The Shadow of Great Britain

However, Albert need not be disheartened about not catching up with Peel, as he had Sir Arthur Hastings at his side as a buffer.

At 27, Sir Arthur entered the University of London at 16, graduated at 19 to join Scotland Yard, promoted to Greenwich Police Chief at 20, and at 21, elevated to the role of Police Superintendent of two districts, originally a figure representing meteoric rises.

But, whether it was the bullet’s recoil being too great or not, for the following six years, he drifted aimlessly, and only now, with great difficulty, has returned to London to sit in the chair of Secretary General of the Police Commissioner Committee.

Yet, even if you think so, the path Sir Arthur has taken doesn’t seem all that simple either.

After all, for a product of excellent education at the University of London to have come this far without the assistance of alumni resources is indeed quite an achievement.

Albert, immersed in the comparison between Peel and Arthur, subconsciously followed Arthur up to the theater’s second-floor box, only realizing they had entered a space so quiet one could almost hear their heartbeat when he stepped onto the wooden floor covered with deep red carpet.

The theater was dimly lit, with a faint smell of paint and sawdust lingering in the air, seats covered with dust-proof drapes, and unremoved numbered labels pinned on the backrests.

Velvet curtains were yet to be properly hung, some even draped askew over the chair backs, clearly only halfway installed. Even the picture frames in the box still had the artist’s signed paper affixed, with unopened wooden crates piled in the corners.

Albert glanced back at Arthur, looking quite perplexed.

”This... Sir Arthur, this theater isn’t open yet, is it?” He finally asked: ”Tonight is... a rehearsal?”

Arthur did not answer, only smiled slightly and pointed with his cane toward the stage below.

Below the box railing, more than a dozen musicians in black tailcoats were already seated, the timpani was being adjusted, the violin section was tuning, and the brass section was lined up. The lean and disheveled conductor was looking down at the score, murmuring something, seemingly confirming the rhythm division of a note with the harpist beside them.

”It is a rehearsal,” Arthur said softly, ”but not an ordinary one.”

He turned his head, looking into Albert’s eyes: ”Your Highness, I remember you like studying music?”

Albert modestly replied, ”I’m an enthusiast, but compared to you, I fall short. Today is...”

Before he could finish speaking, the conductor’s baton swung sharply.

In the next instant, music erupted.

Not just any music, but the kind of brass overture that seemed to want to lift the roof with its sound.

The drumbeats weren’t urgent, yet had a magnificent rhythm akin to warhorses marching side by side. The double bass laid a steady foundation, like the echo of history’s sediment. Above it, the bugle rose, akin to an artillery salute, piercing the evening mist over London, striking directly at the heart. Then, the trumpet and horn entered in staggered intervals, the oboe weaving in like embroidery, without overshadowing the main melody.

Albert’s pupils constricted; he couldn’t help but straighten his back, his eyes fixed intently on the stage below.

He abruptly turned to Arthur, the shock on his face beyond words: ”Sir Arthur, this is?”

Seeing this, Arthur smiled slightly, leaning on the railing’s armrest, he took off his hat and bowed slightly, saying: ”Your Highness, this is the piece you and I composed together; please never forget that.”