## Chapter 134: A Striking Shade of Grey
**London, Tower Hamlets**
The sun had begun its descent, casting a golden hue on the murky waters flowing from the tannery. The yellow stream stretched towards the horizon, resembling a path of gold leading to the heavens.
As dusk settled, the small tavern in the brick-lined alley of Whitechapel buzzed with life. It was crowded with sailors seeking pleasure, dockworkers, and brickyard kiln workers.
The air was thick with the pungent smell of sweat and fermenting yeast. The aroma of freshly baked food mingled with the boisterous chatter of patrons and the clinking of beer mugs. Occasionally, a woman’s angry shouts could be heard, fueled by the advances of drunken men.
“You uncouth brute!” the barmaid yelled, pointing at the sailor’s nose. “Dare you pinch me again? I’ll chop your hand off!”
The sailor, swaying on his stool, burped loudly, too drunk to even rise. He stared at the ceiling, but his mouth continued to run.
“Darling, don’t be angry. Where did you get that ass? It’s harder than stone. This tavern is a joke. The watered-down beer is worse than seawater, and the bread and the butts are both rock hard.”
The barmaid’s face turned crimson with fury. She raised her tray to strike the sailor, but before she could, a hand intercepted her, belonging to the tavern’s new owner – Judd Martin.
Martin, with his round cheeks and a cunning smile, pressed his hand on the tray, then leaned close to the barmaid, whispering, “Anne, that’s enough. We need to make money.”
Anne’s voice trembled with resentment, “But, Uncle…”
Martin chided, “No buts. This isn’t like home. To make a living in London, you gotta take some hits. We’re not some noble ladies, untouchable. If you really don’t want to work here, then find yourself a good husband. I’ll hire someone else. Do you know how much I spent on this place and the liquor license? Girl, be kind. Your Uncle’s not rolling in money, please don’t ruin my business.”
Anne’s eyes welled up, and her gaze dropped.
Judd Martin, feeling the pain in his pocket, pulled out two pennies and placed them on the tray. “There, there. Take this, buy yourself something nice. There’s some bacon and ham in the kitchen. Cut yourself some after you’re done.”
The barmaid, finally, broke into a smile. She kissed Martin on the cheek, her face free from the previous melancholy. “Thank you, Uncle.”
Martin watched his niece walk towards the kitchen, unable to help but grumble, “These girls are so shrewd. Whoever marries my niece will spend a shilling like it’s a farthing.”
He was about to return to the counter to tend to his business, but something caught his attention. Martin hurried towards the kitchen, calling out, “Anne! Two fingers of ham at most, girl! Don’t eat too much of that stuff!”
As soon as his words left his lips, the tavern’s shuttered door creaked open.
Martin looked up, seeing three imposing figures, their muscular arms, bulging veins, and misshapen ears spoke volumes. These weren’t men to be trifled with.
More importantly, Martin noticed the throng of men outside, armed with various gleaming blades, crowding behind the trio.
Martin quickly retrieved two bills from under the counter. He pondered for a moment, then instead of immediately handing them over, he greeted the men with a forced smile, cautiously asking, “Gentlemen, what can I get for you today? We have…”
Before he could finish, the men sat on the high stools at the counter, one of them grabbing Martin’s face with his calloused hand.
“Martin, you don’t recognize me?”
Martin scrutinized the man’s face, forcing a smile wider than a crocodile’s grin.
“It’s ‘Iron Hammer’ Ward, Mr. Fred’s right-hand man. Didn’t you hear from Mr. Fred? I opened this tavern in Whitechapel, with his approval.”
“Fred?”
Ward chuckled, releasing Martin’s chin. “Martin, can you stop mentioning the dead man’s name? He’s probably rotting in some fish’s belly. If you want his protection, I can toss you in the sea.
By the way, Whitechapel’s mine now. If you want to survive, show some respect and sincerity.”
Martin knew he couldn’t escape this.
He hastily produced the two bills he’d prepared, bowing and scraping. “If that’s the case, a small token of my appreciation.”
Ward glanced at the bills, his lips curling into a sneer. “Two?”
Before Martin could reply, a chorus of clicks and whirs filled the room.
Ward’s companions pointed their guns at the terrified patrons, shouting, “What are you looking at? Get out!”
Ward pressed the gun against Martin’s chin, “Martin, you’re lucky I’m not here for you. So, I’ll forgive your first rudeness. Tell me, where’s Fiona? That stinking bitch said she wanted to meet me, to settle a score. You wouldn’t have interfered with her business, would you?”
