The Shadow of Great Britain

”What color is your relative’s hair?”

”Blond.”

”Oh! Good fortune! Then the unfortunate deceased isn’t your relative, because his hair is black.”

The two gentlemen’s faces lit up with a trace of joy: ”Sir, I assure you, we’re immensely grateful to you for fulfilling our wish so swiftly.”

”It was a mere trifle, I’m equally happy for both of you.”

”Truly, we’re deeply thankful! Please accept this small token, consider it compensation for the trouble we’ve caused you.”

Saying this, the gentleman stuffed two guineas into Lewis’s hand.

”You’re too kind,” Lewis said as he pocketed the gold coins.

Perhaps it was a pang of conscience, or maybe he was worried that committing the same act again so soon would expose him, but that night, Lewis went home and immediately tore up the ”news” of a graceful, elegantly dressed lady jumping into the Regent Canal that he hadn’t yet submitted.

However, without the ability to earn through ”drowning narratives” in the short term, Lewis’s income took an abrupt plunge.

Some might say, why couldn’t Lewis, like his peers, chase after stories and gamble on luck?

Of course not. As someone at the pinnacle of the one penny journalist field, possessing a unique skill, how could he lower himself to write like those headless chicken fools?

Rather than spend travel expenses and wear his legs out fighting in the industry’s red sea, it’s better to boldly innovate and venture into the blue ocean market, where few peers dare to tread, promising high risk and high reward!

Riding the wave of Queen Victoria’s ascent to the throne, Mr. David Lewis had already resolved to focus his main efforts on reporting royal news!

Though it was now 1am, Evans Restaurant in Covent Garden Market was still brightly lit.

However, the bustle here was unseen from outside, because Evans Restaurant was an underground establishment, and perhaps the first music restaurant in London to use singing as a selling point.

In London, underground cellars had long been notorious, viewed as dens of depravity where the dissolute sought pleasure.

But since Evans Restaurant’s renovation in 1835, their once boisterous underground cellar had transformed into a venue of elegance. Whether it was the peculiar rule of settling the bill at the door upon departure, the newly formed restaurant choir and songbook, or the Evans recommended set meal including roast potatoes, dark beer, and pepper-laden kidneys, all left a fresh impression on Londoners.

And the Evans Gallery, with its walls covered in portraits of celebrities, along with the viewing boxes for women comparable to the Arabian Nights, further drew society’s elite in. Moreover, being situated among the theaters of Covent Garden, it was difficult for the business not to flourish.

In the first half of this year, when Lewis was experiencing a financial crisis, he was certainly not daring or able to dine at Evans Restaurant every day.

Yet, to celebrate the success of his new articles gaining space in both a couple of morning and evening papers, helping him out of his financial crisis, Lewis felt arranging a relaxation plan for himself wasn’t too extravagant.

Why not spend three days staying at Evans Restaurant, catching a play from the Covent Garden Theatre boxes, and dining at Evans?

Isn’t that how the true high society live?

Lewis wiped the beer foam from his mouth with a napkin, set down the half-empty glass, and leaned back slightly in his chair.

The consecutive nights of writing and hurried visits to the newspaper offices the previous days had left him a bit fatigued, but that tight feeling from navigating between patrons and editors was starting to loosen slightly under the glow and music in Evans Restaurant.

He looked up at the stage, where the restaurant choir stood by the stairs singing verses from ”Red Sailor,” and a waiter threaded through the crowd with a tray of steaming kidneys, the air carrying the pungent scents of pepper and stewed meat.

Lewis was in a good mood; for this report, he had secured three and a half pages between several newspapers, which meant even if he stayed at Evans for a month, he’d still have money left over.

He speared a roasted potato and popped it into his mouth, when he noticed with his peripheral vision that a man was also dining alone at a round table a chair away.

The man wore a sharply tailored deep black suit, his collar done up tightly, his hair neatly slicked back, and his boots polished to a shine.

His plate had barely been touched, with a few thin slices of roast beef tongue and half a piece of bread, cut meticulously, yet only missing a corner.

He wasn’t looking at the stage, nor at the bustling guests around, simply sitting quietly with a book in his hands.

Lewis thought to himself, ”Someone dining alone must have a story, right?”

So, Lewis raised his glass with a light smile, leaned slightly towards that table: ”What a coincidence, sir! It seems we’re two of the few lone souls in the restaurant tonight.”

On hearing this, the man turned his head, his gaze extremely clear.

”Perhaps,” the man replied, lifting his head with the book in hand, ”but I’ve always thought that lonely people mostly just don’t want to be disturbed.”

Lewis was amused by this remark, raising his hand to call the waiter: ”Two more drinks, one for me, and one for the gentleman at the next table.”

With that, he cheerfully said to the man, ”I’m offering you a drink as an apology for disturbing you.”