8 Intelligence

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While the three of them were still chatting around those golden utensils, an ominous creaking sound came from the stairs. Suddenly, the door swung open, and the landlady, wearing an apron, stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips. “Gentlemen, I suppose you’ve had enough time to discuss all sorts of nonsense!” Her finger pointed directly at Arna. “Especially you! Good heavens, child, looking as pale as a stray cat who hasn’t eaten lunch,” she said indignantly, “Come downstairs quickly, or I’ll have wasted your sea bass!”

Holmes swiftly sank into his armchair, lowering his head as if he had suddenly developed a keen interest in a stain on the upholstery. Watson mumbled something about needing to check his trunk and seized the opportunity to slip away quickly. Betrayed by her allies and left with no support, Arna could only nervously stand up and trail behind her aunt down the stairs in defeat.

“No, no,” she muttered, “I just don’t like the Cornwall Starry Pie…” “If you’re too proud to eat a real Cornwall Starry Pie,” Mrs. Hudson snorted like a dragon ready to breathe fire, “you’d better finish your fish quickly.” “I will,” Arna meekly replied.

She hurried into the kitchen, where Mrs. Hudson watched her wash her hands thoroughly before reluctantly allowing her to reach into the bucket, intending to rinse the fish first. But just as Arna’s hand neared the water’s surface, Mrs. Hudson suddenly grasped her wrist.

Arna looked up in confusion. Mrs. Hudson, with a stern expression, placed Arna’s hand onto a plate on the counter. It was a plate of warm butter cookies, freshly baked and still at a perfect, edible temperature—no doubt made just before Mrs. Hudson came upstairs.

Blinking, Arna chose to remain perfectly still, adopting a posture of complete obedience before Mrs. Hudson spoke. After a moment of sternness, the landlady couldn’t help but smile. “Go ahead and eat them, made just for you,” she said, “Finish those, then help with dinner—I want to see what you can pull off!”

Only then did Arna happily pick up a cookie and start eating. After finishing the plate and fully replenishing her energy, she washed her hands again and began cooking.

Following the system’s recipe, she first marinated the fish with spices, then pan-fried it in butter, adding pre-cooked asparagus and potatoes. Arna successfully prepared a pan-fried fish dish. She divided it into two portions, squeezed some lemon juice on each, and served a bowl of Mrs. Hudson’s hot soup, bringing it upstairs to her two roommates.

The remainder of the evening was family time. Arna and Mrs. Hudson shared a meal, complained about the dilapidated factory and the poor little boy, and after tidying the kitchen, Arna wished Mrs. Hudson goodnight as the latter prepared to knit, then returned upstairs to the sitting room to rest.

The fire in the hearth crackled softly as Arna listened attentively to Holmes and Watson discussing the case at length. Yet, not a single random side quest triggered. Damn it—all this thrilling, intricate story, and Arna had no role to play!

Sulking, she pocketed some candies she’d swiped from Holmes’s bookshelf and found an excuse to retreat to her room to check her panel. “You guys keep chatting—I’m really tired and going to bed early.”

“Get some rest,” Watson said kindly. “You must be exhausted.”

Arna nodded, yawned, and trudged heavily toward her room. As her bedroom door clicked locked behind her, Watson turned to Holmes.

“Have you finally lost your mind, Holmes?” he said gravely, referring to the trap set at the factory. “That young man is barely in his twenties and not the type to seek danger. You know full well the gangs around Whitechapel would tear an innocent informant to pieces. Yet your behavior today has been unusually intense.”

Holmes calmly asked, “Why do you say that?”

“You’ve never shown interest in these small cases before, especially when more complex ones were on your plate. You always focused on the tougher, more challenging cases with fewer clues—remember? Like that elderly lady we helped find her runaway daughter only because she begged. And most importantly, Holmes, since when did you start planning social reform?”

He sat down and poured two glasses of brandy. “Any explanation?”

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Holmes took the glass. “Doctor, you’ve learned by now, haven’t you?” he joked, downing the brandy and setting the glass back on the table. “Alright, I am a bit intrigued by our mysterious new friend. Like a puzzle wrapped in cloth that, once unwrapped, turns out delicious.”

Watson was not convinced. “Enough, Holmes,” he slammed his glass down angrily. “This isn’t one of your puzzles! Those East End gangs—”

“Oh, come on, Watson,” Holmes interrupted, reclining lazily like a black panther, “you’re missing the point.”

His eyes glimmered like frost. “Think about it, doctor. That twenty-something kid you mentioned just snapped the ribs of two East End thugs without batting an eye, probably cracking them like walnuts. I bet he only stopped when they begged for mercy.”

He rose and drifted to the window like a ghost, gently pulling back the curtain to watch the gas lamp’s shadow flicker on the street below. “He turned the tables and robbed them. Then, no thrill from violence, no nervous fear—just calmly came back and sat on the sofa complaining about how hard it is to make money.”

