The Shadow of Great Britain

358: Chapter 217: The Secret of Styria (4K8) 358: Chapter 217: The Secret of Styria (4K8) Scotland Yard’s holding cells, within Louis Bonaparte’s prison cell.

Wheatstone, Arthur, and Louis Bonaparte were all sitting side by side at a small table that had a bottle of wine, a plate of steamed potatoes, and a small dish of salt for dipping.

Louis Bonaparte picked up the half-full bottle of wine and, after glancing at the label, said in surprise, “Isn’t pairing Ruscelluna wine with potatoes a bit too extravagant?”

Seated on a stool, Arthur was peeling potatoes and responded, “It’s no big deal; it was given to us by someone else anyway.

Besides, when the original owner of this wine tasted it, he might not necessarily have paired it with particularly delicious food.”

Louis Bonaparte asked, “The original owner you’re talking about is?”

Arthur took a potato, dipped it in some salt, and threw it into his mouth, “Duke Arthur Wellesley, I have been a guest at his estate a few times, and every time I would see him pairing various high-end wines with cold roast meat that had been left out for a long while.

I specifically asked him once why he didn’t eat it hot.

His Grace then told me that it was a habit he had acquired during the Peninsula War.

Due to urgent marching orders, as well as having to arrange a variety of matters, he would often eat only one meal a day.

By the time he and his staff had finished their meetings, the prepared food had long since cooled.

So he would accompany the cold meat with fine wine and, over time, he somewhat grew fond of that taste.”

Curious, Wheatstone asked, “So when you were guests, did the Duke of Wellington also serve you cold meat then?”

Arthur shook his head, “It never came to that.

His Grace would certainly know how to treat his guests.

Even if he didn’t care about such things, the butler would have arranged everything properly on his behalf.

The time I took Alexander with me to a banquet at London No.1, the dishes that Duke Wellington served us were quite lavish, let me think… roast veal with sweet oranges, anchovy sauce poured over fried sole, roasted squab and larks, a thick Windsor cream soup, braised beef rump, turtle soup, and raisin pudding.”

That’s right, in the Duke of Wellington’s household was an Indian cook he had brought back from India during the second Maratha war, and the skills of that chef left a deep impression on me.

His curry flavor was simply extraordinary, and I even specifically asked him for the recipe.

You can also jot it down to try making it at home: 8 ounces of turmeric, 4 ounces of coriander seeds, 2 ounces of cumin powder, 2 ounces of fenugreek seeds plus half an ounce of chili.

As for onions and garlic, which are essential for curry, add according to your taste.”

Oh!

And don’t forget the lemon juice used to add sourness; just don’t add too much.

That Indian chef told me that Britons’ use of lemon juice to enhance the sourness is a misunderstanding.

Authentic Indian curry uses a mixture of spice made from tamarind, sour apples, bitter gourds, and mangoes to add sourness.

It’s just that because the variety of spices native to Britain is so poor, even he, the most authentic Indian, can’t completely replicate the original flavor of Indian curry.”

Listening to this, Louis Bonaparte’s stomach growled.

He could only grab a potato and viciously dip it in salt to curb his craving.

Seeing him like this, Arthur took out half a loaf of bread wrapped in newspaper from the bag he carried and placed it on the table, then picked up the small dinner knife on the table and stuck it into the bread’s crust.

Pushing the bread wrapped in newspaper towards Louis, Arthur said, “This is my work meal today, with some ham stuffed in it – could be considered a British specialty.”

Staring at the ham sandwich for a while, Louis Bonaparte looked up at Arthur and asked, “Then aren’t you going to have lunch today?”

Arthur picked up a small potato with two fingers, “I’m nearly full from just eating these.

So, please help yourself, Mr.

Bonaparte, after all, bringing you here has caused you some undeserved misfortune.

But please understand, we’re merely enforcing the law and not targeting you or your family specifically—Army matters are not within our jurisdiction.”

Having heard this, while Louis Bonaparte was cutting the ham sandwich with the knife, he nodded, “I understand that, but at the very least you ought to let me know approximately when I will be released?”

Arthur, leaning back in his chair while chewing on a potato, said, “I expect it’ll be soon.

I heard that a lady claiming to be your mother came all the way from overseas yesterday, and she also brought along your identification papers.

Your great-uncle, Mr.

Joseph Bonaparte, accompanied her to the Foreign Office this morning.

I believe it won’t be long before your passport is issued.

The day the passport is ready will be the day you get out of prison.”

“My mother?” Louis Bonaparte’s face turned pale with astonishment and the knife he was holding fell on the table, “Where…

where did she come from?”

Arthur, who had already thoroughly investigated him and his mother, replied indifferently, “According to the information I’ve received, she comes from Rome.

Ever since she learned that you and your brother had secretly gone to Rome to join the charcoal burner riot, she immediately left Switzerland, frantic to retrieve both of you.

But after searching the war zone in the midst of conflict, she could never find a trace of you two.

It was only after your uncle sent her a message that she learned you had been caught in London, leading her to rush over from Rome, hoping to take you back.

However…”