The Shadow of Great Britain

The wheels rolled over the damp cobblestone road, and the carriage slowly stopped by Fleet Street.

Compared to a few years ago when Imperial Publishing first started, the nameplate above the main entrance appeared quite old, but in a place like Fleet Street, this instead conveyed a mature confidence symbolizing a long history.

Arthur got off the carriage ahead of Disraeli. As his foot touched the sidewalk, his gaze instinctively swept around the entrance of the editorial department.

It wasn’t a deliberate alertness but rather an instinctive muscle reaction of an old cop, and Arthur himself couldn’t even remember when he developed this habit.

Perhaps it was the first time he was blocked and beaten by London thugs in an alley?

Or maybe it was after the explosion at the Golden Lion Inn in Liverpool?

Of course, it could also be sometime after the shooting at the Tower of London or the assassination of Louis Philippe in Paris.

But no matter the reason, searching for inconsistencies among crowds, buildings, and seemingly calm scenery had become an indispensable part of his life.

Although not every observation could yield a result, today was evidently Arthur’s lucky day.

He quickly saw them.

Three people were scattered between the entrance and the corner of the street, seemingly unrelated. One leaned against a lamppost, fixing his gloves; another stood across the street as if waiting for someone; and the third was having a low conversation with the editorial department’s porter, with a natural and almost relaxed posture.

Having led police intelligence for years, Arthur soon made his judgment. These were Scotland Yard’s undercover agents, or to put it more elegantly, three respected plainclothes officers, and they weren’t novices newly transferred from the patrol team.

Disraeli followed closely behind, noticing Arthur’s pause, and glanced in the same direction: ”What’s the matter?”

”Nothing.” Arthur tucked his cane under his arm, leisurely put on his white gloves, ”I’m going to buy a few bottles of sparkling water; you go ahead upstairs.”

Disraeli didn’t think much of it, as Arthur’s fondness for sparkling water was well-known; from board members to the editorial porter at Imperial Publishing, everyone knew Sir Arthur had a few habits: first was smoking, second was collecting books, and third was sparkling water.

Of course, liking sparkling water didn’t mean he didn’t drink alcohol. For Arthur, drinking was more of a work engagement, but when alone, sparkling water was always his first choice. His passion for sparkling water was so famous on Fleet Street that a beverage store there even launched a ”Arthur Hastings flavor.”

But ”Arthur Hastings flavor” was actually just regular orange soda with a pinch of salt, yet perhaps because the name Arthur Hastings was so prestigious in London’s publishing industry, everyone wanted a taste, unexpectedly boosting its sales.

Disraeli didn’t harbor much doubt, instead casually saying, ”Bring me a peach-flavored one.”

”Got it.”

As Disraeli headed upstairs, the man by the porter had already turned around.

He wore a nondescript dark coat, with a plain cut and the hat brim not too high or low, neither blocking his view nor appearing intentional.

Arthur recognized him immediately; it was Officer Colly, newly transferred last year to Section Five of the Police Intelligence Department.

”Sir.” Colly approached Arthur, speaking in a low voice, ”Sorry to disturb you.”

Arthur nodded slightly, maintaining his usual expression, as if they had bumped into each other in a corridor at Scotland Yard rather than on Fleet Street, where they might constantly be watched by reporters.

”Is it your turn on field duty today?”

Colly slightly angled himself to block any potential sight from the editorial department’s window glass and also avoided the overly observant eyes of the street corner newsboy.

”Temporary assignment.” Colly gave a wry smile, ”Staff is tight recently; anyone who can stretch their legs is out here, and the bureau isn’t even daring to approve leave.”

Arthur simply nodded at this, tapping his fingers on the cane’s handle, ”Things should ease up after the coronation ceremony; everyone has to bear through these two months.”

Colly nodded, seeming to intend to reply but hesitated before speaking.

His gaze crossed Arthur’s shoulder as the man who had been fixing his gloves at the lamppost stood up straight, stuffing the gloves back into his coat pocket casually, yet changed his walking manner in an instant, no longer a leisurely stander but clearly striding towards a target.

Arthur watched him for a while before recognizing him as his ”right-hand man” Ledley King.

Though among Arthur’s most trusted old colleagues, this two-faced young man wasn’t the top choice, yet across Scotland Yard, only Ledley truly grasped the essence of Hastings. Whether in investigative techniques, case handling methods, or even the skills in disguise and plain clothes, even Charles Field, Scotland Yard’s acknowledged top sleuth, wouldn’t dare claim to outshine Ledley in resembling Hastings.

From afar, Ledley’s outfit appeared almost uninspiring.

The dark wool coat was somewhat worn while bits of slightly darker fabric were carefully stitched over the elbows. The pants weren’t perfectly fitted either, a bit short on the right side, revealing a bit of the boot shaft’s edge, as if picked up casually from a second-hand market.