Watson’s anger cooled but he remained skeptical. “You mean…”

“Interesting, isn’t it?” Holmes whispered. “Afterward, he still had the chance to sell that troublesome patch of land to any poor factory owner in the East End. So why bait the thugs?”

He turned. “After I laid out that plan, he focused on those kids, not on what the factory could profit from. You know, most men see those East End brats as pests or sacrifices for their conscience.”

He murmured, “But our young friend saw leverage. A contradiction, isn’t it? He reminds me of someone.”

Watson paused, running through the faces of various criminals in his mind. “Who?”

“Mycroft Holmes,” Holmes said casually.

Watson blinked in shock. “What?”

Didn’t he notice? Had he missed a major clue?

“Not intellect,” Holmes added, “but courage.”

Watson let out a sharp breath. “Everyone has secrets, Holmes,” he said, half annoyed, half amused, “but I hope you’re not suggesting our new roommate is a criminal. Mrs. Hudson would be heartbroken.”

“No, no, not a criminal,” Holmes waved his finger. “A survivor.”

“But since you’re worried about his safety,” Holmes said slyly, “with those tough cases still on my hands, the rest is up to you, Watson. Hopefully, you’ll bring us some interesting leads.”

“I’ll do my best, but don’t get your hopes up, Holmes,” Watson said irritably. “I doubt this kid is the type to stay calm when followed.”

Arna, the subject of their discussion, was oblivious to the debate outside the door and instead focused intently on her panel, lost in thought.

Why does this lousy game even have a child labor training module? Is this reasonable?

She opened the child labor hiring interface, which showed that she had to provide sufficient meat every two days, limit working hours to six per day, and ensure at least three hours of study—basically consistent with what she had just said.

Additionally, to certify these children as basic workers, a teacher was required to lead the classes.

The system was even more attentive to training factory owners than it was to her! Couldn’t it show her some care? Where was her new map package?

Muttering to herself, Arna tentatively clicked on the teacher-led interface and scrolled down.

Her own name appeared among the available teachers.

Nice! That saved some money.

Delighted, Arna quickly assigned herself and manually added “Fighting” to the curriculum.

A second later, a red warning popped up.

“‘Fighting’ is not an optional course. Please select from the course categories for instruction.”

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“What’s wrong with fighting? Isn’t it very useful?” Arna grumbled. “System, you’re overdoing it.”

She opened the course categories and browsed through the dazzling titles.

Mathematics? Cross that out—who wants to learn math in a game? And she definitely wouldn’t teach it! She had a personal vendetta against math.

Latin? What’s that? No, no, she couldn’t even understand it herself, so she wouldn’t torture the students.

After a long scroll, she finally found a subject she liked.

There you go—mechanical assembly, obviously useful!

*

Arna got up early the next morning and went fishing.

She planned to save up money, reach the market’s average price, and repaint the factory herself before starting work.

By the time she sold the fish and returned to Baker Street, it was already nine o’clock.

Besides Holmes and Watson, a group of short figures stood in the parlor.

“Oh, looks like the absent friend has finally returned,” Holmes, wearing a dressing gown and holding a coffee cup, gestured toward Arna. “Our new colleague needs your talents, Wiggins. For dealing with Whitechapel.”

The boy’s sharp eyes glanced over and winked at Arna. “Greenland, right?” he said appraisingly.

Seeing Arna’s blank look, the boy named Wiggins smiled broadly. “Greenland means rookie in slang. I guess it fits—you’d only attract a swarm of bees like that.”

Holmes chuckled. “Exactly. You’ll spread two stories—first, the new owner is a soft countryside type who only knows how to pull out his wallet but doesn’t notice missing things. Second…”

He leaned forward, voice low and conspiratorial, “He can’t run a factory, just knows carpentry, boasts about his family’s gold, and serves hot mutton pies at noon.”

Wiggins snorted. “That would attract flies in no time; Feigin’s dogs would sniff around all weekend, looking for holes to crawl into.”

He hesitated, unusually solemn. “Some of those guys are alright, just hungry.”

Arna, who’d been zoning out waiting for the scene to end, snapped back to attention.

“Hungry? Did I hear that right?” She instinctively pulled out the leftover cookies from yesterday. “Want some?”

She began handing out cookies to the children one by one.

“Thank you, sir,” the youngest girl murmured, clutching a cookie, looking a little unsure of where she was.

But Wiggins, the leader, smiled.

“Though you’re not very smart, I hope you always stay kind, sir,” he said. “God bless you.”

With that, he and his squad stomped back down the stairs as they had arrived, leaving Arna holding the cookies, utterly bewildered.

“No, why am I not smart?” she snapped irritably, taking another bite and replenishing her energy bar depleted by fishing. “Can’t anyone speak up for me?”

Watson chuckled quietly and gave her a comforting pat on the shoulder.