Chapter 91: Resolution

Chapter Ninety-One
Resolution

The images began to twist, blur, and disappear.

Klein broke free from that dreamlike experience. His vision adjusted to the dimness of the bedroom.

He knew that with a weekly salary of one pound ten soli—thirty soli—his elder brother Benson had found it quite difficult, by ordinary civilian standards, to support him and Melissa.

He had assumed that most workers’ weekly wages could reach twenty soli.

He had heard Melissa mention that in Lower Street, on Iron Cross Street, some families of five, seven, even ten people lived in a single room.

From Benson, he knew that during the previous few months, influenced by the situation in the Southern Continent, the Kingdom had entered an economic downturn.

He understood that maidservants who performed miscellaneous work while receiving room and board could earn between three soli six pence and six soli per week.

Klein lifted his hand, pinched the space between his brows, and remained silent for a very long time.

Only after Sir Deweyville, lying on the bed, spoke did he finally return.

“Officer, are you not going to say something? The psychiatrists I invited before would usually talk with me in this sort of environment and ask questions.”

“However, I did feel peace. I nearly fell asleep just now, yet I heard no groaning or weeping.”

“How did you manage it?”

Klein leaned against the rocking chair’s back. Instead of answering, he asked in a calm voice, “Sir, do you know of lead poisoning? Do you know the harm caused by lead?”

“…”

Deweyville, still lying on the bed, fell silent for several seconds.

“I did not know before. Later, I learned. Do you mean that my psychological problem, or my mental illness, comes from guilt? Guilt toward those female lead workers and glazing workers?”

Without waiting for Klein to answer, he began speaking on his own, as though he were seizing the initiative in a negotiation.

“Yes. I did once feel guilty. But I have long since compensated them.

“In my white-lead factory and porcelain factories, every worker receives considerably more pay than they would in other places of the same type. In Backlund, the weekly wages for women working with lead or glazing do not exceed eight soli. I pay them ten soli, or even more.

“Heh. No small number of people accused me of robbing them of moral ground and making it difficult for them to hire workers. If not for the repeal of the Corn Laws, forcing many farmers into bankruptcy and into the cities, they would have had to raise wages along with me.

“Moreover, I told the factory supervisors to remove workers who repeatedly experienced headaches or blurred vision from places where they would contact lead. If they were seriously ill, they could apply for assistance from my charity fund.

“I believe I have done enough.”

Klein’s tone contained not the slightest ripple.

“Sir, sometimes, you can never imagine how important a single wage is to a poor person. Even one or two weeks of unemployment can cause irreversible damage to their families—damage tragic beyond measure.”

He paused, then turned the question in another direction.

“I am curious. With so much love for others, why did you not install equipment in the factories to protect against dust and lead poisoning?”

Deweyville looked at the ceiling and gave a bitter laugh.

“That would raise my costs to a point I could not accept at all. I would be completely unable to compete against other lead and porcelain factories. I already do not care much about profit in this area, and am even willing to subsidize a portion with my own money. But if things always remain that way, what meaning would it have? It could help only a very small portion of workers, and could never become an industry standard or drive others to change.

“It would evolve into me purely spending money to support people. I have heard that some factories still secretly use slaves in order to save costs.”

Klein interlaced his hands and remained silent for a while.

“Sir, your psychological problem comes precisely from guilt accumulated bit by bit. Although you believed it had faded and disappeared, it had not. Originally, it would not have created any obvious effect. But one event stimulated you and ignited all of these problems at once—completely ignited them.”

“An event stimulated me? I am unaware of any such event,” Deweyville said, confused yet certain.

Klein let his body rock gently with the chair and explained in an even tone.

“Just now, you actually slept for several minutes and told me something.”

“Hypnosis treatment?” Deweyville instinctively guessed and drew his conclusion in advance.

Klein did not give a direct response.

“You once saw, from your carriage, a female worker who had died on the way to work. She died from lead poisoning. In life, she glazed porcelain for you.”

“…”

Deweyville rubbed both sides of his temples and muttered uncertainly, “It seems there was such a thing… But I cannot remember it clearly…”

Long-term insomnia had greatly worsened his mental condition. Faintly, he did seem to have seen such a scene before.

After thinking for a moment, he stopped tormenting his poor brain and asked instead, “What was that worker’s name?”

“Mm. I mean, what should I do to treat my psychological problem?”

Klein answered low and concise, “Two things.

“First, the woman who died by the roadside was named Helene Walker. You told me this yourself. She was the most direct stimulus. Therefore, you need to find her parents and give them greater compensation.

“Second, widely publicize the dangers of lead in newspapers and magazines, and have your charity fund help more workers who have suffered damage. If you can become a member of the House of Lords, then push for legislation in this area.”

Deweyville slowly sat up and smiled self-mockingly.

