The Shadow of Great Britain

Arthur heard this and lightly reminded, ”If I recall correctly, the opening line of the anonymous piece you wrote for ’Spark’, ’The Midnight Murder in Paddington’, was ’A severed hand struck a gas lamp post’.”

”That’s different!” Eld rebutted triumphantly, ”That’s literary presentation! It’s artistic exaggeration! It’s to reveal social darkness! I wrote those to let readers know the real dark side of London!”

Arthur fiddled with the manuscript in his hand, not looking up, ”And what about ’The Secret Exposure of the Maid’ and ’Confession of a Female Family Teacher’? Eld, isn’t the real London a bit too dark? Writing like this makes it seem like my work at Scotland Yard is failing.”

At these words, Eld stiffened his neck.

”Well... that’s also exposure!” he said, composing himself and waving his pipe seriously, ”If maids have secrets, what’s wrong with revealing them? Do you really think those grand households are squeaky clean? It’s social realism! London documentary style! It’s also documentary literature, you can’t just lavish praise on Charles’s ’Oliver Twist’!”

”At least Charles’s ’Oliver Twist’ doesn’t write ’At midnight under candlelight, the lady suddenly approached me, gently pinching my collar with her fingers.’ Fortunately, you didn’t write too many details, or the committee people would definitely give me trouble.”

Eld was about to defend himself when the carriage suddenly swayed lightly and stopped slowly at the street corner of Whitehall.

Arthur didn’t give Eld the opportunity to explain, he tidied up the manuscript, patted his coat, and was about to get off the carriage when he suddenly noticed several familiar faces seemingly sitting in the bakery at the corner.

”Hmm?” Arthur frowned.

Blackwell, Ledley, and Lewis, he never thought these three could form a group.

Eld got off the carriage, saw Arthur gazing towards the bakery, and assumed Arthur hadn’t eaten enough for breakfast: ”What? Hungry again? Then go in and have something, there’s still time.”

Before finishing his words, he followed Arthur’s gaze.

Three blurry figures were sitting together inside the window.

”Eh?” Eld squinted: ”Isn’t that Blackwell? And... Ledley? How did these two end up at the same table... Who’s that dark-haired lad over there? Doesn’t look like he’s from our Navy Department, nor the Foreign Office... Is he a new assistant you recruited at Scotland Yard?”

...

The bakery’s heater had fogged up the glass with a layer of mist, and the shop was filled with the aroma of freshly baked bread.

Lewis glanced at the silent Blackwell and Ledley, set down his coffee cup, and took the initiative to start the conversation.

”Gentlemen, I’ll be frank.” Lewis lowered his voice, his eyes overly bright, ”You’re both working for Sir Arthur too, right?”

Blackwell’s spoon clinked as it fell into his cup.

This senior clerk at the Foreign Office thought his act of stealing documents for Arthur had been exposed.

Ledley appeared much more seasoned, not moving, slowly lifting his eyelids and taking a bite of his sandwich.

Lewis failed to sense the subtle atmosphere and instead became more confident, ”I mean, I don’t have any other intentions, I just want to... understand Sir Arthur’s preferences, habits, taboos... things like that, as much as possible.”

Saying this, Lewis paused deliberately, ”There might be opportunities for cooperation in the future, helping each other beats fighting alone, don’t you think?”

Hearing this, Blackwell finally felt relieved.

So it wasn’t an audit on him, that’s good!

Though Blackwell himself didn’t quite know who he was really helping, that didn’t stop him from immediately donning the Foreign Office’s trademark polite smile, ”Yes, mutual assistance... very good... indeed.”

As Arthur’s private secretary during his time in Russia, while Blackwell couldn’t claim to know all of Arthur’s habits, he did clearly remember things like when Arthur woke up, when he ate, and what tea he preferred while reading the paper.

But knowing Arthur’s habits didn’t mean Blackwell would honestly share them.

He promised readily with his words, yet neither dared to say he didn’t know, which would sound like shirking responsibility, nor disclose any potentially problematic details, as he had spent three years at the Foreign Office experiencing the consequences of revealing problematic details.

Lewis was unaware he was close to crossing Blackwell’s line, he simply felt this diplomat was friendly with his smile, ”Since that’s the case... shall I ask more specifically? Does Sir Arthur have any hobbies? For instance, tea, tobacco, drinks, sports... anything.”

”Ah... Sir Arthur’s preferences... well... largely depend on his work schedule.”

Blackwell tossed out the most non-committal statement first, buying himself two seconds to think.

Lewis frowned, not quite understanding, ”Depend on work schedule?”

”Yes.” Blackwell nodded with seriousness, ”Sir Arthur always advocates that private hobbies shouldn’t interfere with official judgement. Therefore, he’d never allow himself to become reliant on any specific drink, a specific tobacco, or a form of entertainment.”

Ledley, hearing this, simply flicked an eyelid, thinking, ”As expected from the Foreign Office, even such nonsense can be spun.”

Yet Lewis was bluffed by the phrase ”never allow himself to become reliant”, earnestly pursuing, ”But people always have habits, right? Like, does he drink tea every morning, or prefer coffee? Any specific brand? And if he smokes a pipe, what kind of tobacco does he favor?”

These questions weren’t hard for a private secretary to answer.

But how to respond was a true test of Blackwell’s ability.

He cleared his throat, ”Sir Arthur’s work schedule is very tight, his meals... are often settled according to meeting times, document review progress, and the carriage’s route.”

”But there must be a general preference?” Lewis persisted, ”For example, does he prefer black tea or green tea? Surely he doesn’t drink port wine first thing in the morning?”

Upon hearing this, Ledley lowered his head, biting down on his sandwich to conceal his expression.

Blackwell seriously replied, ”Provided it keeps his mind clear and doesn’t interfere with document handling efficiency, Sir Arthur doesn’t have biases toward tea types. The specific choice is typically determined by the habits of the day’s tea preparer and the remaining inventory in the tea canister.”

Lewis was bewildered by the roundabout explanation, ”So you’re saying, whatever tea is made for him, he drinks?”

”You can’t put it like that.” Blackwell immediately corrected, ”That would make Sir Arthur seem easily influenced by external factors.”

Lewis wanted to delve deeper, ”What about tobacco? Does he smoke heavily? If one were to give a gift...”

This time Blackwell didn’t even pause, eagerly blocking with, ”In official occasions, any gifts that might be misconstrued as ’attempts to influence a civil servant’s judgement’ are inappropriate.”

”So it means privately there’s no issue, right?”

Blackwell’s eyelid twitched hard.

Ledley’s fingers tapped softly on the table, as if counting down.

If Blackwell answered ”no issue”, it would imply Arthur privately accepted bribes.

If he said ”issue exists”, it would suggest Lewis should steer clear, which might upset Arthur by cutting off his financial gains.

If he refused to answer, it would seem overly deliberate, akin to someone with a guilty conscience.

Blackwell’s head was starting to tingle, he could distinctly feel his scarf tightening around his neck.

Just as the tension was about to solidify, Ledley, who had been mostly silent, suddenly raised his head, as if tired of hearing the two go in circles.

He wiped the crumbs from the corner of his mouth, his tone as casual as talking about the weather, ”Mr. Lewis, may I ask, which department are you from exactly?”