The Shadow of Great Britain

65: Chapter 26: At the Crossroads of Storm 65: Chapter 26: At the Crossroads of Storm The public carriage rattled along the streets of London.

Inside the carriage, Arthur was reading a freshly printed newspaper, with a pile of old ones beside him.

For more than a month, he had devoted almost all his energy to learning chemical knowledge, improving his skills in case investigation, and searching for traces of the “thief general,” Fred.

Having just had a moment of respite, he had taken on the task of investigating the St Giles disappearance from the Duke of Sussex.

Yesterday, he had learned from the innkeeper Wells about the dark trade of “body snatching,” and he had immediately drawn some astute officers from the Greenwich Police District to pursue the gang behind the murders.

The team worked through the night and, based on Wells’s testimony, secretly arrested two suspects involved in “murder for sale of corpses” in several houses in the Greenwich District.

In truth, Wells knew of more murderers than just those two, but with the commotion at Wells’s inn yesterday, those killers with a higher sense of alertness had already left London beforehand.

This morning, Arthur had already dispatched someone to report the circumstances of the “murder for the sale of corpses case” to Scotland Yard.

And Scotland Yard reacted promptly, almost immediately upon receiving the news, they sent messengers posthaste to the headquarters of the police districts in England and Wales, Scotland, and Ireland to relay the details of the case.

Of course, to prevent alarming the body sellers who were still unaware and to avoid causing unnecessary panic among the Londoners, Scotland Yard also requested Arthur and the officers in the know to remain silent until the truth was fully revealed.

To this request, Arthur had expressed no objections, as that had been his intention from the start.

A case of this magnitude could not possibly be thoroughly investigated by the resources of the Greenwich Police District alone.

For Arthur, getting a good start and drawing the serious attention of the Greater London Police Department to the case was already quite satisfying.

After all, no matter how the investigation was conducted, the final report could not bypass him, the initiator.

Moreover, according to regulations, a case of such importance would not fall under the jurisdiction of a subdivision like theirs; the Greater London Police Department had special criminal and operations divisions for this purpose.

The person in charge of this department was an Assistant Commissioner from Scotland Yard; Arthur, a mere Police Superintendent, had no wish to wrestle with him.

In the end, the world was still a foul place.

Even though Arthur was a rocket-promoted figure with support from behind, who knew who was backing that Assistant Commissioner from Scotland Yard?

A simple chartmaker from the Beagle like Eld had an uncle who held the rank of Lieutenant General in the Royal Navy; it wouldn’t seem excessive for the Assistant Commissioner of Scotland Yard to have a father who was a former Army Lieutenant General.

What mattered most was that Arthur was well aware that Sir Peel’s support for him was quite limited.

He understood his place in Sir Peel’s heart, which was to step in and take a few bullets for him when needed.

With his current stature, he preferred not to get entangled in any upper-class power struggles.

If Scotland Yard wished to have him lead the investigation, Arthur could certainly recite a few lines of Shakespeare’s poetry, then perform a sequence of thrice refusing and finally accept the task with feigned reluctance.

And if Scotland Yard was not so inclined, Arthur had no interest in toiling away.

After all, he had already found the leads to the big case Sir Peel had requested.

Surely as the Home Secretary, Sir Peel could not go back on his word regarding the raise for frontline police officers?

If he really did renege, even if Arthur could swallow such an insult, others definitely would not.

And if someone with a loose mouth accidentally leaked the news to Charles Dickens, a journalist currently investigating the dirty dealings of the Whig Party on behalf of the Tory Party, wouldn’t that make everyone look bad?

After transferring the main investigative authority over the case to the headquarters, Arthur suddenly felt his burden lighten considerably, allowing him to focus on how to treat the little girl named Robin’s illness.

Even the simple newspaper in his hand became enjoyable to read.

Skimming through the headlines of the past month, he sensed that the Cabinet led by the Duke of Wellington and Sir Peel must have had a rough time.

From the news headlines, it was evident that the extremist factions within the Whig and Tory parties were going all out.

