Chapter 69: This Is the East Borough

Chapter Sixty-Nine
This Is the East Borough

Inside the nearly abandoned medical college teaching building, the gathering had already ended. Audrey, who was leaving by a circuitous route, suddenly fell into a daze and saw the familiar dense gray fog, along with the blurry figure seated high at its center.

“This is a clue.”

Accompanying Mr. Fool’s deep voice was a scene like a photograph—and a colored photograph at that.

A man almost two meters tall, though not particularly burly, stood within the shadows wearing black clerical robes. His pale-yellow hair was soft and slightly curled; his dark-brown eyes hid savagery beneath their coldness; the corners of his mouth drooped slightly, making him seem withdrawn, like a lone wolf.

A clue? A clue regarding the Daravi Street explosion in the East Borough and Gavin’s accidental drowning? Is this the murderer?

Audrey froze briefly, then immediately understood.

Mr. Fool already has a clue… He is truly amazing. No—He is omnipotent…

After sighing inwardly with admiration, she turned to look at Fors beside her.

Fors had just removed her mask and surgical cap and climbed into the carriage when she noticed Miss Audrey’s slightly peculiar gaze. She immediately asked in puzzlement, “Is there something on my face?”

“No.”

Audrey withdrew her gaze, followed her in, and began removing her own disguise.

Recalling the gathering earlier, Fors asked with some curiosity, “Miss Audrey, why did you not purchase the Spectator formula? Only then would you have a chance of establishing contact with the Psychology Alchemists.”

She remembered that the generous and magnanimous Miss Audrey had stayed silent almost the entire time. For most of the gathering, she had only listened. She had merely sold some materials containing spirituality and bought other varieties in return.

Audrey gave a shallow smile.

“This was my first gathering in this circle. I believe observing and waiting were more important.

“I look forward to potion formulas, and I look forward even more to mystical items. But I told myself there was no need to rush. Becoming familiar first, then taking action, is the better strategy.”

This is also a professional habit of the Spectator pathway. And materials Mr. World wants, such as Evil-patterned Black Panther spinal fluid and Elven Spring pith crystals, did not appear either…

Audrey silently added.

Fors looked at the girl not yet eighteen years old and suddenly felt that she seemed more mature than ever before.

Then Fors laughed self-mockingly.

“If I had been able to act like you back then, I would not have wasted such a precious opportunity.”

Audrey responded with a reserved smile, then changed the subject.

“Tomorrow morning, I will ask certain special friends whether they have any clues regarding the Daravi Street explosion. You and Xio can wait for news at the old place.”

“All right,” Fors said, nodding without suspicion.

…

Klein did not return to Minsk Street that night. Instead, he slept directly in the one-room apartment on Black Palm Street in the East Borough.

He feared that the black-clerical-robed man suspected of being the murderer might have accomplices, and that they were currently searching the streets for him.

Although the chance of running into them was not high, and he had been disguised earlier, meaning the other party most likely would not recognize him, the divination result had indicated a certain possibility. Therefore, Klein chose caution and made do for the night in the East Borough.

At first light, he changed into another set of dark-blue worker’s clothes, put on a light-brown peaked cap, left the room, descended the staircase, and entered the street.

At that moment, pale-white mist tinged with yellow filled the surroundings. Passing figures were blurry, and the chill of early morning seeped into his clothes.

Klein lowered his head and walked hurriedly, no different from the early-rising pedestrians around him on their way to work.

As he moved, he saw a middle-aged-to-elderly man in his forties or fifties ahead. His temples were graying, and he wore a thick jacket. He was constantly stamping his feet and shivering as he tremblingly took a rolled cigarette and an almost empty box of matches from an inner pocket.

Just as he opened the matchbox, his right hand suddenly shook. The wrinkled cigarette fell to the ground and rolled to Klein’s feet.

Klein stopped, casually picked it up, and handed it back.

“Thank you, thank you! This is my old companion. There aren’t many left.”

The middle-aged-to-elderly man thanked him sincerely and accepted the cigarette.

His face was bluish white. His beard looked as though it had not been shaved for a long time, and exhaustion showed without concealment from the corners of his eyes and brows. He sighed and added, “Another night without sleep. I don’t know how many more days I can last. I hope the Lord blesses me and lets me get into the workhouse today.”

A homeless man driven out of shelters…

Klein casually asked, “Why do the King and the ministers not allow you to sleep in parks?”

“Who knows? But in this weather, if you sleep outside, maybe you never wake up again. Daytime is better. You can find somewhere warmer. Sigh. But that leaves no time and no strength to look for work.”

The middle-aged-to-elderly man lit the cigarette and took a beautiful drag.

His energy seemed to recover a little from it. He walked side by side with Klein, moving toward some place that might be at the end of the fog—or deeper inside it.

Klein had no intention of small talk and planned to quicken his steps to shake him off. But at that moment, he suddenly saw the man, who had spoken so clearly and logically, bend down and pick up something black from the ground.

It seemed to be an apple core that had been gnawed clean.

The man swallowed. Then he stuffed the dirty core, covered in mud, into his mouth, crunched it to pieces, and skillfully ate it all without leaving the slightest remnant.

Seeing Klein’s astonished gaze, he wiped his mouth, shrugged, and gave a bitter smile.

“I haven’t eaten in almost three days.”

Those words abruptly struck Klein’s heart, stirring something difficult to describe.

He sighed silently and smiled.

“My apologies. I did not introduce myself earlier. I am a reporter, and I am writing a report on homeless people. May I interview you? Let us go to the café ahead.”

The middle-aged-to-elderly man froze, then smiled.

