The Shadow of Great Britain

The reception room was very quiet.

The fireplace was cold, and the curtains were tightly drawn. Yet a mysterious scent lingered in the air — cheap alcohol, sweat, makeup, and a faint trace of blood that hadn’t yet dissipated.

Mr. Lewis was tied to a chair.

On the side of his face, a bruise had started to turn blue, stretching from the cheekbone to the jawline. His lips had a dried scab, his right knuckles were slightly swollen, and dark grime still lingered beneath his fingernails. Two buttons were torn open on the front of his shirt, with scattered dark red stains on the fabric, as if accidentally smeared, or perhaps not yet cleaned off.

However, the ropes binding Mr. Lewis were not particularly tight. This clearly wasn’t to torture, but to prevent him from making any irrational moves again. His head was tilted to one side, chin resting on the crumpled collar, his breathing uneven, with a faint, intermittent snore every few seconds.

It wasn’t deep sleep but more like the shallow slumber one collapses into from sheer exhaustion.

Such a state was not unfamiliar to Arthur.

Or rather, such a state was not unfamiliar to any experienced Scotland Yard inspector.

The door behind him closed gently.

The sound wasn’t intentionally subdued, yet it seemed exceptionally clear in the overly silent room.

Mr. Lewis did not wake immediately.

Not until a very light footstep sounded on the carpet.

The footsteps were steady, unhurried, every step landing precisely, without any hesitation or unnecessary pause.

It was as if the visitor knew exactly where they would end up from the start.

The snoring stopped for a moment.

Mr. Lewis’s brow furrowed slightly, as if instinctively sensing something. His breathing quickened briefly, a low, indistinct sound came from his throat, then his eyelids trembled.

The footsteps stopped in front of him.

Very close.

Close enough that even without opening his eyes, he could sense the figure standing there.

Mr. Lewis inhaled sharply, as if pulled from underwater, and his eyes suddenly opened.

At first, his vision was blurry.

Dim yellow light flickered across his retinas, overlapping and misaligned outlines.

He instinctively tried to move but was immediately pulled back to reality by the restraints on his wrists.

Pain followed soon after.

This brought him fully awake.

He lifted his head, and the first thing he saw was a pair of impeccably polished riding boots.

The shoetips were pointed directly at him, with no unnecessary angle.

A dark overcoat, fitting perfectly, without a single wrinkle. Every button fastened, with clean and neat lines. A cane was held behind, its silver eagle head gleaming in the light, as if ready to come alive anytime.

Upwards further.

It was a face he couldn’t be more familiar with.

And a face that, at this moment, should not be appearing here.

The Police Commissioner Committee of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland...

Oh no...

Perhaps, we should now refer to him as the Permanent Under-Secretary of the Home Office of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland.

”Sir... Sir Arthur Hastings?”

Arthur did not reply. He stood in place, as if waiting for that brief dizziness to completely fade from Mr. Lewis’s eyes.

Although the curtains in the reception room were tightly drawn, they did not completely block out the light. From a gap near the window, thin but clear winter sunlight slanted in, casting over half a table and resting by Arthur’s side.

The light wasn’t dazzling, but it was clean enough.

It illuminated the shoulder line of his coat, outlining its sharp cut, and left a clear and restrained contrast of light and shadow on the profile of his face.

The bridge of his nose, cheekbones, and jawline were all gently and calmly sketched by the light, without any exaggeration, yet impossible to look away from.

Compared to the mixed smells and dim shadows of this reception room, he seemed like he had come from another space.

He circled the table, moving the cane from behind to his side.

When the cane tip touched the carpet, it made a short, low thud, like an indisputable period.

The cane was laid horizontally across his knees, his calloused fingers resting on the handle, exerting just the right amount of force, neither loose nor overly tight.

He sat there just like that.

Not with the forced posture of an interrogator, nor with the benevolence of a benefactor.

Just a composed and unquestionable poise.

Unknowingly, Mr. Lewis’s breathing went out of rhythm.

Only then did he realize he was tilting his head slightly upward.

Arthur raised his head, his gaze resting on Mr. Lewis’s face, then the corner of his mouth lifted into a very slight arc.

It was a smile so genteel that it bordered on polite.

”Mr. Lewis.” Arthur began, as if they were not on the second floor of Nightingale Mansion, but in some gentleman’s club, meeting by chance: ”Are you here... to experience life?”

Mr. Lewis’s throat tightened suddenly, and he instinctively swallowed.

His mind was blank, but he forced it to operate rapidly.

Too many images crowded his mind at once.

Glasses, a dim room, women’s laughter, unpayable bills, anger, men’s roars, and fists falling like raindrops...

None of these were things to present before this knight.

Mr. Lewis managed to squeeze out a smile: ”Sir, I... I’m here for fieldwork.”

”Fieldwork?” Arthur’s gaze dropped, landing on Mr. Lewis’s open collar, then moved over to the bruises turning blue and purple on his chest, finally stopping at the dried blood scab at his mouth corner: ”So, the blood on you, is it also a part of fieldwork?”