Heyman found himself torn.
He worked hard to give his family a better life, and a gas lamp clearly promised to improve their quality of living significantly.
"How much do we have in savings?" he asked his wife.
"Eleven pounds," she said with hopeful eyes. "It's enough."
Heyman flashed a charming smile. "Alright, let's buy a gas lamp."
There's nothing more attractive than a man confidently saying, "Let's buy it."
His wife squealed with delight and kissed him on the cheek, but then hesitated.
"Jim, you don't think… this might be a scam, do you?"
Her concern wasn't baseless—London at the ti had more scams than it had rainstorms, and people had grown wary of being duped.
"Don't worry about that," Heyman said, wrapping an arm around her. "I've seen the gas lamps at City Hall with my own eyes. The mayor even gave a speech there…"
Across the street, in the Brooke household.
"I was standing right behind the mayor, surrounded by reporters," said Stephen Brooke, a junior official at City Hall, as he cut into his steak. "This project isn't just being watched by all of London; the entire UK has eyes on it. There's no room for mistakes."
At the dining table, his father, old Mr. Brooke, nodded thoughtfully.
"Eight pounds doesn't sound unreasonable—if it works as advertised." He glanced at his son. "But one thing puzzles : why is Flash Company offering free gas line installations? They could easily charge the ten pounds and still make money."
Brooke chuckled. "Because they're late."
He wiped his mouth before continuing:
"That company has been cursed with bad luck. First, their chief engineer fled to Arica because of debts. Then, a murder investigation held up construction when they found a body at the site.
"And in May, a madwoman set their coal storage on fire! Ha! It's no wonder they missed their deadlines and now face heavy penalties.
"To pacify their shareholders, they've had to think creatively—like boosting gas lamp sales with this promotional offer."
This explanation, passed through City Hall's gossip mill, was crafted by sr himself. He and Carona had considered every possible doubt, patching the story so thoroughly that even a modern detective like Sherlock Hols would likely end up buying a lamp.
Inside Flash Company's office.
Steller handed a sales report to Carona, his expression glum.
"We've sold only 1,600 lamps so far. We spent over 4,000 pounds on advertising, and after deducting the cost of that gas generator setup, we've barely made 20,000 francs."
"That's just the first week," Carona said casually. "If you want faster sales, raise the price to 8 pounds and 10 shillings, and spread rumors that prices will rise again next month."
He waved dismissively. "Besides, selling gas lamps has never been our primary way of making money."
Steller blinked. "There's another revenue stream?"
"Of course, Mr. General Manager." Carona smiled slyly. "Right now, sr—oh, pardon , Baron Kevin Watson—is busy closing a 'major deal.'"
At an upscale mansion on Kensington Street, a high-society cocktail party was in full swing. The guests included prominent socialites and wealthy rchants.
In a quieter corner of the venue, Baron Watson—forrly known as sr—appeared entirely transford. Gone was the gaudy nouveau-riche persona he'd flaunted in Austria. Now, with neatly trimd facial hair and an air of composed elegance, he could pass for a seasoned aristocrat.
"Baron Watson, can't you share just a hint of what's coming?"
The persistent plea ca from a handso, blue-eyed man in his thirties, who followed him closely. "If not for , then at least for my sister's sake."
ntioning his sister finally elicited a reaction. Watson's expression softened—after all, he'd spent the previous evening in delightful company with the lovely Miss Helen Elvis.
"You already know?"
"Of course," the man replied. "Helen likes you, and I fully support the match. After all, we're practically family now."
"Alright then, Sir Elvis," Watson sighed, feigning reluctance. "But you must keep this to yourself."
"You have my word. My lips are sealed tighter than a cork in a wine bottle."
Watson leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice. "Flash Company is about to issue high-interest bonds through the rcantile Credit Bank, offering an annual yield of 35%."
"Thirty-five percent?!" Elvis exclaid, astonished.
Watson nodded, maintaining an air of nonchalance. "Indeed. You might not know this, but Flash Company's stellar performance on the London gas streetlamp project has secured contracts for similar projects in Birmingham, Manchester, and Liverpool.
"Reliable sources even suggest they'll be handling the gas streetlamps in Lille, France."
"Really?" Elvis's eyes widened. "That many cities need gas lamps?"
"Absolutely. Our Pri Minister can't afford to let the French outshine us. Since Paris got its gas streetlamps first, we'll ensure even more British cities light up."
"But why would Lille hire…"
"Ah, my dear Elvis," Watson smirked knowingly, "a few bribes to greedy officials can make anything possible. But starting so many projects simultaneously requires a massive influx of funds. Flash Company doesn't want to share profits with other firms, so they're issuing bonds instead."
Elvis, recalling the recent frenzy over gas lamps in London, had no doubts about Flash Company's capabilities. He nodded eagerly.
"I've got so cash on hand—maybe I should invest…"
Watson shook his head. "These bonds aren't available to the public. Such high yields are reserved for internal investors only."
Elvis grabbed Watson's arm in desperation. "You have to help !"
Watson sighed theatrically. "Fine. Since we're practically family, I'll see if I can introduce you to Mr. Goldsmith."
The rcantile Credit Bank, owned by Goldsmith, was handling the bond issuance. This was part of the comrcial benefits Joseph had promised Goldsmith, now materializing through Flash Company's financial operations.
The next day, Sir Elvis traveled to Birmingham to personally investigate the gas streetlamp project.
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