“No problem. It’s much warmer inside than out here.

“If after the interview, you can stay a little longer and let me sleep inside for half an hour—no, fifteen minutes—that would be even better.”

Klein opened his mouth, only to find himself unable to answer. In the end, he simply led his “interview subject” into the cheap café at the street corner in silence.

The tables and chairs inside the café were rather greasy. Since it had walls, windows, and quite a few customers, its average temperature was indeed much higher than the street outside.

The man scratched his throat, trying to hide the movement of his Adam’s apple as it stirred at the smell of food.

Klein gestured for him to sit. Then he went to the counter and ordered two large cups of tea, one plate of tender peas stewed with lamb, two loaves of bread, two pieces of toast, one portion of inferior butter, and one portion of artificial cream. In total, it cost seventeen and a half pence.

“Eat. Only once you are full can I conduct the interview.”

Once all the food was ready, Klein carried it back to their table.

“For me?”

The middle-aged-to-elderly man asked, both expectant and astonished.

“Except for one piece of toast and one cup of tea, the rest is yours,” Klein said with a smile.

The man wiped his eyes and said in a slightly choked voice, “You… you truly are a kind gentleman.”

“After starving for so long, do not eat too quickly,” Klein reminded him.

“I know. An old companion of mine died that way.”

The middle-aged-to-elderly man struggled to slow his eating speed. Every now and then, he lifted the tea and drank several large gulps.

Klein quickly finished his toast, then sat quietly and watched, waiting for the other party to finish eating.

“Hoo. I haven’t been this full in three months—no, half a year. In the workhouse, the food is only just enough.”

After a while, the middle-aged-to-elderly gentleman put down his spoon. The plate before him was empty.

Pretending to be a reporter, Klein casually asked, “How did you become homeless?”

“It was bad luck. I used to be a pretty decent worker. I had a wife and two lovely children, one boy and one girl. But a few years ago, an infectious disease took them. I also stayed in the hospital a long time. I lost my work, my wealth, and my family. From then on, I often could not find work, had no money for rent, had no money for food, and could only drift through different streets and certain parks. That made me weak, and being weak made it even harder to find work…”

The middle-aged-to-elderly man spoke numbly, yet within that numbness were traces of reminiscence and grief.

He drank some tea and sighed again.

“I can only wait for a chance to enter the workhouse. But you know how it is. Every workhouse has a limit. If I am lucky and line up in time, I can live properly for a few days, recover some strength, and then find temporary work. Mm, temporary. Very soon, I lose the job again, and the whole process repeats. I do not know how much longer I can keep going like this.

“I should have been a good worker.”

Klein thought for a moment and asked, “How many cigarettes do you still have?”

“Not many.”

The man smiled bitterly.

“They are my last possessions, the only things I had left when my landlord threw me out. Heh. When you enter a workhouse, you cannot bring them in. I hide them secretly in the seams of my clothes. Only when things are most difficult do I take one out and smoke, so I still have something to look forward to. I don’t know how much longer I can hold on. Let me tell you, I used to be a good worker.”

Klein was not a professional reporter. For a moment, he did not know what else to ask.

He turned toward the window and saw face after face bearing the obvious colors of hunger.

Some were still comparatively clear-headed; those were residents of the East Borough. Some were numb and exhausted to the point that they no longer seemed human; those were homeless people.

There was no clear boundary between the two. The former could easily become the latter—just like the gentleman before me…

Klein turned back, only to discover that the middle-aged-to-elderly man had fallen asleep, curled up on the chair.

After several silent minutes, Klein walked over, woke him, and gave him a handful of copper pennies.

“This is the interview fee.”

“All—all right. Thank you, thank you!”

For a moment, the man had not fully come back to himself. Only when Klein reached the door did he raise his voice.

“I’ll go to a cheap inn, take a bath, sleep properly, and then look for work!”

…

At noon, Klein attended a luncheon at the Sammer household. There were ten guests in total.

There was apple juice with steak, roast chicken, fried fish, sausages, cream soup, plenty of fine food, two bottles of champagne, and one bottle of red wine.

On his way back from the washroom, he encountered Madam Stelyn Sammer and sincerely thanked her.

“This was a very generous lunch. Thank you for your hospitality.”

“It cost four pounds eight soli in total. The most expensive part was the three bottles of wine, but those were Luke’s collection. He has a wine cabinet.”

Madam Stelyn, whose appearance could still be called pretty, responded with a smile.

Before Klein could speak, she changed the subject.

“Just with Mary’s matter, you earned ten pounds. If you can maintain such good luck, you will soon be able to host similar banquets. For people of our class, every month one should invite friends once and be invited by friends once.”

Klein had long grown used to her style. He politely offered a compliment.

“Mm. But I will probably need a stable annual income of four hundred pounds before I can do as you do.”

Stelyn instantly lifted her chin slightly, making an effort to keep her smile shallow.

“Four hundred and thirty pounds. It has to be four hundred and thirty.”

…

The Dock Borough, East Balam Dock, Workers’ Union Tavern.

Xio wore boots padded much higher than usual and had pasted on a thick beard, making herself look like a short man.

She recalled the portrait she had seen from Miss Audrey and worked hard to engrave the suspected murderer’s appearance into her mind.

If Gavin was killed by him too, then he may often appear in this tavern…

Xio ordered a mug of rye beer and a lunch, shrank into a corner, and slowly ate. Every now and then, she covertly examined the surroundings, searching for the target.

After a while, the tavern door was pushed open again. Reflexively, Xio looked over.

At that glance, her pupils shrank to pinpoints, and she nearly turned into a stone statue.

The customer who had entered was nearly two meters tall!