Princess of the 19th Century Department Store - Chapter 29

Chapter 29

Westminster, St. James’s, Carlton House Terrace.

For once, the weather was reasonably clear. It had rained the night before, and though it was not yet the season of lush grass and shade, the area around the avenue by Buckingham Palace was bustling with people enjoying the rare winter sun.

The carriage crossed the avenue and came to a steady stop before one of the houses on Carlton House Terrace.

Canning was not in uniform today. He stepped down from the carriage, removed his tall black wool hat, and climbed the steps toward Clayton’s residence.

He raised a hand and rapped the brass door knocker. Before long, Ouro opened the front door from inside and familiarly welcomed Canning in, leading him from the marble-floored vestibule through the hall and into the cross hall.

“Sir just had his dressing changed and was preparing to take his midday rest.”

Canning nodded and chose to sit in a Louis XVI armchair in the hall.

“I’ll wait here for a while.”

Ouro had just nodded when a cough came from the gallery upstairs.

Clayton stood along the corridor in a flannel morning robe, leaning on his cane. He lifted the cane and tapped it against the floor tiles, his head of silver hair looking far older than it had three years ago.

“Come up and talk.”

Canning was not surprised that his godfather knew he would certainly come here today before being transferred to Whitechapel Road.

He rose and went up the curved staircase at the side. At a glance, he saw that the study door was open. Clayton was already seated inside, and Mrs. Clayton was helping him light his pipe.

Canning walked into the room. He looked around, taking in the piles of documents, letter paper, and newspapers scattered everywhere.

Mrs. Clayton rose in delighted surprise when she saw Canning. She walked over to him, circled him halfway, and looked at him with affectionate eyes.

“You went to Afghanistan three years ago and only just came back now. You’re completely different from when you were studying at Sandhurst. You’re a man now, through and through!”

Canning pressed his lips together and embraced her in a thoroughly gentlemanly fashion. Though they had not met in years, her warmth was exactly as it had been before, enough to make him feel strangely dazed for a moment.

“Have you been well?”

He asked out of courtesy.

“Of course I have. Come, sit here and have a proper talk with your father. I’ll have some afternoon tea brought in. Stay for dinner tonight, won’t you?”

Canning did not sit.

“There’s no need to trouble yourself. I plan to go straight to Whitechapel.”

Mrs. Clayton’s smile did not change in the slightest at his words. She merely nodded, then went out and closed the study door behind her.

“What is it? Have you come to denounce me?”

“I only want to know why.”

Canning turned and sat opposite Clayton. His gaze moved to Clayton’s forehead, which was still wrapped in gauze. The bullet had missed his temple by barely two centimeters.

It was said that the assassination had been the work of the Fenian Brotherhood. They were dissatisfied with the ruling party’s progress on Irish land reform and believed someone was obstructing it from within.

“It only grazed the skin.”

Clayton held his pipe, exhaling clouds of smoke, then picked up the Scotch whisky beside him and took a sip.

Canning did not know the details of the assassination, but the shocking wound before him was persuasive enough.

Clayton looked at Canning.

“Why do you think I refused to let you keep investigating?”

Canning lowered his eyes and shook his head. Last night, he had interrogated the food merchant, but the man had been tight-lipped, insisting that he had not known anything had been stuffed into the cargo, nor did he know how the shipment had passed through customs inspection.

Early this morning, a customs officer had turned himself in and taken full responsibility for the smuggled firearms, claiming it had been to help transfer them to Europe.

Canning was no fool. Customs was clearly taking the fall. The very reason he had come to Carlton House Terrace today was to find out who customs was taking the fall for.

Clayton sighed and took a document from beside him, handing it to Canning.

“Look at this.”

Canning accepted the file and lowered his head to read the densely packed writing on it.

Expressionless, Clayton said, “Fifteen years ago, when you were only eight, your parents-the then superintendent of Westminster police and his wife-were assassinated by Irishmen in Regent’s Park, in their own jurisdiction.”

“Do you think the ones behind those people were truly that mob of rioting tenant farmers from Ireland? Could they have done it?”

“Our enemy has always been hidden among the crowd. He controls a ghostly sunken ship, surfacing from time to time.

Now their shadow has already appeared, but your wings are not yet fully grown. Even if you found the truth, you would be unable to contend with them. And me?”

“Do you see this bullet mark? This is a declaration of war.”

“So go to Whitechapel and build up some capital.”

After listening to this, Canning stared straight ahead and sank into deep thought.

…

Whitechapel, Clark Street.

At night, a cold wind blew through gloomy London. Sooty smoke from Watt steam engine chimneys drifted through the air, completely blocking out the sunset glow.

Daisy watched the last customer leave, then picked up the coins from the table and tossed them into the drawer.

At the same time, her grandfather and old dad reached the front door.

Both of them had returned empty-handed. Clearly, they had already transferred the milk delivery equipment to the neighbor who had taken over the work.

Daisy took out a sheet of white paper and slowly sorted the coins before bundling them into rolls of one hundred.

