointless?”
“Spring Labor Strikes Reach Critical Levels”
“Naval Future in Peril: Royal Navy Faces Obsolescence Within 40 Years!”
“Missing Persons: Foreign Visitors Vanish in London”
“Shackleton’s Reckless Northwest Passage Expedition Ends in Failure”
“Falverk-List & West Sugar Co. Announces Modern Cuisine Gala”
“Satirical Sketch: ‘The Filthiest Streets on Earth'”
“13 Abandoned Thames Dockside Warehouses Illegally Dismantled”
“Thieves Make Off with Two Oil Factories!”
“Why Britain’s Military Will Triumph in Any Conflict”
“King Oscar II Rejects Norwegian Independence Petition”
“February 1896: ‘The Chinese Lady'”
The articles plainly revealed the journalists’ diligence. They had pressed every last word onto the page, cramming all possible content into the available space.
“Yet it seems I’m the only one who has noticed the pattern.”
But nowhere was there any mention of children. Given these circumstances, I could state with certainty that I alone had observed the change.
Wilson’s expression suggested he too was beginning to understand.
“You see it as well? Then this can hardly be dismissed as my imagination. The situation is far too obvious to be coincidental. Adults are now performing tasks that, until recently, were exclusively children’s work.”
I folded the newspapers to display certain articles and arranged them in sequence.
“Serious Spring Labor Strikes Reach Critical Levels”
“It’s not about strikes at all. The workforce has simply diminished. Naturally, manufactured goods prices can only increase.”
“London Sewers Overflow After a Year – Was Last Year’s Maintenance Pointless?”
“Bait Prices Soar: 1.25 Shillings Per Pound… Tenfold Increase From Last Month”
“The sewer situation is similar. Cleaning them is children’s work, but the cleaners have vanished en masse, and now we see the consequences. The bait situation is even more telling. Unraveling ropes to make fishing bait was workhouse children’s labor, but now there are no children to perform this task.”
“Naval Future in Peril: Royal Navy Faces Obsolescence Within 40 Years!”
“This writer apparently composed this piece because ship maintenance costs have risen, but clearly knows nothing of what they speak. The Royal Navy has transitioned to ironclads, which aren’t maintained with traditional bait. Nevertheless, this error illuminates the truth: bait prices haven’t merely risen—the supply has completely disappeared.”
I muttered continually, assembling the pieces of information. Yet I made no forward progress.
Through these articles, I had confirmed my suspicions were manifesting in reality, but I couldn’t deduce what might happen next.
“Why have the children vanished? What do they plot each night? They couldn’t have organized themselves—they’re merely children, after all. It must be the work of a child-thief, or perhaps… an angel.”
At that moment, I was struck by a brilliant insight. It felt like divine inspiration descending upon me.
My hands, seemingly possessed, connected three newspaper pages in succession:
“13 Abandoned Thames Dockside Warehouses Illegally Dismantled”
“Missing Persons: Foreign Visitors Vanish in London”
“Thieves Make Off with Two Oil Factories!”
I had previously dismissed these articles, believing them unrelated to the children’s disappearances. Yet arranged together, they transformed into a sinister prophecy, laden with dreadful portents.
I withdrew my fountain pen and wrote large figures across the newspapers as if they were a single canvas:
“5,700,000 * 3/10 * 1/4 = 427,500”
Contemplating this equation, I recalled the significance of each figure. All were numbers familiar to me.
“First, not every child has vanished from London—only those from the streets. The distinction is subtle but crucial. Only orphans regularly inhabit the streets. Parents never willingly send their children to wander there. This principle applies universally across London society, not merely among the upper classes. Even laborers send their children to factories or mines rather than having them sweep chimneys. Isn’t that so?”
Wilson managed a slight nod.
“Very well. Let’s examine the formula again. 5.7 million—that’s straightforward. London’s population from last year, isn’t it? And 30%—that’s readily explained as well. I’ve heard children under fifteen comprise approximately 27% to 28% of London’s population. When we account for abandoned children, the figure would naturally be higher, making 30% a reasonable estimate.”
I had already identified two components of the equation. Before speaking, I’d harbored doubts, but as I continued, the formula felt increasingly natural, as if it had emerged from my own mind.