“Catholic Emancipation Act passable through vote due to political corruption”

“Charlatan Peel subject to consecutive questioning by Oxford University, rumors suggest they are considering removing Peel from their alumni list”

“Wellington and Peel both have long-term employment history in Ireland”

“Insiders claim the Prime Minister and the Home Secretary have long accepted political donations from Irish Catholics”

“A rotten electoral system, the Tory Party engages in large-scale bribery elections, manipulating the operation of the nation”

“For £3000, one could buy a seat in the House of Commons; those sitting in the Parliament building are not the ruling party but a bunch of freeloaders”

Among a host of newspapers and magazines, “The Poor Man’s Political Monthly,” founded by the renowned radical William Cobbett, was the most eye-catching to Arthur.

Agares, who had been idle, just glanced over and was instantly amused by the content, as the Red Devil laughed so hard that sparks flew from its mouth.

The reform of Parliament can be delayed no longer; the entire nation’s voting population accounts for less than two percent!

In the 202 constituencies established in the time of Edward I in the 13th century, 88 towns have now dwindled to fewer than 200 people; constituencies must be redistributed.

Birmingham and Manchester have a population of over three hundred thousand but only two Representatives, while Gatton Town has five residents and they elect two as well!

Rumor has it!

Owing to the Cabinet’s request for this magazine to verify the accuracy of related reports, after a thorough investigation, it has been confirmed that the above content is indeed false information spread by the Whig Party.

This magazine hereby clarifies on behalf of the Tory Party: Gatton Town indeed has five residents, but only three of them are eligible to vote, so in fact, it’s three people electing two, not five electing two!

Rumor debunked again!

The situation of Gatton Town is an exceptional case, and after detailed investigation by this magazine, it has been found that the election situation of most so-called decayed constituencies is much better than Gatton Town.

Silu Town has 55 residents, with 12 eligible voters; the election ratio is six to one.

And the old Salem constituency now is nothing but farmland, with no residents, yet there are seven people with voting rights.

Therefore, this magazine reasonably suspects that the appearance of these individuals must be due to a divine act of God, as all the local voters have been miraculously resurrected from the Middle Ages by His power.

Shocking!

Every time there’s an election, the Royal Navy conducts large-scale reviews at sea!

Rumor debunked!

After investigating, this magazine has clarified that the ships seen during election time are not the Royal Navy conducting drills but constituents submerged by the sea carrying out their routine voting.

According to sources, persisting in not reforming these sunken constituencies could provide the Royal Navy with a significant number of skilled sailors.

Thinking of engaging in a sea battle with Great Britain?

Do you know where you lost, Napoleon, France?

Arthur flipped through “The Poor Man’s Political Monthly” quietly, surreptitiously stuffing it into his pocket.

Seeing his action, Agares asked with a cheeky smile, “Arthur, what are you doing?

Afraid of being seen reading improper publications as a Police Superintendent of Scotland Yard?”

Hearing this, Arthur shook his head and lowered his voice, “You don’t understand, Agares.

I have to keep this issue well-preserved; it’s sure to appreciate in value if I sell it at a secondhand bookstore later on.”

The Red Devil grinned and tempted him, “It seems that the Cabinet’s days won’t be easy; the Whig Party has become united as one for the reform of Parliament, and even the extremist faction in the Tory Party has turned against them because of the Catholic Emancipation Act.

If you could give Robert Peel a hand now, he would certainly be grateful to you.”

Arthur looked at the Red Devil for a while and then narrowed his eyes, “The matter of Parliament reform isn’t something that can be suppressed by handling a few cases, Agares.

You’re trying to push me into the fire pit.”

“No, no, no, it might be suppressed, but not now.”

Agares smacked his lips as if pondering the taste of souls, “The time hasn’t come yet.

Your old King is about to die, and his death will ease some of the tensions.

After his death, Arthur, your chance will come.

Trust me, it’s a good opportunity.

But until then, you must be patient.

Remember, no matter what happens, you must be patient.”

Upon hearing this, Arthur’s brows slowly furrowed, “Agares, you always talk in such a way that people can’t fully comprehend.”

“Really?” the Red Devil rubbed his hands and chuckled sinisterly, “Arthur, you’re still too young, and your will isn’t as resolute as Solomon’s was.

I don’t tell you certain things because you shouldn’t know them.

It’s all for your own good.”

Arthur sneered, “How would I know if I should know them if you didn’t tell me?

Agares, that flimflam might fool others, but don’t try using it on me.”

No sooner had Arthur finished speaking than the carriage came to a leisurely stop.

The coachman opened the window and, looking back at Arthur, said, “Officer sir, we’ve arrived at Gresham College.

This is as far as I can take you; they don’t allow entry into the Royal Society.”