## Chapter 176: The Little Devil from Scotland
The Martin Tavern, located at 25 Brick Lane, Whitechapel Parish, was a bustling establishment despite being open for only a month. The tavern’s owner, Mr. Martin, enjoyed good relations with both the local law enforcers, Sergeant Braden Jones, and the underground queenpin, Ms. Fiona Evans. As a result, the local thugs dared not skip out on their tab, let alone cause any trouble.
Though it was a new tavern, it managed to turn a profit last month.
As the evening approached, the tavern filled with patrons, their faces illuminated by flickering oil lamps. Sailors reeking of sweat, bricklayers, and even pickpockets fresh from a successful heist, all flocked to the tavern.
The air was thick with the clamor of conversation, the clinking of mugs, and the clatter of coins as patrons enjoyed their watered-down beer, played cards, rolled dice, and gambled on high or low.
Near the bar, a gentleman in a trench coat and a wide-brimmed hat, puffing on a pipe, was engaged in a conversation with Mr. Martin. The tavern owner was practically showering the gentleman with compliments, his face beaming with obsequiousness.
Arthur gazed at the stained floor and the scattered cards and coins on the tables, asking, “Do they play these games every night?”
Mr. Martin bowed and nodded, “Mr. Hastings, you know how it is. Us working folks, we don’t have much else to entertain ourselves. We either drink or gamble. Those with empty pockets play cards, while those with a bit more money go to the races. Oh, and before the government outlawed them two years ago, we could buy lottery tickets too.
The lawmakers thought buying lottery tickets would breed laziness, increase poverty, encourage debauchery, disrupt social harmony, and even create more lunatics. But I think they’re exaggerating. After all, buying lottery tickets is a traditional British pastime. My grandfather told me we started playing this back in the 16th century, during Elizabeth I’s reign. Back then, the prizes weren’t just money, they included silverware, fabrics, and all sorts of things.
That was much more fun than our current underground lotteries…”
As Mr. Martin spoke, his face suddenly turned pale. He realized he had let slip a piece of information he shouldn’t have.
Unexpectedly, Arthur didn’t press him further. He simply stirred his coffee with a silver spoon, specially reserved for him at the Martin Tavern.
“Don’t worry,” Arthur said, “I’m off duty now, so I can’t be bothered with all that. But as a friend, I’d advise you to stay away from that stuff. These so-called underground lotteries are not much different from scams. I understand why desperate laborers might buy into it, since they don’t have many ways to make a fortune.
But you, Mr. Martin, are different. Your business is doing well. You just need to keep selling your wares honestly, and you’ll eventually live a comfortable life. Why chase after that unrealistic dream of sudden wealth? Or perhaps, this underground lottery is actually your doing?”
Mr. Martin hastily waved his hands, “Mr. Hastings, please don’t misunderstand. I might occasionally slip in a little something extra into my goods, but I’ve never done anything illegal. You should know me by now, I’m a good citizen.”
Arthur nodded, “Alright, then. Good citizen, I asked you to relay a message to Fiona a couple of days ago. Any news? A brown leather wallet, containing some money, two business cards of Mr. Eldred Carter, and a Royal Navy supply requisition slip for the Beagle. Oh, and his silver pocket watch was also stolen, a very distinctive one, it should be easy to identify.”
“Indeed, a pocket watch with a naked blonde on the back doesn’t come up often.”
Mr. Martin wiped the sweat from his forehead with a bar towel, “Mr. Hastings, your orders, I wouldn’t dare disobey. But you know, there are countless thieves in London. Even though Ms. Evans has taken over part of Fred’s business, her influence isn’t as widespread as Fred’s was. Not every fence thinks of her first when it comes to selling stolen goods.”
Arthur replied, “That may be true, but she should at least know which gangs operate in Marylebone. That little guy with the Scottish accent, he’s a seasoned pro. He managed to pick my friend’s pocket right under my nose.