“Furthermore, they report roughly 100,000 children born in London annually, with a quarter abandoned. Don’t place excessive faith in these figures—the reality is undoubtedly higher. But since they perish so quickly, perhaps no one bothers with a precise accounting.”
I was experiencing something transcendent. Some unseen force compelled me to speak, though I couldn’t identify its source.
Initially, I suspected Wilson, but his trembling eyes betrayed nothing. Next, I considered the dead rat on the windowsill, but upon closer inspection, its eyeballs had deteriorated beyond recognition.
It must, therefore, be the gaze of some invisible presence. Surely, some entity from above was piercing through the back of my skull, probing the recesses of my brain.
It felt like a visitation—as if some higher intelligence were speaking through me.
“If 30 percent of 5.7 million is 1.71 million, and a quarter of that is 427,500… Do you comprehend what this number represents? It’s the total of London’s orphans. And every one of them labors in the streets.”
My speech quickened with each word. What had begun as nebulous supposition crystallized as I articulated it.
“Yes! Over the past few weeks, 427,500 souls have vanished from London! I know their destination! They lurk behind the curtain—their feet brazenly extended beyond the nocturnal veil that shrouds London’s true face!”
Several headlines flashed through my mind:
“13 Abandoned Thames Dockside Warehouses Illegally Dismantled”
“Missing Persons: Foreign Visitors Vanish in London”
“Thieves Make Off with Two Oil Factories!”
My breathing grew labored. My frantic heart, sensing oxygen deprivation, pounded violently, rupturing delicate capillaries throughout my body.
“The German Emperor required a mere 300,000 soldiers to march on Paris! At this rate, something unspeakably horrific is imminent!”
I glimpsed the future!
Devastation! Complete and utter devastation awaits!
“Perhaps today!”
I leapt from my chair, only to tumble ungracefully to the floor, having forgotten my cane in my agitation.
“Quickly! My hat and walking stick! I must alert the military without delay! The capital faces imminent attack!”
“Sir, please compose yourself! This is mere paranoia!”
“Is this a time for composure, you dolt?!”
Wilson seized my thrashing form and hoisted me upright.
“Such strength…”
He attempted to reason with me, his brow deeply furrowed.
“Then let us proceed thus: Today, rather than contemplating the broader implications, we shall intercept one of these children who appears after nightfall and interrogate them. Learning the true situation before taking action will better serve our cause when convincing the military or police.”
“There’s no time for such measures…”
Even as I protested, I recognized the wisdom in Wilson’s proposal.
Her Majesty’s army would never mobilize on baseless claims. As a former soldier myself, I understood this reality all too well.
Meanwhile, what I had experienced was merely an impulsive premonition—something I could scarcely describe in rational terms.
My blood ran cold.
My brain, which moments ago had burned with fevered insight, cooled rapidly, and the mysterious compulsion that had possessed me suddenly dissipated.
With Wilson’s assistance, I lowered myself back into my chair and murmured softly.
“Nevertheless, we’re fortunate. Before true calamity befalls us, we’ve uncovered the clue. All credit to this letter.”
“What letter, sir?”
A remarkably obtuse question. I regarded Wilson as though he were willfully blind.
“What other letter could I possibly mean?”
I retrieved the fountain pen rolling across my desk and completed the inscription upon the newspaper in bold letters:
“Regards,
Oldcourt University.
Casey O’Gerald.”
The Dean’s foresight was truly extraordinary. How could he have anticipated my arrival at this conclusion, sending me such a formula by post?
Wilson appeared on the verge of speech but thought better of it. I didn’t press him. Instead, I gazed upward at the shadow of dark, oppressive clouds—neither cosmos nor sky, but something between.
“As you suggested, I pray we survive this night unscathed. Perhaps then nothing will transpire, and this matter will conclude peacefully. We might yet reach the source of this disturbance and halt it.”
“You refer to the child thief?”
“Some call them angels.”
We methodically developed our strategy to capture one of the children and conduct an interrogation.
All the while, I privately maintained my conviction that tragedy would unfold this very night. Anyone gazing upon that sky would surely share my sentiment.
Such a brooding, moisture-laden night sky formed the perfect backdrop for impending calamity.
As the hours wore on, darkness claimed London completely.
All natural light vanished from the city, and in place of the sun’s distant hum, the hiss of leaking gas from streetlamps permeated the thoroughfares.
A moonless, starless night enveloped us.
