The Shadow of Great Britain

156: Chapter 113 Why is it Always Hastings?

156: Chapter 113 Why is it Always Hastings?

In the office of the Prime Minister’s residence, the Duke of Wellington and Sir Peel watched as Arthur, who had received dual endorsement from the Prime Minister and the Home Secretary, stood up to leave.

The Duke of Wellington got up, walked over to the liquor cabinet, and took out a bottle of sherry that was half-empty.

He poured a glass for both Sir Peel and himself.

He sipped his wine and, nodding slightly towards Arthur’s departing figure, said, “A promising young man, isn’t he?

Only 20 years old, yet so insightful.

It really proves that more university education is not a mistake.

If the underfunded and unsupported University of London can produce such talent, I wonder when the orthodox university founded by the King and myself, King’s College, will produce such outstanding young individuals.”

With a smile, Sir Peel raised his glass and responded, “King’s College was only established last year, and its first batch of graduates won’t be out for another two years, so you have some waiting to do.”

Wellington suddenly asked, “Seeing young people always brings back memories.

When I was 20, I was still a Cavalry Lieutenant in the 12th Cavalry Brigade.

Robert, do you know?

Initially, I didn’t want to join the army.

I liked playing the violin, and that was all I could do.”

“My mother thought that I, being the clumsiest of her sons, would only be good enough to be cannon fodder, which is why she sent me to the Pignerol Military Academy to study army command.

Speaking of which, what were you doing when you were 20?”

“Me?

That goes back to 1809.”

Sir Peel’s eyes filled with fragments of the past: “At that time, I had just finished high school and university at Oxford.

I graduated with decent grades, first in both mathematics and literature, so my father, to reward my excellent academics, paid for my position in Parliament.”

The Duke of Wellington, upon hearing this, seemed to remember something, “You attended high school in Oxford?

Oh right, I recall you mentioned that you were classmates with Lord Byron.

It must have been no easy task to top him in literature.”

Sir Peel modestly replied, “I was just better at taking exams, nothing remarkable.

And I only outperformed him in high school; by university, he went to Cambridge, and I to Oxford.

After graduation, I entered the House of Commons where I spent my days in verbal combat with others, while he inherited his father’s title and went to the House of Lords, giving him more time to devote to literature, and the gap between us became apparent then.”

“But you having such a high opinion of Lord Byron is indeed a surprise to me.

Especially since he wrote about you in that unfinished ‘Don Juan’…”

The Duke of Wellington shrugged slightly at this, “If I were to constantly bicker with him, I would have died of anger long ago.

Compared to what The Times has said about me today, Byron was somewhat merciful.”

Sir Peel asked, “What did The Times say?”

The Duke of Wellington said nothing but pulled out the crumpled newspaper from his pocket and tossed it on the table: “See for yourself.”

Sir Peel unfolded the wrinkled newspaper, and his eyes immediately caught the huge headline—”The Iron Duke: Arthur Wellesley.”

“The Iron Duke?

Not a bad nickname.”

The Duke of Wellington rolled his eyes and drained his glass of sherry: “Yes, if it weren’t for the content below, I would have thought that The Times was still unabashedly flattering me.”

Sir Peel paused for a moment upon hearing this, then shifted his gaze to the content of the newspaper.

——According to this newspaper, the Duke of Wellington, due to public outcry for liberal approaches, has had to replace the glass windows of his home several times this month, causing frequent additional expenses.

To cut costs, he has reverted to the wit that defeated Napoleon by installing a set of specially made iron windows at his home near Knightsbridge, ‘London 1,’ making it an impregnable fortress.

——Wellington, Marshal of the Armies of eight nations, conqueror of the world’s conqueror, Napoleon’s nemesis; his will is iron, his command is iron, his determination against parliamentary reform is iron, and even his stubborn mind is like a piece of rusted iron—now even his house’s windows are iron!

——Hopefully, those Tories eagerly following the Iron Duke have rags ready to wipe off the public scorn spit at his iron-like body, so as not to let his exquisite red military uniform rust.

The Duke of Wellington caught a glimpse of the newspaper and couldn’t help but get a bit angry: “Robert, see?

What have I told you before?

The Times is nothing but a fair-weather, third-rate newspaper, falling over themselves to curry favor when your position is secure.

But as soon as they sense a shift, they immediately turn into reformist fighters, rallying for the Whig Party.

On this point, they’re even worse than The Guardian, which at least maintains consistency in their views without making sudden turns.

They still have some shame.

From a military perspective, newspapers like The Times that betray you on the battlefield are far more infuriating than adversaries like The Guardian, who are clear about their stance!”

With a hint of humor, Sir Peel tossed the newspaper into the trash bin: “So now you see why The Guardian doesn’t outsell The Times, right?”