“No, of course not.” Martin raised his hands, sweat dripping down his face. “So, that’s who Miss Ivan meant? She… she asked me to give you a letter.”
“A letter? Ha-ha!” Ward whistled, raising an eyebrow. “Did the bitch want to confess her love?”
Martin trembled, retrieving the letter from under the table and presenting it with both hands.
Ward, nonchalantly, opened the letter, glancing at the front and back.
However, both sides were blank.
A sense of unease washed over Ward. He quickly hopped off the stool, yelling at his companions.
“Something’s wrong, we need to go back!”
The group, in a panic, rushed out the door.
Ward looked up at the sky. The sun had set, and a crescent moon was rising.
The moonlight illuminated his face, revealing beads of sweat and a look of astonishment.
The brick-lined street was deserted, devoid of any sound.
In the hazy moonlight, he could only see a few pairs of crimson eyes on the rooftops. It was the ravens from the Tower of London, and they were the best at sensing death.
Ward felt a chill run down his spine. Beads of sweat drenched his shirt, clinging to his back.
“Go back!”
But as the words left his mouth, he heard a bang. The door of Martin’s tavern slammed shut, leaving Ward with nothing but the swinging sign, bearing the crooked inscription, “Close.”
From that moment onwards, Martin’s tavern was closed for business.
Every house in the brick-lined alley, from one end to the other, had its lights extinguished. The light receded like a tide, replaced by the synchronized sound of footsteps on the cobblestones. Top hats, black tailcoats, sturdy high-top boots splashing in the puddles, spotless white gloves, the swinging of police truncheons, and countless anonymous faces hidden in the shadows.
Among those shadowy faces, Ward could only make out a flickering red dot.
The red dot vanished, and in the moonlight, Ward saw a white-gloved hand extend before him. It was followed by a voice, calm and unnervingly quiet.
“Allow me to introduce myself, Clayton Jones, newly appointed Inspector of the Whitechapel District, Tower Hamlets Division, Metropolitan Police of London.”
Ward looked at the white glove, then at the shadows behind it, a pair of round, black ‘eyes,’ the kind that are both alluring and deadly.
Ward forced a smile, suppressing the tremor in his body. He slowly reached out to shake the white glove.
But just as his fingers were about to touch the glove, a slap landed on his face.
Slap!
Perhaps due to fear, perhaps due to intimidation, the strong Ward was knocked to the ground by a single blow.
Before his dizzy head could recover, he felt something crushing his cheek.
He slowly raised his head, finally seeing the face staring back at him. His forehead bore scabs, his left eye was bloodshot, but despite his comical appearance, his face seemed menacing under the moonlight.
Jones, standing on his head, leaned down and asked, “Do you remember me?”
Ward looked at Jones, his pupils shrinking. He finally recalled the new Inspector of the Whitechapel District.
Ward swallowed, his lips stretching into a forced grin. “Jones, old pal, that’s all in the past. Fred, the bastard, was the one who wanted to hit you, we were just following orders. Don’t take it personally.”
Jones nodded slightly. The crimson-eyed ravens behind him took flight.
“You’re right, business is business. So, I hope you won’t take it personally either, because… I’m just following orders.”
Gunshots rang out outside. On the second floor of the beerhouse, in a private room.
A young man with dark hair sat at a small round table by the window.
He was intently mixing two teapots of beverages.
One teapot held soothing milk, the other, bitter coffee. When blended in a one-to-one ratio, they created a delicate, striking shade of grey.
The Red Devil leaned against the window, the flickering flames from outside illuminating his face, revealing his rows of sharp silver teeth and the drool dripping from his lips.
“Arthur, you’re growing up. You’ve finally learned to appreciate coffee, the rich, velvety texture, far superior to the bland, immature taste of milk.”
Arthur didn’t reply, simply taking a sip from his teacup.
The coffee was indeed too bitter. Without the milk to balance it, he wouldn’t know how to swallow it.
He looked down at Jones below, a disdainful gaze. The man had shot Ward in the leg.
The Red Devil chuckled, whispering to Arthur, “Arthur, you were right to spare his life. Tom and Tony wouldn’t have been so merciful.”
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.
The door creaked open, revealing Judd Martin standing there, looking nervous, a tray in his hands.
He wiped the sweat from his brow, forcing a smile and saying, “Mr. Hastings, I’ve brought you the ham.”
(End of Chapter)