“I will do the other things, but legislation… heh. I believe there is no possibility of that whatsoever, because competitors abroad still exist. Legislation would only push these industries in the Kingdom into an overall crisis, one bankruptcy after another, and a large number of workers would lose their jobs. The poor relief organizations could never save that many people.”

He turned and got out of bed, adjusting his collar. Looking toward Klein, he said, “Helene Walker, yes? I will immediately have Kallen go to the porcelain factory and obtain her records, then bring her parents here. Officer, please wait here with me and assess my mental state at all times.”

“All right.”

Klein slowly stood and patted the black-and-white checkered police uniform he wore.

…

Eleven in the morning, in the first-floor living room of Deweyville’s residence.

Klein, who had barely spoken since then, sat on a single sofa and silently watched as a man and woman were led in by Butler Kallen.

The two guests had rough skin, and wrinkles had already begun to appear on their faces. The man’s back was slightly hunched; the woman had a black mole on her eyelid.

They matched more or less what Klein had seen through Helene, though they were older, more gaunt, and more withered. They were so thin one could nearly see their bones. Their clothes were old and ragged. According to what was said, they had nearly reached the point where they could no longer even live on Lower Street of Iron Cross Street.

Woo…

In Klein’s inspiration, a cold wind began to spiral.

He pinched the space between his brows and turned his gaze toward Sir Deweyville. Behind the man, at some unknown moment, a pale-white, transparent, distorted figure had appeared.

“Good—good morning, honorable Sir.”

Helene’s parents bowed with extreme restraint.

Deweyville rubbed his forehead and asked, “You are Helene Walker’s parents? Did she not also have a brother, and a two-year-old sister?”

Helene’s mother answered fearfully, “Her—her brother broke his leg at the docks not long ago. Broke his leg. We had him stay home to look after his little sister.”

Deweyville remained silent for several seconds, then sighed.

“I deeply sympathize with Helene’s misfortune.”

Hearing that, Helene’s father and mother’s eyes reddened at once. They each began speaking, their words tangled over one another.

“Thank you. Thank you for your kindness.”

“The police told us—told us Helene died because of lead poisoning. That should be the word, yes? Oh, my poor child. She was only seventeen. She was always so quiet, so stubborn.”

“You sent someone to see her and helped pay for the burial. She is buried in Raphael Cemetery.”

Deweyville glanced at Klein, changed his sitting posture, and leaned forward. His tone was heavy.

“This was, in truth, our negligence. I owe you an apology.

“I have considered the matter. I must compensate you. Compensate Helene. Her weekly wage was ten soli, yes? That is five hundred and twenty soli a year. Mm, twenty-six pounds. Let us assume she could have worked at least ten more years.

“Kallen, give Helene’s parents three hundred pounds.”

“Th-three hundred pounds?”

Helene’s father and mother were both stunned.

Even when they had been most comfortable, the savings in their hands had never exceeded one pound.

Not only them: the bodyguards and servants in the living room all showed astonishment and envy. Even Sergeant Gate could not help breathing more heavily. His weekly salary was only two pounds, while the constables under him, with only one “V” on their shoulders, earned merely one pound.

Within an indescribable silence, Butler Kallen came out of the study carrying a bulging cloth bag.

He opened the bag, revealing stack after stack of banknotes inside: some worth one pound, some five pounds, but the majority were one-soli and five-soli notes.

Clearly, Deweyville had sent someone to the bank in advance to exchange for “small change.”

“This is Sir’s goodwill.”

After receiving his master’s approval, Kallen handed the cloth bag to Helene’s parents.

Helene’s father and mother accepted it, rubbing their eyes and looking at it again and again.

“No. This—this is far too generous. We should not accept it.”

They clutched the bag tightly as they spoke.

Deweyville said in a deep voice, “This is what Helene should have received.”

“You—you truly are a noble and merciful gentleman!”

Helene’s parents bowed repeatedly in agitation.

Smiles appeared on their faces—unrestrained smiles that could not be held back.

They praised Sir Deweyville again and again. They repeated the few adjectives they knew over and over. They said, time after time, that Helene in heaven would surely be grateful to him.

“Kallen, send someone to escort them home. Mm, send them to the bank first,” Deweyville said to the butler, breathing out in relief.

Helene’s father and mother hugged the cloth bag tightly, not daring to linger, and hurried toward the door.

Klein saw the pale-white, transparent figure behind Sir Deweyville try to reach out toward them, try to follow them and leave. But they smiled with extraordinary brightness and never turned back.

The figure grew paler and paler. Very quickly, it vanished completely.

In Klein’s senses, the coldness in the living room returned to normal all at once.

From beginning to end, he had merely watched in silence and offered no opinion.

“Officer, I feel much better now. Can you tell me why my butler, servants, and bodyguards could hear the weeping and groaning as well? Should this not have been only my psychological problem?”

Deweyville looked over curiously.

Inspector Tolle, who knew the true situation, suddenly became nervous.

With no expression on his face, Klein answered, “In psychology, we call this phenomenon mass hysteria.”