The Shadow of Great Britain

Upon entering the corridor on the second floor of the Home Office, the first thing that comes into view is the office of Lord John Russell, the Home Secretary.

The door is wider than the others, retaining traces of carvings from its old manor days on the lintel. Although layers of paint have been applied, the ancient patterns persistently reveal themselves. The area in front of the Home Secretary’s office is perpetually spotless, as servants and low-ranking clerks instinctively avoid this place; unless necessary, no one wishes to visit the highest-ranking official in the Home Office.

Beyond the Home Secretary’s office, the corridor becomes noticeably quieter.

The carpet changes to a deeper color with denser patterns; this area houses the offices of senior civil servants and legal advisors in the Home Office, perhaps to facilitate communication among them, or maybe because their rank is not high enough. Whatever the reason, the distance between doors in this area is shorter.

Here, the office of Sir Arthur Hastings, the Permanent Deputy Secretary of the Home Office, is situated among the labyrinth-like doors.

His office is not particularly spacious, nor is the nameplate prominent; it even slightly deviates from the corridor’s main axis.

By the window stands a large, old desk, nearly covered with documents, leaving only a small space in the center for writing and annotation.

Documents are stacked according to color and sealing method. Those with red wax seals mostly come from local offices; most have been opened. The ones tied with plain-colored string are internal memorandums and draft notifications of various regulations.

At this moment, Arthur’s private secretary, Mr. Henry Blackwell, is organizing the bookshelf against the wall. It bears no decorations, only rows of books with frayed edges—collections of statutes, committee reports, past correspondence. For Sir Arthur’s convenience in reference, Blackwell has meticulously labeled each spine with the year and subject of the document.

As Blackwell pushed the last volume of the statutes back onto the shelf, he let out a sigh filled with complex emotions.

If he could turn back time, Blackwell five years ago would never have imagined that someday he would leap from the esteemed Foreign Office to the Home Office, known for gathering the lower classes. Back then, he fully believed he would be heavily relied upon in the Foreign Office, becoming a crucial aide to Viscount Palmerston, the Foreign Secretary, and Sir Bickhouse, the Permanent Secretary.

Alas, life is unpredictable, and circumstances are unforeseeable.

The ascent to fame and success never arrived. No accolades, no new positions, not even a memorable verbal acknowledgment.

What he received was a ”respectable” transfer back to the main office of the Foreign Office, in the position of a senior clerk.

From hopeful to utterly disillusioned, Blackwell only took four years; just when he thought his life would be slowly worn away by daily copying, filing, and sealing.

That man, Sir Arthur Hastings, appeared again before him as if God had manifested.

From a senior clerk at the Foreign Office to private secretary to the Secretary-General of the Police Commissioner Committee, and then to private secretary of the Home Office’s Permanent Deputy Secretary—not just an orthodox third-class clerk of the Home Office, but in a position quite powerful and promising...

For an ordinary bureaucrat in White Hall, how long would it take to complete such a long, arduous, and challenging journey?

Five years?

Ten years?

Twenty years?

No.

None are needed.

Blackwell completed this journey in just half a year.

He stood in front of the bookshelf, feeling lost.

He suddenly recalled the first time he stepped into the office of the Police Commissioner Committee half a year ago.

The officers there were neither particularly welcoming nor hostile towards this stranger.

Until one slightly older officer casually asked while he was organizing files: ”Are you working for Sir Arthur?”

Blackwell merely nodded, and the officer did not inquire further about his background or his rank, but instead placed his hat on the table and inexplicably commented: ”Truly good fortune.”

At the time, Blackwell could not comprehend the meaning behind the officer’s notion of good fortune, but now, half a year later, he understands, he fully understands.

Since the days in Greenwich, among Sir Arthur Hastings’ followers, sixty-eight have been promoted to Chief of Police, and seventeen have joined the ranks of Police Superintendent.

Among the senior police, Superintendent Thomas Plunkett took over as Chief of Police Intelligence, and Chief Inspector Charles Field was transferred to head the Criminal Investigation Department. Meanwhile, former Director of Section Five of the Police Intelligence Bureau Ledley King and longtime subordinate Brayden Jones assumed roles as Chief Police Officer for the East London District and South London District respectively during the latest personnel changes.

As for the police system outside Scotland Yard, Hastings’ former subordinates have flourished widely and borne fruit everywhere. According to Blackwell’s understanding, at least seven local police chiefs have had a clear superior-subordinate relationship with Sir Arthur.

Blackwell cannot help but lament: ”In White Hall, if you follow the wrong person, all your efforts will be in vain. But if you follow the right person, even mistakes will become part of your resume.”

Whenever he thinks of this, he wishes he could slap himself; he regrets, he is annoyed, he despises his shortsightedness. How could he have sold out the Lord in the Caucasus?