## Chapter 87: Martin’s Tavern
After listening to Mr. Martin’s introduction, Arthur finally understood what kind of bunch these “Cambridge lads” were.
It was common knowledge that British families had a relatively weaker sense of family compared to those on the European continent. When children reached the age of seven or eight, poor families would try their best to send them to factories or various shops to work as apprentices for seven or eight years. Wealthier families and those of the middle class would consider sending their children to boarding schools or the homes of skilled relatives to learn a trade.
To compensate for the lack of family support, Britain had developed a tradition of mutual aid through private associations. While a British person might not reunite with their parents for a month, they would certainly attend various association activities every week.
These associations covered a wide range of activities: religion, learning, economics, professions, and entertainment. They encompassed almost every aspect of a British person’s life.
The so-called “Cambridge lads” were a group of young men who formed their own association for criminal activities. Their official name was “Cambridge’s Little Brothers.”
According to Mr. Martin, these young men were all from the same neighborhood and had been involved in criminal activities since they were very young.
Initially, they only engaged in petty theft, but recently they had started to actively engage in extortion, organized theft from shops, and even targeted the wealthy London West End. They would sometimes earn a reward by helping wealthy individuals recover lost pets, though in many cases, the lost pets were stolen by them in the first place.
Regardless, if you needed to find something or someone, as long as the reward was adequate, these idle young men would always find a way to help you.
Mr. Martin finished his explanation and then humbly flattered Arthur, “That… Inspector Hastings, about that tavern I asked you about last time, do you think you could pull some strings for me?”
Arthur closed his notebook filled with information and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Martin, you’re out of luck. You want to open a tavern, that’s a good ambition. But unfortunately, the tavern licenses are no longer issued by the Magistrate. Even if I pull some strings, it won’t help. You know about the ‘Beer Act’ that was passed this month? It states that tavern licenses are now issued by the Tax Office.”
“But at the same time, you’re also lucky, because according to the ‘Beer Act,’ as long as you can pay an annual license fee of two pounds and two shillings, you can apply to the Tax Office for a beer selling license. However, the selling license is only for beer. If we find you selling sherry, port, or other strong spirits in your shop, we will fine you twenty pounds. Of course, if you’re selling apple cider or pear cider, then you don’t need an extra license. Also, I’m pleased to inform you that all taxes levied on beer and cider will be abolished from the date of the ‘Beer Act’s’ enactment.”
Martin listened to Arthur’s words, first with disappointment, then with surprise.
“My God! Is that true? Inspector, you’re not pulling my leg, are you?”
Arthur put the notebook in his pocket and said, “You have to thank those people who protest in the streets every day. If it weren’t for them, the Duke of Wellington wouldn’t have suddenly come up with this ‘Beer Act.’ To get those people off the streets, the Cabinet has basically turned their backs on the Magistrates, even taking away their power to issue beer licenses. You may not know this, but when the bill successfully passed its third reading in the House of Commons, the Duke of Wellington was ecstatic. He said, ‘The successful passage of this bill is a greater victory than the Battle of Waterloo.’ But I have to remind you, I hear that the brewers and tavern owners are very unhappy with this ‘Beer Act’ because they don’t want people like you entering the beer market. If the Duke of Wellington’s Cabinet falls, the ‘Beer Act’ may be revised. So, if you’re going to open a tavern, apply for the license quickly.”
Hearing this, Martin quickly covered his forehead and exclaimed, “Oh! Damn! Thank you so much for the reminder, I’ll hurry up and apply for the license at the Tax Office!”
“Wait!” Arthur shouted at him as he was about to leave.
Mr. Martin turned back and asked, “Is there anything else?”
Arthur walked over and patted him on the shoulder, “Open a tavern, open a tavern, but since the beer tax has been abolished, at least don’t add things like green vitriol or wormwood to the beer you sell. Those things are poisonous, a little lemon juice to add flavor is enough.”
Hearing this, Martin couldn’t help but scratch the back of his head and said with a sly smile, “What are you saying, if I open a tavern, I’ll be sure to run it honestly.”
Looking at the gleam in the old man’s eyes, Arthur sighed and said, “Alright, I believe you.”
With that, he beckoned to Tom and Tony behind him and prepared to take them to the address Mr. Martin had given them.
But before they could leave, Mr. Martin called out to them again.
“Inspector Hastings!”
Arthur raised an eyebrow, “What is it?”
Martin hesitated for a moment before finally speaking with embarrassment, “If you’re going to find them, you should take your gun. I hear they might have a connection with Fred. And you know, those guys are all young, and young people’s tempers are usually… not very stable…”
…
Whitechapel district, Brick Alley 75, Black Pool Private Detective Agency.
A man wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a black raincoat suddenly burst through the door.
He walked to the front desk and tapped lightly on the desktop, waking up the burly man who was fast asleep in the office chair.
The man asked in a low voice, “Is your boss here?”
The burly man rubbed his sleepy eyes, looked up at the customer, and frowned, “Who the hell are you? Do you have a letter of introduction? We only do business with regular customers.”
The man heard this and clenched his right fist, slamming it on the desktop with a thud.
The wide-brimmed hat fell to the ground, revealing the man’s face.
He pulled a flintlock pistol from his pocket and pointed it at the burly man’s mouth, “I’m asking you, is your boss, that idiot Fred, here?!”
The burly man was startled by his sudden outburst and quickly raised his hands.
Just as the situation became tense, a heavy set of footsteps came from the stairs leading to the second floor.
“Oh! Isn’t this Sergeant Bladen Jones? Last time, you were so brave, you dared to pull your gun in front of me to catch a few grave robbers. Now you’re here with a gun again, you must have brought me a good deal, right?”
As the words fell, Jones felt the detective agency’s door creak shut behind him. Then, several guns were pointed at his head.
Fred, wearing a crumpled shirt, came down the stairs. He easily snatched Jones’ pistol with two fingers, then kicked him in the stomach, sending him flying into the chair used for entertaining guests inside the room.
Fred sat down with a thud against the corner of the table, pulled out his pipe, and put it in his mouth.
The nearby goons were quick to offer a match to light it for him.
Two puffs of smoke were exhaled. Fred rubbed his sore neck and pointed at Jones, saying to his goons, “This guy thinks he’s under Clemens’ protection and I won’t dare touch him. All of you, go in, beat him up, beat him up until I’m happy.”
There will be one more chapter today, but it will be late.
(End of Chapter)