The Duke of Wellington muttered, “What good does it do me knowing that?

Those protesting fools don’t realize that their actions are directly handing over the country to these scoundrels.

Ha, let them force me to step down, I’m tired of managing this mess anyway.

I, Arthur Wellesley, am withdrawing from this fray.”

…

4 Whitehall.

Charles Rowan, the head of the department, sat in his chair with his fingers interlaced and covering his mouth.

He looked at the empty conference room, his face unchanged and expressionless.

The door to the conference room was gently pushed open, and Sir Richard Mayne, the deputy head holding documents, walked in and stopped abruptly.

He glanced around the conference room, then turned his gaze to Rowan, pressing his own forehead as he asked, “Charles, weren’t we supposed to have a police meeting today?

Why is it just you left here?”

Rowan’s gaze drifted towards Sir Mayne.

He chuckled, leaned back, and reclined in his seat as he spoke, “Indeed!

I was also wondering why I’m the only one left.

Who really is the superior entity, the Greater London Police Department or the Greater London Police Department East London Division?

If LPS is directly subordinate to the Home Office, why should it be under the auspices of Scotland Yard for salaries?

After all, who is the supreme head of Scotland Yard, Charles Rowan or Arthur Hastings?”

Sir Mayne, hearing this, probably understood what was going on.

He gently placed the documents on the desk, walked up to Rowan, and asked, “Has it happened again just like the murder and body theft case, where he received orders directly from the Prime Minister?”

“Oh!

Not this time.”

Rowan snorted, “This time his capabilities are greater, commands from both 10 Downing Street and the Home Office, as if all of Great Britain revolves around him.

Since the Prime Minister and the Home Secretary feel the orders should be directly given to the most promising young inspector at Scotland Yard, why not simply remove me and have him directly take charge of Scotland Yard instead?

Why the redundancy?”

Sir Mayne, hearing this, grinned gently, consoling in a soothing tone, “Charles, that’s enough.

He couldn’t possibly suppress the many factions at Scotland Yard, what with the cavalry and the infantry and all being military folks, who only really listen when you, an active Army Colonel, speak.”

“Exactly!

The cavalry and infantry listen, but only this high scholar from the University of London doesn’t.”

Rowan looked up at Sir Mayne and asked, “Is it really necessary to deploy so many police officers for just a protest of a few hundred people?

With this setup, I thought the French were landing on the Thames!”

Sir Mayne replied helplessly, “It’ll be over soon.

The Tory Party might just last a few more months, and once Wellington’s Cabinet falls, you can do whatever you want with him.

Moreover, even if you don’t take him down, wouldn’t the Whig Party take action against a young inspector who is overly intimate with Sir Peel?”

Rowan nodded to this, “Indeed, Richard, you’re absolutely right.

A twenty-year-old lad, because of his closeness with Sir Peel, has almost turned Scotland Yard upside down.

To show some sincerity to the Whig Party, all of us old-timers brought into Scotland Yard by Sir Peel must be very cautious!”

Sir Mayne, grasping the unspoken implications in Rowan’s words, smiled, and then casually pulled out an invitation hidden among the documents.

“Charles, even if you didn’t bring it up, I was going to.

Viscount Palmerston has sent me a dinner invitation and asked if you’d be interested in joining us.”

“Viscount Palmerston?”

Rowan seemed to recall something upon hearing the name.

He turned to the side and sipped his tea, “Ha, I originally had no plans to associate with him.

Back when he worked at the Army department, those who knew him said he acted like a foreman with a whip when mad.

Compared to working for him, staying under Sir Peel was obviously more comfortable.”

Sir Mayne, unbothered by this, bent down to embrace his longtime partner’s shoulder, whispering, “Won’t you go?

Charles, my old pal, I must remind you.

Don’t talk about having all the time in the world, that’s all deceit.

In reality, it’s nothing but cold after they leave.”

A shadow fell over Rowan’s face, and he appeared to struggle somewhat.

Seeing him like this, Sir Mayne didn’t persist, instead calmly picked up the invitation and documents, and turned to leave.

However, before he could walk out, Rowan’s voice suddenly rang out, “Time, place?”

Sir Mayne turned around, his face smiling gently at Rowan’s slightly squinting eyes.

“This Sunday, Almack’s Restaurant, Viscount Palmeston’s personal banquet, and you can bring your wife.

But it might be better not to because as you know, Charles, Almack’s Club is never short of charming gentlemen and vibrant young ladies.”

Rowan, upon hearing this, lifted his teacup and looked out the window, “Almack’s Club, indeed an upper-class haven.

I never imagined someone like me, with dual roles as a soldier and a police officer, could have an opportunity to mingle in such high society circles.

Viscount Palmeston, ha, the ‘Cupid’ from Ireland, indeed an apt nickname for him.”