On such evenings, even carriages rarely ventured forth—the danger of guiding frightened horses through such darkness was well understood. Consequently, the world seemed bereft of sound.
A constant, hushed static filled my ears—perhaps the distant current of the Thames. Once identified, I could distinguish its gentle gurgling.
I lay upon my bed, feigning death.
I had intended to merely pretend sleep, but uncertain how to convincingly appear slumbering, I resorted to my practiced imitation of a corpse. Several times fatigue nearly claimed me in truth, but I fought against drowsiness, remaining vigilant for any indication of presence.
The children would come tonight.
And observing me in apparent slumber, they would attempt entry as before. Wilson waited outside, poised to intercept them at that critical moment.
It was an exceptionally quiet night.
On such evenings, even the inaudible becomes perceptible: the Thames’s languid current lapping against embankments, the splashing of aberrant beings beneath the sewers, the pulse of blood coursing through cerebral arteries—and the measured, deliberate footsteps of a small child.
———Tap. Tap. Tap.
Short, delicate strides. Unmistakably a child. As if to confirm my suspicion, a familiar nursery rhyme melody drifted through the stillness.
“Poor Lucy born in the morning, hangs from the apple tree by evening.”
I strained my ears. Events were unfolding differently than anticipated.
This nursery rhyme, typically sung by just one or two passing children, was now joined by harmony after harmony until it had transformed into nothing less than a macabre chorus.
How many had gathered? Seven? Eight? Perhaps ten?
I contemplated abandoning our plan and rising immediately. Should I illuminate the lamp, demonstrating my wakefulness to drive away these children?
But such action would compromise Wilson’s position.
Our mission demanded we capture at least one child, necessitating that we lure them further inward.
“Poor Dan born in the morning, burns in the chimney by evening.”
As I deliberated, the children drew nearer.
I noticed another disturbing detail.
The children had always sung softly enough for only my ears, yet now they chanted without the slightest attempt at concealment, their voices raised in chilling enthusiasm.
After a moment’s bewilderment, I bolted upright.
There could be no mistake. The children had come with murderous intent!
“Aagh!”
Wilson’s scream pierced the night. I could scarcely imagine what had befallen him. I had to render aid!
I wrenched open the wardrobe, seizing my rifle and ammunition pouch. At that moment, the world beyond my window began to glow with an ominous light.
“Poor Lucy, poor Dan.”
The children, now directly outside my window, brandished makeshift torches.
Upon inspection, these were primitive contraptions cobbled together from wood scraps and fishing bait. Their tiny, dexterous hands were smeared with black waste oil that dripped steadily onto the ground.
As if engaged in some perverse game, the children swung small baskets while chanting in unison. Viscous, foul-smelling oil splattered against the building’s exterior wall. Then, the torches descended upon it.
───CRASH!
The window, expanded by intense heat, shattered instantly as flames surged into my chamber. The aged wooden furniture succumbed to the inferno, belching thick black smoke.
Clutching my rifle, I staggered from the room.
Never had I witnessed fire spread with such voracious speed. Glancing backward, I saw the ravenous flames racing along floor and walls, pursuing me beyond the confines of my chamber.
Remaining inside was no longer tenable.
With a vice-like grip on my cane, I sprinted desperately toward the entrance. With trembling yet determined hands, I unfastened the lock and thrust against the door.
It refused to yield.
Some ponderous object had been positioned against the entrance, barricading me within. The children truly intended to burn me alive!
“If they ask where the two went, say the angels took them.”
Leaving behind the sinister nursery rhyme echoing from beyond the door, I dashed frantically toward another window. Children lurked there as well, but my desperation lent me speed.
───BANG!
The bullet pulverized the glass. My show of force proved effective—the children who had sought to entrap me scattered in panicked retreat.
I seized this moment of reprieve to vault over the windowsill and escape into the night air.
Then I raised my eyes to the heavens.
London’s time had reversed its course. Though the sun had set hours ago, the city’s sky blazed once more with the crimson hues of sunset.
No—it was not the sky that burned.
It was London itself that glowed with an infernal orange brilliance.
From the distant reaches of the East End to the spires of South Kensington, the conflagration raced across the metropolis. Like the sun’s daily journey, flames surged beyond the streets, charting a merciless path from east to west.
Dear God… London was ablaze!