The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1696: Chapter 60: In Memory of Officer Robert Cali

As dawn broke, a sparse crowd began gathering in the square in front of Scotland Yard.

The October fog hung like a gray silk curtain over the streets of London, carrying the dampness of the Thames River and the charred smell of Westminster Palace.

At eight o’clock sharp, the Scotland Yard bell didn’t ring, yet the officers were already in position.

”Farewell to Officer Robert Cali,” October 11, 1834, The Times

Line after line of officers streamed out of Scotland Yard, each adorned with black satin armbands. Their uniforms were pressed, boots polished to a shine, even the police badges glinted coldly in the subdued sunlight.

Over a hundred officers in blue-black uniforms formed a square in front of Scotland Yard. There were no honor guards, no noisy drumbeats, only the rhythmic click of old leather boots against cobblestones and the flapping of ribbons in the wind.

For the police, days off have always been a luxury.

Although Scotland Yard’s internal regulations stipulate one rest day per week for officers, in reality, due to frequent calls and numerous cases, they often face weeks without ever getting a day off.

Take, for example, the gentleman whose portrait hangs in Scotland Yard; during the 1832 Parliamentary reform, he set a record of working 54 consecutive days at Scotland Yard. Unfortunately, due to irresistible forces, this record was forcibly stopped on June 6, 1832.

But it’s no big deal because Arthur’s record was broken just half a year later by an officer from the criminal investigation division.

While not every officer at Scotland Yard has worked two months straight, their days off are still a precious asset.

The sole reason these gentlemen, who should be lying in bed sleeping in, were dressed sharply and showed up at their workplace on time is that they are officers of Scotland Yard, comrades of Robert Cali.

”Reporting to you! All personnel present, 143 officers, not a single one missing!”

Minister Rowan accepted the attendance register passed by the police secretary, glanced at it briefly, then closed the register and tossed it back to the secretary’s embrace.

This first head of Scotland Yard swiftly mounted his horse, its weight causing the brown horse beneath him to snort aloud.

Rowan looked back at the neatly lined-up officers, gave a cold wave of his hand: ”To Saint Martin’s Church, march!”

Saint Martin’s Church, situated near Trafalgar Square, though its primary cemetery is not large and it hasn’t interred prominent figures like Isaac Newton, Geoffrey Chaucer, William Pitt father and son, and many British Kings as Westminster Abbey and St. Mary’s Church have.

However, this church, which has received many middle and lower-class citizens, holds a unique significance for Scotland Yard because here is where they are crowned with royal titles, symbolizing resurrection for Scotland Yard.

In other words, Saint Martin is Scotland Yard’s Westminster and St. Mary’s Church, and being buried here is a distinct honor exclusive to Scotland Yard officers, regrettably, until now, Robert Cali is the only one to enjoy this honor.

This long queue of over a hundred officers of Scotland Yard slowly moved through the fog-covered Whitehall Street. There were no drumbeats, no rhythms from horse hooves, only the slight friction between boot soles and cobblestones.

Leading the way were Minister Rowan and two mounted police officers.

Along the roadside, more and more pedestrians stopped. Some removed their hats in salute, while others simply bowed their heads quietly.

Many of them did not know Robert Cali, never interacted with him, but over the past week, they had repeatedly read his name in the newspapers, along with those undeniable subtitles—he died without a gun, only carrying a police baton, meanwhile, Officer Robert Cali was the only one who couldn’t leave Cold Bath standing that night.

Journalists from Fleet Street had long woven among the onlookers on Whitehall Street.

Some ran with sweat-soaked foreheads, some covered in mud splashed by boots, yet still, they held a pen in one hand, swiftly recording in the small notebooks carried with them.

”Three reporters came from The Times, two from the Morning Chronicle, London News Magazine is here as well... Damn! What did I just see? Folks from Blackwood’s and the British are jostling together? God almighty! Fleet Street has shown up this time.”

At eight-twenty in the morning, the procession commemorating Cali arrived punctually at Saint Martin’s Church.

From afar, one could see the black gauze outlining a low barrier around the church, the steps at the entrance covered with flowers sent spontaneously by citizens, white roses, forget-me-nots, daisies, and carnations mixed, their colors simple, devoid of any luxurious golden edge ribbons, yet these flowers touched the heart more than any noble wreaths.

Robert Cali’s widow, draped in black gauze, stood silently before the church, with a child in each hand, about eight-year-old shoeshine boy Mark Cali and his five-year-old brother David Cali who often helped him.

As Rowan dismounted, his boot heel hit the ground heavily, splashing a shallow trace of water. His cloak, wetted by the morning mist, clung to his uniform.

Without a word of instruction, without pleasantries, Rowan directly walked towards the mother and her children.

As the administrative head of Scotland Yard, he rarely took such steps, because most of the time, he waited for others to approach him.