SGB Chapter 250

## Chapter 250: The Arsenic Eater of London (4K)

**London, Greenwich District, Royal Arsenal, Woolwich.**

A carriage pulled up in front of the Arsenal, the sound of hard, black riding boots hitting the slick cobblestones echoed through the air.

Arthur tipped his hat slightly. It was lunchtime, and as usual, a group of burly workers were playing football in the yard. But today, he wasn’t in the mood to join them for a kickabout, nor did he feel like offering any pointers.

After all, coaching Arsenal football was a job best suited for a Frenchman.

As one of the most heavily guarded areas in London, the security at Woolwich Arsenal was entrusted to the Royal Horse Artillery, who were permanently stationed there. Even during their break, the soldiers remained vigilant, considering the recent wave of small-scale riots that had plagued London. Patrols of three soldiers were a common sight on the streets surrounding the Arsenal.

Arthur stepped out of the carriage and pulled out his identification, presenting it to the guard. “Arthur Hastings, Chief Inspector of the Metropolitan Police, head of the Criminal Investigation Department. Mr. James Marsh, your chemical engineer, was commissioned by the Royal Medical Society to assist Scotland Yard in investigating a murder case. I heard he made some progress this morning, and I’m here to discuss the case with him.”

The heavily armed guard took the identification and glanced at it before nodding. “Mr. Hastings, please come in. The local police station informed us that you would be here this afternoon, and Mr. Marsh is already waiting for you in the chemistry lab.”

Arthur nodded. “This case is extremely urgent, so let’s skip the pleasantries. Please lead the way.”

Under the guard’s guidance, Arthur crossed the Arsenal yard and entered the production workshop. As soon as he stepped inside, he saw rows of strange machines neatly arranged. By recognizing the labels on the machines, Arthur got a general understanding of what they were.

There were steam-powered hammers manufactured by the Nasmyth Company, gun stocks, rifling, and gun barrel lathes produced by Henry Maudslay’s factory, as well as a 1776 horizontal boring machine with only the production year visible, the rest of the labels being illegible.

Because these machines spanned a wide range of eras, from the 18th to the 19th century, the workshop, capable of accommodating thousands of workers simultaneously, embodied the entire glorious past and present of the British mechanical industry.

Arthur couldn’t help but quip, “Some of these antiques have been here for half a century. Has the Ordnance Board not considered allocating funds to the Arsenal for some new equipment?”

The guard chuckled, “It’s always difficult to get funding from Parliament when there’s no war. But this year we’re lucky, they approved some new items. See over there, that’s a lathe merchant coming to sell his wares.”

Arthur looked up and saw a gentleman in a black top hat and a dark green waistcoat enthusiastically introducing something to a senior officer in a neat, light red military uniform. He spoke while gesturing to a blueprint held by an apprentice in a blue, thick coarse cloth work uniform, constantly showing it to the officer.

Arthur smiled and said, “It seems like Woolwich Arsenal will be getting some new products soon. In my opinion, you should have stopped producing the Baker rifle. It’s been in use since the Napoleonic Wars, and after twenty years, you’re still using the same thing. Even if the army isn’t tired of it, we at Scotland Yard are. And carrying such a long flintlock rifle around for patrols really upsets the Londoners. Have you considered a portable pistol production line? Ideally, a percussion-cap pistol. I think Mr. Forsyth’s ‘perfume bottle’ percussion mechanism is quite good. It’s a bit of a hassle to maintain, but it’s undeniably beautiful.”

The guard couldn’t help but admire Arthur. “You seem to know your stuff, sir. But then again, a rifle used by infantrymen isn’t very practical for Scotland Yard officers. Pistols are definitely more suitable for patrols.”

They were engrossed in a lively discussion about the pros and cons of various gun types when a warm greeting interrupted their conversation.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. If I’m not mistaken, one of you just said you were interested in percussion-cap pistols?”

Arthur turned his head and saw a young man with a slight wave of curly hair standing behind him. His cheeks were flushed, his skin had a slightly rough texture, like it had been exposed to years of wind and sand. There were hardened, yellow calluses on the knuckles of his right hand, and his calves and ankles were wrapped with layers of white bandages. A brass single-barrel telescope was tucked neatly into the leather tube on his backside.

Seeing his attire, Arthur couldn’t help but ask, “Are you a sailor?”

The young man was taken aback by Arthur’s question, then exclaimed in surprise, “How did you know?”

The guard chimed in, “Yankee, haven’t you read detective novels? Go buy the latest issue of The Englishman. The Scotland Yard officers in the ‘Hastings Detective Stories’ are all like this. Not to mention the one standing before you, he’s a Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard.”

The young man doubted, “Are the officers really that amazing?”

“You’re a Yankee?” Arthur looked the young man up and down. “I knew your accent was strange.”

The young man seemed unhappy about being identified as an American. His face flushed red as he retorted, “Sir, where I’m from is irrelevant. What matters is that I can provide you with the percussion-cap pistols you want. I’ve been here for almost three days, but none of these old London bureaucrats have taken me seriously. I assure you, my Colt revolver is the best portable weapon in the world. If Scotland Yard officers were equipped with this, it would be a huge help. In the past, you had to reload after every shot, but now you can take down six enemies with one load. That’s a sixfold increase in combat power. Are you sure you don’t want to consider it?”

“Colt revolver?” Arthur was taken aback by the name. He pondered for a moment before remembering the name he had seen in a military magazine. He tentatively asked, “Samuel Colt?”

Colt was stunned speechless upon hearing Arthur directly reveal his name. “You… You figured out I spent a year at sea, that’s one thing, but how do you even know my name?”