If you tell me that a rookie, acting alone, was responsible for such a meticulous job, then you’re challenging my common sense as a Scotland Yard policeman.”
Mr. Martin pondered for a moment, “Did you send someone to old Fagin’s place in St. Giles? Maybe it was someone from the West End? If that’s the case, even if the goods didn’t end up with Fagin, he should at least know which crew did it.”
“Of course, I sent someone to Fagin’s.” Arthur took a sip of his coffee.
“What did he say?”
Arthur pursed his lips, “He said his boys have been keeping a low profile lately. The organized gangs in the West End were all scared off by Fred’s death, so they’ve been living off their savings. If someone really did steal a wallet with a Royal Navy supply requisition slip, any sensible thief would hand it over to Scotland Yard. So it couldn’t have been those West End ‘gentlemen’. He said that the kind of reckless, brainless thief who would pull off something like that usually hangs out in the East End.”
Mr. Martin thought about it for a moment, muttering, “Sounds reasonable. You just took down Fred, so anyone daring to act against the tide at this point must be really tired of living.”
As they were talking, they heard the sound of a door opening and a bell jingling behind them.
Several familiar-looking thugs walked into the tavern, raising their hands to greet Mr. Martin without a second thought, “Martin, we found your guy. Damn, he was hard to find. You said he had a Scottish accent, so we thought he might be one of Kyle’s guys. But then we realized he was a lone wolf, the bastard. If it wasn’t for that pocket watch being hard to fence, we wouldn’t have found him.”
Arthur turned his head and his gaze met the leader of the group.
He recognized him. It was James, the thug he had once forced to swallow his own tongue with the barrel of a gun.
James hadn’t noticed him at first, but when his eyes lowered and caught sight of Arthur, his body trembled uncontrollably. He hastily removed his hat and said, “Mr. H…Hastings?”
Mr. Martin quickly interjected, “What do I need you for? The goods! Did you bring them?”
James hurriedly pulled out a wallet from his pocket, rushed over to the counter, and placed it on the surface. “The watch, the cards, the slip, they’re all in there. But the money, the kid spent it all. Anyway, I brought the guy to you. You decide, jail or a beating, your call.”
With that, James winked at his underlings, “What are you all waiting for? Bring him in!”
“Oh, oh, oh!”
The thugs, fearing their leader’s wrath, hastily cleared a path. Then, a skinny, monkey-like thug pushed a small boy forward, his mouth stuffed with a dirty rag, his hands bound behind his back.
He grumbled as he walked, “James, next time you do this, I’m out. This little Scottish bastard’s got some strength on him, carrying him is like carrying a donkey.”
“Shut your trap!” James glared at him, then forced a smile at Arthur, “Mr. Hastings, don’t mind him, he’s new, doesn’t know our rules.”
Arthur didn’t mind. He simply stared at the little Scottish boy, whose eyes were wide with defiance, and asked, “You said he was a lone wolf, what’s that about?”
James explained, “You probably don’t know, but this kid said he walked all the way from Glasgow, Scotland, to London. He was working his way along the road. He just got to London and got caught by you. If this kid had found a good mentor after arriving in London, with his skills, he could have been someone. Of course, I’m talking about being someone in our line of work, it’s nothing compared to a respectable gentleman like you.”
“He walked all the way from Scotland to London?” Arthur found himself intrigued. He looked at the boy, who couldn’t have been older than eleven or twelve, and smiled as he stepped forward to remove the rag from his mouth. “Alright, kid, what’s your name?”
But the boy just snorted and turned his face away.
Seeing this, James slapped the boy’s cheek with the back of his hand, “Kid, do you know who this is? You steal something and still act so tough? You want to go to Magistrate’s Court? If I had half your guts back then, I’d be dead by now!”
The boy finally flinched when he heard James mention Magistrate’s Court. He pursed his lips and reluctantly gave his name, “Don’t…don’t get mad, sir. I just needed some money…I…I’m Alan Pinkerton.”
(End of Chapter)