The Shadow of Great Britain

722: 347 Hastings’s Secret 722: 347 Hastings’s Secret London, Tower Hamlets, Whitechapel district, inside Mr.

Martin’s little tavern.

At dusk, Mr.

Martin’s business was booming as usual, a consistent trend over time.

As a merchant who started off with counterfeit goods, Judd Martin was very content with his current life.

Although the bulk of his income still came from diluted beer, a somewhat disreputable product, at least he could proudly claim that his beverages were definitely free from harmful substances like green vitriol.

This wealth also brought Martin considerable peace of mind; at least he no longer had to engage in lengthy, fearful confessions to God before going to bed each night.

His ability to keep the tavern running in the complex and tangled environment of Whitechapel was undoubtedly due to that benefactor in his life, the “God” of Scotland Yard—Arthur Hastings.

Mr.

Martin’s niece still clearly remembered how her uncle, upon hearing the news of Hastings’s shooting in Liverpool, was so frightened that he tumbled right off his chair while reading the newspaper.

In order to keep abreast of the Liverpool shooting case and Hastings’s condition, the parsimonious Mr.

Martin spared no expense, tossing two shillings to scoop up every newspaper that reported the incident.

Only when he was absolutely certain that Officer Hastings had not kicked the bucket did the balding middle-aged man finally go to bed with anxious trepidation.

And to aid Arthur’s recovery, the next day Mr.

Martin got up early and ran to the church confessionals to give a confessional on Hastings’s behalf, as if substituting for him.

Perhaps Martin’s piety truly had an effect, or maybe it was just that Hastings was tough as nails; in any case, he came back from Liverpool alive and kicking.

Not only that, but the admirable young officer was even promoted to Assistant Commissioner, becoming the third most important person in Scotland Yard, just behind Commissioner Rowan and Deputy Commissioner Sir Mayne.

Annie still vividly remembered seeing Hastings step out of the Whitechapel police station a few days ago, looking triumphant and full of vigor.

Clustered around him were the usually unsmiling police chief, the partly bald poorhouse trustee, a local priest carrying a Bible and wearing a crucifix on his chest, as well as several elders from the Scotland Yard Elders Association.

All these influential locals surrounded him, each with probably the biggest smile they had worn all year.

What’s more dramatic was that just a few days earlier, the police chief had been demanding that Martin’s Tavern temporarily shut down during the cholera control period.

Yet, after a visit by Hastings to the police station, the police chief stopped mentioning this altogether.

Not only did he stop mentioning it, but the scar-faced police chief in his early thirties even clashed with the teetotaling parish priest over the tavern, and reprimanded the poorhouse trustee who reported Martin’s Tavern for selling illegal publications.

That same evening, the usually stern-faced police chief even personally visited Martin’s Tavern, where he and Mr.

Martin drank and chatted like brothers.

After a lively conversation, it was surprisingly discovered that a niece from the police chief’s aunt’s family had married into Mr.

Martin’s family back in Kent County—in a way, making them almost fellow countrymen.

During a lull in their mingling, Annie, who was serving drinks and dishes out of curiosity, asked about Mr.

Hastings.

Both gentlemen, in a good mood, were quite willing to answer a lady’s inquiries.

Only then did she learn about Hastings’s remarkable rags-to-riches story.

Who would have thought that such a big shot was still just a patrol officer who had to run a tab with her uncle to make ends meet three years ago?

Perhaps inspired by Hastings’s success, the chief even recited a segment of a speech Hastings had delivered when visiting the Whitechapel police station, instilling motivation in the officers.

As the saying goes, Shun rose from amongst the fields, Fu Yue from the construction site, Jiao Ge from the fish and salt market, Guan Yi Wu from the rank of scholars, Sun Shu Ao from the sea, and Bai Li Xi from the market…

Although Annie did not understand the meaning of these words, and it’s likely neither the police chief nor her uncle did either, their strange intonation sounded erudite.

If one were to go by what the police chief explained, it seemed Hastings was encouraging everyone at the Whitechapel police station, using his own experience to teach a lesson: in this era, it doesn’t matter if one starts as a mud-legged peasant, as long as one has sufficient talent and a bit of luck, climbing to the top is possible.

And he, Arthur Hastings, was everyone’s stroke of luck.

And Hastings’s words weren’t just hot air.

It appeared that the previous police chief of Whitechapel, nicknamed “Eel” Ledley, had left the cesspool of Whitechapel and was now working under Hastings.

Only at that moment did Annie belatedly realize just how much power the man who occasionally came to the shop for coffee, Mr.

Hastings, actually held.

Of course, she couldn’t help but feel a tinge of personal longing.

She knew that a man like Hastings ultimately belonged to those real ladies, those misses and madams.

If it had been a few years earlier when he was still a poor, struggling young officer, she might have had a chance, but now that door had closed.