Arthur simply pulled out his pipe and mysteriously replied, “That’s how detectives are.”

The guard beside Arthur was terrified when he saw Arthur about to light it. He quickly snatched the matches and matchbox away. “My God, Mr. Hastings! The powder magazine is right next door. Are you trying to blow us all up?”

Arthur finally remembered where he was. He hastily put away his restless hand, awkwardly chuckling, “Sorry.”

He then turned back to Colt, thought for a moment, and said, “Wait here for me. After I finish my business, we’ll talk about your pistol. I can’t influence Scotland Yard’s overall equipment procurement decisions, but I do have some autonomy over certain small matters within my department.”

With that, Arthur turned to the guard, “Let’s go, sir. Let’s go to the lab.”

Standing behind him, Colt, after his initial shock, was now beaming with delight. The nineteen-year-old American boy shouted to Arthur, “Detective, I haven’t had lunch yet. I’ll wait for you at the cafe outside. You’re so brilliant, you must know which cafe I’m talking about, right? We’ll meet there.”

As soon as he finished speaking, Colt turned and ran outside, bouncing as he ran, occasionally clenching his fist and swinging it at the air.

It was obvious that the prospect of a new order had filled the boy with joy.

Arthur witnessed this scene and turned to the guard, “How many cafes are there outside the factory?”

“Just one.”

“That’s good.”

Under the guard’s guidance, Arthur crossed the workshop and arrived at a red brick building not far from the rear of the workshop.

After walking through the concrete-paved front hall and reaching the second floor, Arthur smelled a strong, pungent odor.

He pondered for a moment, feeling like the smell was familiar.

After much thought, Arthur finally identified the smell as being extremely similar to the French garlic that Dumas grew in his garden.

Just as Arthur thought the guard was taking him to the Arsenal’s experimental dining room, the door was pushed open, and what greeted Arthur was neither a scene of sizzling food nor sweaty chefs.

The room’s overall layout was identical to the laboratory reserved for chemists by the Royal Society. Various colorful solutions and transparent beakers filled several shelves, and a heating beaker was placed on the experimental table in the center of the room.

The guard gently knocked on the door, reminding, “Mr. Marsh.”

The man standing in front of the beaker, frowning in thought, looked up and saw Arthur and the guard. He asked, “Who is this gentleman beside you?”

“Mr. Arthur Hastings, Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard.”

“Ah! It’s you, please come in.” James Marsh invited Arthur into the room, pointing to the bubbling liquid in the beaker, “I have to say, Scotland Yard is incredibly lucky with this case. If this case had happened a few weeks ago, the truth might have been lost forever.”

Upon hearing this, Arthur followed up, “So… Mr. Marsh, have you discovered anything interesting?”

“Interesting is a strong word, but I believe it’s a tragedy.”

Marsh began, “I won’t waste your time with idle chatter when it comes to matters of life and death. You’ve probably heard some things from the Royal Medical Society. Not long ago, I discovered the Marsh test for detecting arsenic residue. In this beaker, I’ve added hydrochloric acid, hydrogen sulfate, and food scraps taken from the victim’s stomach. According to the Marsh test, when these mixtures are heated, if the food scraps contain arsenic, arsine gas will be produced. Or to put it simply, it’s the strong garlic smell you’re currently smelling.”

“Arsenic?” Arthur frowned at the element.

Arsenic might be too academic a term. If you say its common name – arsenic trioxide, then everyone would be familiar with it.

Arsenic trioxide, as a poison with a long history, has been used for murder in both the East and the West since centuries before the Common Era.

First, as James Marsh said, for a long time, humans lacked the scientific means to reliably detect arsenic residue.

Second, as the perfect poison, arsenic trioxide itself is tasteless. When dissolved in water, it only makes the water slightly sweet, so victims are unlikely to notice they’ve been poisoned.

Moreover, the symptoms that appear after poisoning, such as diarrhea and vomiting, are easily confused with other diseases.

After all, in this era, several epidemics that regularly swept through London, including diarrhea and vomiting, were common. People who were poisoned would only think they were unlucky and had contracted a disease.

But most importantly, arsenic trioxide is easily obtainable. Since the Industrial Revolution, various metal smelting industries have been flourishing in Britain. As a byproduct of the metallurgical industry, various arsenic compounds are meticulously packaged and sold as rat poison, flypaper, and other specialized pest control agents by factory owners.

What’s even more appalling is that ladies of all social classes in London, since the time of Elizabeth I, have been using various arsenic-containing cosmetics, from simple creams to high-end perfumes, nearly all of which contain arsenic.

And there’s even a product called Fowler’s Solution containing arsenic that’s considered a miracle cure for malaria by Londoners.

Thinking about this, Arthur finally understood why Bernie Harrison was so confident.

After all, death from arsenic overdose is not necessarily murder, unless Scotland Yard has a complete chain of evidence of the perpetrator’s crime.

Otherwise, even with the results of the stomach food analysis, it wouldn’t be enough to convict him.

There are many ladies in this society who voluntarily take arsenic for a rosy complexion, and many die as a result.

Overturning a member of the House of Commons, especially a perfumer who is well-versed in this field, with such a small matter is not an easy task.

Arthur thought about this and couldn’t help but fall into contemplation.

He was pondering how to convict Bernie Harrison when he caught a glimpse of Agareus rushing in through the wall.

The Red Devil seemed to have been startled by something and grabbed Arthur, pulling him out. “Arthur! Damn it, come out and have a look. I saw those damn fools fishing people out of the Thames again!”

(End of Chapter)