Today, all three grocery stores on Dorothy Street had suspended business for half a day and only resumed normal operations in the afternoon.
Speaking of that, ever since George ran off and Lobit got into trouble, Mrs. Lobit had gathered up some private savings and taken the children away.

Lobit Grocery had been sealed off that afternoon, and they still had to wait for the agents to finish negotiating with the court.

And after the competitors restored order that afternoon, Daisy still managed to earn a few pounds.

The day’s total turnover was fifteen pounds.

The shelves at home had been emptied all over, almost hollowed out. Nearly a third of their stock had been sold.

Mr. Nash and Fred had never seen money counted like this before.

Mr. Nash picked up one roll of coins, weighed it in his hand, shook his head, and could not help sighing.

“If only every one of our peers on Dorothy Street could be locked up in jail.”

Fred chuckled twice. He only glanced at the coins, without the slightest greed in his eyes, then walked toward the kitchen and looked back to say, “We’ll have to restock first thing tomorrow morning.”

Daisy nodded and stacked all the coins neatly.

“First we’ll buy a delivery vehicle. I’ve already got my eye on a Hawken bicycle. Tomorrow we’ll go take a look at it, then buy more stock.”

At last, he would no longer have to brave the cold wind every day to deliver milk. Mr. Nash was in an excellent mood and nodded along as he listened to the arrangements.

“Then I’ll stay behind and watch the shop tomorrow. Mm, I’m sure I can do it well.”

Daisy put on a serious expression.

“What procedure did we establish?”

Mr. Nash suddenly choked. To his surprise, Daisy pulled a checklist out of the cabinet.

She handed the paper to her grandfather.

There were twelve operating rules and five memos on it, spread across several pages in large, clear handwriting.

Daisy had written out the business rules that had already become fully systematic in her mind. This manual could be used to train any retail clerk.

Whether or not they knew how to do business, whether or not they were good at talking to people, as long as they followed the items in the manual, they would definitely be able to hold down a fixed sales position.

Mr. Nash narrowed his eyes and studied the precautions on it for a long while.

The very first rule was that different product batches should be arranged in different orders, and that tidying the shelves had to become a habit.

Aside from these operational matters, there were also notes. The notes recorded special products, such as discounts and product features.

If he could not remember something, he only needed to glance at them.

After scanning it twice, Mr. Nash planned to go to the kitchen and mix up some paste so he could stick the sheet on the wall.

Some time later, the family finished dinner. The others stayed downstairs to tidy the house and prepare dough in advance.

Daisy washed up early and was the first to lie down in bed to rest.

Perhaps because she had exhausted too much energy, this body clearly could not keep up. It was as if someone had punched her. The moment her head touched the pillow, she fell asleep.

The process seemed to be erased entirely. After blacking out and waking again, it felt as if she had not slept at all.

Her whole body felt awful. With an ugly expression, she lifted her head and saw that the sky was already faintly bright.

Sure enough, a person really could not work themselves like a mule.

She sighed, and in less than half an hour, she had once again put herself together in an outfit suitable for going out.

In the grocery shop, her grandfather was already following the rules step by step, strictly completing the preparations and inspection before opening. By now, he had already opened the door to welcome customers.

When Daisy came downstairs, her father had just returned from the public water pump with two buckets of water on a carrying pole.

He also had that morning’s latest newspaper tucked under his arm, which he handed to Daisy to read.

“Have they finally found out what happened with the case?”

Even Mr. Nash was paying close attention to it.

Daisy opened the newspaper, rubbed her eyes, and read carefully.

The front page said that the reason behind the case was weapons smuggling, and that someone had already come forward to plead guilty and accept punishment.

As for the people who had swindled that batch of weapons, they were described only as an ordinary gang, not terrorists.

As for the food merchant, he had been completely cleared of suspicion of smuggling weapons. There was no evidence showing that he had orchestrated it. Perhaps he, too, had been an innocent party used by the seller.

The case had come to an end. Since the most authoritative newspaper explained it this way, any other claims would merely be hearsay, not worth taking seriously.

However, between the lines, Daisy noticed a very low-key personnel transfer notice.

It followed the report in the final few lines, bland as plain water.

Inspector Mr. Narbe of the Whitechapel police district had been transferred to Scotland Yard as a superintendent because of his fine performance in the operation to clear out black-market dealings.

And Sergeant Christie Canning of Scotland Yard, for the same reason, had also been transferred to the Whitechapel police district as chief superintendent.

When Mr. Nash saw it, his face said he had expected as much.

“Police with connections like that get promoted fast. Fast enough to spare a good many people years of slogging.

“Still, who knows whether someone like him can wade out of the muddy waters of Whitechapel.”

In any organization, someone dropped in from above was bound to block the path of the local powers. The schemes and dealings inside would be quite the trial once they started making trouble.

The moment Daisy thought about the affairs of officialdom, she could not help shaking her head. She folded the newspaper and slipped into the kitchen.

Another half hour later, she set off on foot with her father for Whitechapel Road, full of energy.