The Shadow of Great Britain

92: Chapter 52 Martin’s Pub 92: Chapter 52 Martin’s Pub After listening to Mr.

Martin’s introduction, Arthur finally understood what that Cambridge group he mentioned really was.

As is known, British family consciousness is relatively indifferent compared to the families on the European Continent.

When children reach the age of seven or eight, poor families usually try their best to send them to factories or various shops as apprentices for seven or eight years, while wealthy and middle-class families also consider sending their children to boarding schools, or to skilled relatives to learn a trade.

Accordingly, to fill the void of lacking family support, Britain has developed a tradition of mutual assistance through civil associations.

Perhaps a Briton might not reunite with their parents even once a month, but they will definitely attend various association activities every week.

The range of associations is very extensive, including religion, education, economy, profession, and entertainment, which cover almost every aspect of British life.

And this so-called group from Cambridge is actually an association formed spontaneously by a bunch of young people living by crime, and its formal name should be ‘The Little Brothers of Cambridge.’

According to Mr.

Martin, these young people almost all come from one neighborhood and have been involved in criminal activities together since a very young age.

At first, they only committed petty theft, but recently, they have started engaging in premeditated scams and organized shoplifting.

Sometimes, they also stroll around the affluent West London, earning some rewards by finding lost pets for the wealthy.

Of course, many times, the lost pets in question were actually stolen by them.

But no matter what, if you want to find something or someone, as long as the reward is right, these idle young people will always find a way for you.

After Mr.

Martin finished speaking, he beseechingly said in a humble tone, “That…

Police Superintendent Hastings, last time I asked you about that pub matter, do you think you could pull some strings for me?”

Arthur closed the notebook full of information and said, “I’m sorry, Mr.

Martin, you’re out of luck.

Your aspiration to open a pub is indeed very commendable.

Unfortunately, the license to operate a pub is no longer issued by the magistrates responsible for public order, so even if I tried to pull strings for you, it would be of no use.

Do you know about the Beer Act that was just passed this month?

It stipulates that the license for operating a pub will now be issued uniformly by the Tax Office.

But at the same time, you’re also quite fortunate because according to the Beer Act, as long as you can pay an annual tax of 2 pounds and 2 shillings, you can apply to the Tax Office for a beer selling license.

However, the license is only limited to the sale of beer; if we find that you are selling sherry, port, or other strong liquors in your pub, you will be fined 20 pounds.

Of course, if you are selling cider or perry or the like, you don’t need an additional permit.

Additionally, I have the honor to inform you that all taxes levied on beer and cider will be abolished starting from the day the Beer Act is issued.”

After hearing Arthur’s words, Martin first felt disappointed, then surprised.

“My God!

Could there be such good news?

Superintendent, you’re not just teasing me, are you?”

Arthur tucked the notebook into his chest, “You should thank those people who protest in the streets every day.

Without them, the Duke of Wellington would never have come up with the Beer Act out of the blue.

To get those protesters back home, the Cabinet has now openly fallen out with the magistrates, even taking the power to issue beer licenses back from their hands.

You might not know just how elated the Duke of Wellington was when the bill passed the third reading in the House of Commons; he said the successful passage of the bill was ‘a victory greater than the Battle of Waterloo.’

However, I must also remind you that I’ve heard that the beer merchants and big pub owners are not satisfied with the Beer Act, because they don’t want people like you entering the beer market.

If the Duke of Wellington’s Cabinet falls, the Beer Act may be revised again.

Therefore, if you’re planning to open a pub, you should seize the moment and apply for the license soon.”

Hearing this, Martin quickly placed his hand on his forehead and exclaimed, “Oh!

Damn!

Thank you for the reminder, I must rush to the Tax Office and apply for the license right away!”

“Hold on!” Arthur called out as he saw him heading for the door, stopping him in his tracks.

Mr.

Martin turned around and asked, “Is there something else you need?”

Arthur walked up to him and patted his shoulder, “Running a pub is one thing, but now that the beer tax has been abolished, at least stop adding green vitriol or bitter woodalex into the beer you sell.

That stuff is poisonous.

A bit of lemon juice to enhance the flavor should do it.”

Martin rubbed the back of his neck with a sheepish grin, “Look at what you’re saying.

If I ran a pub, of course, I’d operate it with integrity.”

Arthur, seeing the sly gleam in the old fellow’s eyes, pursed his lips and sighed, “Alright, I believe you.”

No sooner had he finished speaking than he gestured to Tom and Tony behind him, preparing to lead them straight to the address Martin had provided.

Before they could leave, however, it was Mr.

Martin’s turn to stop them.

“Police Superintendent Hastings!”

Arthur raised an eyebrow, “What is it?”

Martin hesitated for a moment before speaking sheepishly, “If you’re planning to go find them, it’s best to bring a gun.

I’ve heard they might have some connections with Fred.

And you know, those people are all young, and young folks tend to be… rather impulsive…”

…

In Whitechapel, 75 Brick Lane, Blackpool Private Detective Agency.

A man wearing a large-brimmed hat and a black trench coat suddenly burst through the front door.

He arrived at the reception desk and tapped it gently with his finger, startling the burly man who was fast asleep in the office chair.

In a deep voice, the man asked, “Is your boss here?”

The burly man, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, looked up at the visitor and asked with a frown, “Who the hell are you?

Got a reference?

We usually only do business with familiar faces here.”

Upon hearing this, the man clenched his right fist and thumped it on the desk with a bang.

The large hat shook off, revealing the man’s true face.

He pulled out a flintlock pistol from his coat and jammed it into the burly man’s mouth, “I’m asking you, is your boss, that idiot Fred, here?!”

The burly man, terrified by the sudden outburst, quickly threw his hands up.

Just as the situation became tense, a heavy set of footsteps echoed from the staircase leading to the second floor.

“Ah!

If it isn’t Superintendent Brayden Jones.

Last time, you dared to pull a gun in front of me to catch a few body snatchers, and now you’re here with a gun again.

Must be you’ve got some nice business for me?”

No sooner had the words left his lips than Jones felt the agency’s door shut with a creak, followed swiftly by several guns being pressed against his head.

Fred, wearing a crumpled shirt, came down the stairs, easily plucked Jones’s pistol from his hand with two fingers, and then kicked him onto a chair used for receiving guests.

Fred slumped against the edge of the table, took a pipe out of his pocket, and put it in his mouth.

A savvy underling immediately produced a match and lit it for him.

After puffing out two rings of smoke, Fred rubbed his sore neck and, pointing at Jones, instructed his minions, “This kid thinks that just because he’s got Clemens backing him, I wouldn’t dare to touch him.

You all go at him together, beat him until I’m satisfied.”