The Shadow of Great Britain

”Very good.” Arthur nodded slightly. ”Does treason fall under the category of a felony?”

”Treason is the most serious felony, a crime directly tried by the Throne Court!”

Arthur stared into Pinkerton’s eyes. ”What kind of behavior can be defined as treason?”

Pinkerton, unfazed, said, ”First, attempting to harm or murder the Monarch. Second, waging war against the Monarch or assisting others in military actions against the Royal Family. Third, colluding with the Monarch’s enemies, providing aid, supplies, or intelligence to enemy nations. Fourth, forging the Royal seal, misusing the Great Seal, or any act that can undermine the King’s Power. Fifth, inciting rebellion, organizing or linking the populace with the intent to overthrow the Monarch’s reign.”

”If you discover a scheme that may involve treason, how should it be handled?”

”In urban security practice, as long as there’s suspicion of exchanging secrets with foreign envoys or hostile forces, plotting to endanger the Royal Family, even if the act does not succeed, it must be immediately reported to the Magistrate, who will submit it to the Home Office to determine if it constitutes treason.”

After hearing Pinkerton’s final response, Arthur gently tapped twice on the table with his fingertips.

Pinkerton stood upright. Despite his attempt to appear calm, a light cold sweat formed on his forehead, and he suppressed his breathing tightly within his rib cage.

He knew he had answered all he could, but he couldn’t discern from Arthur’s expression what was right and what was wrong.

Several senior officers at the examiner’s table exchanged a surprised glance.

It wasn’t Sir Arthur’s first time participating in the Academy’s evaluation. Based on their previous observations, if Sir Arthur truly intended to test someone, he would usually pursue seven or eight questions in succession until he reached the candidate’s knowledge blind spots before stopping.

Yet now he only asked a few questions and then abruptly stopped, which was unlike Sir Arthur’s style.

Could it be that today he’s being lenient on account of Chief Inspector Tom Flanders, which is why he’s not relentlessly probing Pinkerton?

Arthur appeared completely oblivious to the restraint and tension in the classroom.

He just lowered his head, closed the score sheet in front of him gently, pushed it back to its original place, and then looked up at Turner and Brenan: ”I’ve asked enough, let’s move forward with the process.”

After speaking, he leaned back against the chair, his hands folded on the desk in front of him, revealing nothing of his thoughts.

Chief Inspector Turner, observing this, didn’t press further. He bowed slightly and said, ”Understood, Sir.”

Immediately after, he called out the next candidate’s name, ”James Krenk.”

”Present!”

The subsequent evaluations didn’t deviate in the slightest due to Arthur’s presence.

James Krenk came forward, his voice strained but answered conventionally, followed by Henry Foster, Michael Rain, Joseph Potter...

One after another.

The questions were about regulations, rules, precedents in security, riot definitions, patrol responsibilities.

The answers were about procedures, numbers, definitions, case reconstructions.

Arthur didn’t speak again from start to finish, nor did he look at any candidate, not even glancing at Pinkerton.

He just sat there, hands folded, leaning against the chair, like a stone, calmly observing.

Brenan Police Chief would occasionally glance at him, unable to read any cues from his face.

Chief Inspector Turner also once thought Arthur would suddenly ask about some detail like in previous years, forcing a student to the brink of their knowledge gap, yet today he’d been waiting in vain for that moment.

The silence of a person can in itself change the atmosphere of a place.

And when that person was Sir Arthur Hastings, this silence carried even more weight than questioning.

Until the last candidate finished answering, the evaluation finally concluded.

The door to the classroom softly closed behind them, and the oppressive atmosphere dissipated instantly.

The examiners walked into a small meeting room adjacent to the classroom, finally relieving the tension they’d held all day.

Brenan placed his folder on the table: ”This year’s batch is not bad, much better than last year’s.”

Turner nodded with satisfaction: ”Indeed, three people can be given full marks, Pinkerton, Cooper, and that Rain.”

The inspector beside him concurred: ”I agree, on my scorecard, those three all received full marks. Their previous physical assessments were good, solid theoretical foundations, and their answers were clean and neat.”

They passed around each other’s score sheets, glancing at each and exchanging a few jokes occasionally.

”Looks like a few good seeds may emerge this year.”

”Don’t get too happy too soon; in a few years, these kids might be above you.”

”Brenan, you’re really a dog whose mouth can’t produce ivory! If these bastards do have the ability, then let them come!”

”Especially Pinkerton, Tom must be smirking from ear to ear.”

”Bet 5 shillings, I think one day we’ll get to see Tom report to his son.”

No sooner had the words been spoken, Brenan Police Chief, who was passing around the last score sheet, suddenly turned serious. He stared at that paper, his fingers slightly trembling on the surface: ”Wait... wait a moment...”

Turner looked up at him: ”What’s wrong?”

Brenan slowly spread the scorecard open to the center of the table, everyone’s eyes fell sharply on that paper, one controlled by the greatest authority—Sir Arthur Hastings’s.

In the score box for ”Alan Pinkerton,” there was a... cross.

Not a circle.