The Shadow of Great Britain

132: Chapter 91 The Hyde Park Murder Case 132: Chapter 91 The Hyde Park Murder Case London, Bayswater, 36 Lancaster Gate.

Night had fallen, the stars filled the sky outside the window, while indoors the lights shone brightly.

In the spacious dining room there was a long, rectangular ivory-colored dining table.

Darwin and Eld were seated on either side of the table in peach-wood chairs, while Arthur sat at the head of the table flipping through a book.

He muttered to himself, “Benjamin Disraeli, could it be that Disraeli who wrote ‘Vivian Grey’?”

Eld’s face was buried in a freshly baked issue of ‘Boudoir Secrets’, and while reading he asked, “What about him?

Is he famous?”

Darwin, who had been intently studying a natural history magazine, said upon hearing this, “Now that Arthur mentions it, I recall that there has been such a figure in the British literary scene these past few years.

However, Disraeli’s reputation doesn’t seem to be very good, as attacks on him have appeared in various literary magazines every now and then over the last few years.”

“Attacks?” Eld’s face slowly emerged from the paper, “What has he done?

Adultery?

Illegitimate children?

Or some other unsavory male-female relations?”

Arthur glanced at him and said, “The very things you mention are actually the areas in which writers and artists are least likely to be attacked.

Remember Paganini we saw at the Royal Theatre?

That fellow was notorious for his affairs, his greatest passion being to spend money in pleasure spots all over Europe, but the fans couldn’t care less about such things, they even praise him for being romantic.”

As Arthur spoke, Great Dumas, who had been happily cooking in the kitchen, suddenly shuddered from head to toe.

Fortunately, no one else noticed his discomfort, and Eld continued to inquire, “So what on earth has Disraeli done?”

Arthur picked up the copy of ‘Vivian Grey’ in front of him, showing the cover to Eld.

Eld glanced at it, only to find the author’s name on the book was conspicuously written as: Anonymous.

Eld scratched his head: “Is this Disraeli out of his mind?

To go to the trouble of writing a book and then be anonymous – doesn’t he want the royalties?”

Arthur replied, “That’s precisely the crux of the matter.

Disraeli’s initial intent in writing this book was not to make money, but rather to attack a former friend from the publishing world.

Writing a book to backstab a friend was already despicable, but Disraeli’s behavior of satirizing others under a pseudonym was even less tolerated by the literary and publishing circles.”

“So when his real identity was revealed, his reputation in the British literary field immediately became tarnished.

From that time, it seems he hasn’t published any new work for quite a long time.

I originally thought he must have been too ashamed to show his face, so he emigrated abroad.

Now it seems, Mr.

Disraeli was just lying low, waiting for the outside world to calm down before stirring things up again.”

As soon as Arthur finished speaking, Great Dumas, wearing a white apron, brought out several plates of fragrant rice and set them on the table in front of everyone.

Arthur looked at the plate, the rice grains glistening with golden oil, neatly cooked, and mixed with seasoning, small dices of tomato, and slices of sausage with distinct layers of fat and lean.

He lifted his hand and wafted it gently, as a soft and fresh aroma immediately encompassed his nostrils.

He couldn’t resist looking up at Great Dumas and gave him a thumbs-up, saying, “I didn’t realize you had it in you.

When you said you were going to cook, I thought you were joking.”

Upon hearing this, Great Dumas snorted proudly.

“You can’t be blamed for thinking that, after all, you Brits joke about the food you eat every day.

However, I must also formally declare that even in France, it’s not easy to find cooking skills as fine as mine.”

As soon as Great Dumas finished his statement, Arthur saw the Red Devil standing behind him, sucking on his glistening fingers and nodding in agreement, “Give it a taste, Arthur.

The big man didn’t lie to you.”

Great Dumas took a seat in his chair, tasted his own creation, and then spoke with satisfied contentment.

“Beyond literary creation, my greatest skill is cooking.

Or more bluntly, writing is merely a means to achieve my life’s goals.

I have two great ambitions in life: one is to taste all the delicacies of the world, and the other is to let everyone else taste them too.

The first goal can be achieved simply by my writing.

But the second requires a republic revolution.”

Arthur, hearing him boast so, skeptically took a bite.

He chewed the rice, savoring the lingering taste and fragrance in his mouth.

I must say, the flavor of this braised rice was truly not bad; if I were to describe it, it might be like a fried rice with egg that’s been added with oyster sauce and diced ham.

But where, pray tell, did the Great Dumas find oyster sauce these days?

Arthur pondered for a moment, wiped his mouth with a napkin, then looked at the Great Dumas and calmly said, “It’s oysters; you added oysters.”

At that, the Great Dumas couldn’t help expressing his surprise, “I knew it, you must be an old Frenchman hiding among the English.”

“Oysters?” Eld immediately caught the keyword and hurriedly inquired, “Are the leech eggs gone?”

“What leech eggs?” Now it was the Great Dumas’s turn to be baffled.

With a friendly demeanor, Darwin explained, “That’s the dark ring around the edge of the oyster shell.”

Arthur added, “Springy, and eats a bit like pudding.”

No sooner had Arthur finished speaking than he saw the Great Dumas’s face turn pale as he dashed up the spiral staircase; needless to say, he was surely off to find the washroom.

Seeing this, Eld couldn’t help changing color as well, “Look, look!

Even the French can’t stand that stuff!”

With that, he followed quickly in the Great Dumas’s footsteps.

Arthur watched their retreating backs, then helplessly shrugged at Darwin, “Didn’t you say it was all right as long as it’s cooked?”

Darwin nodded with a smile, “Yes, indeed, it should be fine once it’s cooked.”

“Then why aren’t you eating it?”

Darwin, composed, wiped his mouth, “Who would go for that thing willingly unless they were nearly starving to death?”

No sooner had he finished speaking than a knock sounded at the door.

“Who could that be so late at night?”

Arthur picked up a white teacup, rose leisurely from his seat, walked across the passageway, stepped on the plush carpet, and opened the double white doors.

As soon as he opened the door, he was dazzled by the bright light shining from a hand-held oil lamp.

Before he could see who it was, he heard a voice of surprise.

“Ah, Police Superintendent Hastings?”

Arthur slowly opened his half-squinted eyes and finally got a clear look at the visitor.

It was the young officer, Charles Field, who had once been transferred to the Greenwich Police District to assist him in solving the murder and body-snatching case.

Upon seeing him, Arthur couldn’t help but smile and ask, “So this is your patrol area?

Showing up so late, has there been some kind of case?”

Field seemed a little nervous, nodding repeatedly, “Superintendent Hastings, I’m afraid you might not know yet?

Inspector Clemens…

he’s dead…”

“Dead?” Arthur was first taken aback, then quickly pressed for details, “When, and in which location?”

“It…

it was this evening; Inspector Clemens was found hanged on a tree in the northeast corner of Hyde Park.

The specifics of the case are still under investigation, which is why I’ve been visiting the nearby residents so late.

By the way, Superintendent Hastings, did you notice anything unusual this evening?”