To sum up, at that ti he was blinded by greed, and in a mont of weakness, he got himself into such a big ss.
"I was just... I just couldn’t resist at that mont. She was standing at the door, holding the box, her face pale, not saying a word, and I looked at the empty state of the shop and thought if I didn’t take this job, I might not even earn enough for als this month."
"You’re overthinking it," Arthur said flatly. "Maybe yesterday was your last decent dinner for the rest of your life."
Fagin shivered and pleaded repeatedly, "Mr. Hasting, you’re a reasonable person. I know you’re the most compassionate. Back then, you even managed to bring Adam, that little rascal, back on track. Just give one more chance... I’ve really learned my lesson this ti! From now on, I won’t even dare to accept a teacup sent by a servant!"
"Did she ever say that the box was stolen?"
Fagin paused, his gaze clearly wavering.
"Be honest," Arthur added.
The old scher lowered his head, murmuring, "She didn’t say she stole it, she... she said she found it. She said while cleaning the storage room, she saw it lying lonely on old velvet, covered in dust. She said, since no one rembers it, taking it wouldn’t be stealing. Her brother was dying in the Sponging House, and this unremarkable box might be able to save his life."
Arthur didn’t respond imdiately, only tapped the counter lightly with his knuckles, pondering.
"Did she say where she lives?"
"She didn’t say, only ntioned she might co by again in the next few days to see if I’ve sold it," Fagin swallowed and added, "She said if I didn’t sell it, she would pawn it to save soone."
Arthur nodded.
"Fagin."
"Present!"
The old man reflexively straightened up.
"If she cos again, don’t say anything," Arthur stood up, took out a cheque folder from his pocket, and signed a twenty-pound check, handing it to Fagin: "Just tell her you found a sucker willing to pay fifty pounds for this box. This twenty pounds is the deposit, which should be enough for the creditor to release her brother from the Sponging House. As for the remaining money, tell her I’ll need a few days to gather it. Once you’ve scheduled the next withdrawal ti with her, send soone to 15 Lancaster Gate to find ."
Fagin nodded like a bobblehead, "Yes, yes, yes, I’ll relay your words exactly, without changing a single word."
"There’s one more thing."
"Please go ahead."
"Don’t think about running away, cooperate with properly, and I assure you nothing will happen. However..." Arthur opened the door, and a damp, cold wind before the rain gusted into the room: "If you get foolish ideas and do sothing stupid, it won’t end well, no matter if you flee to India or Tasmania."
Arthur stepped out of the Mariti Store. The street was cold and damp, and the weather before the rain was most annoying, filled with the slls of tide and coal smoke.
Years had passed, yet Greenwich’s alleys still wound with the rough vigor of a dock district.
But perhaps due to the bad weather, as the drizzle descended, that vigor was blown away by a gust of wind.
Arthur was too lazy to use an umbrella, just pulled his hat brim lower, letting the wind lift a corner of his coat.
He rembered the entrance to this street used to have a shoe repair stall, and next to it often parked a cart selling stead at pies.
The cart owner was an old man with a face full of red rashes, the only street vendor on Central Street willing to greet him. Every ti they t, he liked to take off his hat and ask: "Today’s work peaceful, Officer?"
Now that stall was gone, leaving only a few skinny stray cats that looked like phantoms, scavenging among the rotten fish bones in the corner.
Arthur strolled over the cobbled alley, heading towards Trafalgar Restaurant, when he caught sight of the Poorhouse next to Saint Alphage Church.
The heavy, weathered door remained unchanged, only now a new copper plaque hung on the iron lock, engraved with—Greenwich United Workhouse, 1834 New Poor Law Registry.
The lettering was cold and hard, as cold as iron.
For London’s lower classes, these years had indeed been tough, even worse than before.
Britain was perhaps the only country to define poverty as a cri. According to the 1824 Vagrancy Act, begging and sleeping rough without a source of inco were deed illegal.
And although the 1832 Parliant reform sparked collective jubilation among the middle class, once the civic class took the stage, Jeremy Bentham’s utilitarianism combined with the petty bourgeoisie birthed a monstrosity—the 1834 New Poor Law.
What frustrated Arthur even more was that he even knew the person who played a decisive role in the New Poor Law Commission: Lord Brougham’s private secretary, Edwin Chadwick.
Arthur and Chadwick had once closely collaborated during the cholera period, but facts proved, even as fellow followers of Jeremy Bentham, they still had different views on different issues.
The New Poor Law harbored a strong hostility towards state subsidy actions. They submitted a 13-volu report containing millions of words, striving to prove the least eligibility principle should be implented in social relief, aning that the living conditions within the Poorhouse must be worse than those of the poorest free laborers, thus preventing deliberate seeking of relief and discouraging laziness.
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