shadow of britain

Chapter 708: Whiston and Hastings in the Smoke
2:30 in the morning, in most cities in the world, this time is called midnight. But in London, this is not just midnight, but the beginning of the next day.

When Moscow fell into silence, when St. Petersburg dived into the dreamland of the Baltic Sea with the wind, and when the doctoral students in Göttingen were still staying up all night for tomorrow's thesis defense, the Covent Garden Market in central London was already a bustling scene.

The surrounding streets were filled with rows of horse-drawn carriages, trucks, and fruit and vegetable vendors' carts. The air was filled with the smell of charcoal, soil, wet leaves, and early-ripening apples, mixed with a hint of the rising restlessness of human voices.

Lights were lit in the upper windows of the tavern. This was not a sign that the citizens were getting ready to rest and the tavern was about to close, but rather that the owner was preparing to open.

A new day is about to arrive, and the scene of blocked lanes and vehicles quickly filling up the main roads will return in another hour.

Before the sun rose over the Thames, the roads from the suburbs to London were already clogged with horse-drawn carriages, carts carrying goods, and men and women busy making a living.

Carrying heavy baskets of fruit on their heads, they set out from the fruit and vegetable gardens in Fulham or southwest of the Thames a few miles away, heading towards Piccadilly Circus, passing Green Park and heading towards Covent Garden Market.

In addition to vegetable farmers and small vendors, there are also many people who rely on the morning market for their livelihood.

The owner of the coffee stall carried a load of coffee cans on his shoulders. The charcoal fire in the small cans was burning brightly, and the flames flickered in the gradually dissipating night.

The butcher's buggy creaked by, followed by the public coaches that traveled between the city and the suburbs, with men crammed in the carriages and dozing off sleepily. Behind them came the tall and strong drivers of the brewers, whose signature look was dirty jackets, leather trousers and red soft hats on their heads.

Although everyone is rushing to the city, the first people to appear in Covent Garden Market are always the coffee stall owners.

In continental Europe, cooking at home is definitely a more economical option than eating out.

But don't forget, this is London, so the situation here is the exact opposite of Europe.

Most workers in London live in cramped studio apartments and do not own their own homes. Although they can use communal kitchens, most people only use the fireplace in their room to boil water before going to work. Lighting a fire when no one is at home is a luxury that costs money and time.

Water has always been a scarce commodity in working-class homes, and although early commercial water companies had emerged in London, this did not mean that everyone could enjoy tap water services.

Because not all houses have running water, and even those that do have running water may not drink tap water often. For example, Arthur never drinks the tap water at home.

This is not because his requirements for drinks have become higher since he was awarded the title of Sir, but because the quality of London's tap water is really hard to describe.

The water sources of the dozen or so water companies in London are different. Some even draw water directly from the heavily polluted lower reaches of the Thames. None of them have undergone purification in the modern sense, so it is natural that there will be a lot of human and animal excrement, industrial wastewater and even corpses of unknown origin.

Therefore, uneven water quality and serious pollution are common phenomena in London. What's worse is that even if the quality is extremely poor, the water supply is often unstable, sometimes only a few hours a week.

Even prominent figures in London like Arthur suffered greatly, not to mention the workers who couldn't even get running water.

For workers' homes, the nearest source of water was the street pumps, but these pumps provided water only a few hours a week, even if the tap service was as good as it was.

The lack of storage space, pest infestation and limited food supply meant that storing food or even tea overnight was difficult, so workers had to have a cup of hot tea or breakfast on their way to work after a good night's sleep.

Coffee stall owners also know that after getting up in the dark and cold London morning, customers care most about the temperature of coffee and tea, followed by concentration and sweetness. Their hands must be warmed by the cup and their bodies activated by the boiling hot tea, so that your business can be good.

Therefore, although most coffee stalls are very simple, some are just a board placed on two sawhorses, and some are benches and tables mounted on carts, but without exception, the stall owners will place a roaring charcoal stove in front of the stall, and if conditions permit, they will even equip it with a small tin hot water boiler with an external copper faucet.

It would be great if there was a canvas tent over the stall to protect it from the wind and rain, with a lamp lit in the tent, a table covered with a cloth, and cups and plates placed on it, and then a few of the largest and most imposing plates placed on them with bread, cake and butter.

Just like that, in less than fifteen minutes, a 19th century London internet-famous coffee stall will be ready to welcome customers.

The stall owner had just set up his goods and had not even had time to catch his breath when he saw a customer lift the curtain of the tent and walk in.

The customer was wearing a thick woolen cloak and holding a black oak cane. He took off his gloves, sat on a wooden stool beside the stall, patted the mist on his cloak, and waved his hand skillfully to order food: "A cup of black tea and a portion of two thin slices. The tea must be boiled, and the bread must be burnt."

The two thin noodles are the best-selling combo at the coffee stall and a favourite among the working class.

Two thin slices of bread with butter were served on the table. Although the portion size was small, customers relied on them to satisfy their energy after a busy morning of work.

Such a set meal costs one penny in the West End and the City, but it is 50% cheaper in West India Dock.

"Good morning, sir." The stall owner smiled, turned around, used a worn silver clip to take a piece of steaming bread from the charcoal fire, put it on the porcelain plate, and scooped a small piece of butter on it: "Today's butter was delivered last night. Our dairy farmers in the countryside beat it themselves, without mixing water."

Arthur took the porcelain cup. The tea was hot, just as he wanted.

With nothing else to do, the stall owner stood aside and chatted with him: "Are you just getting off work, or are you taking over later?"

Arthur hadn't heard the words "off duty" and "taking over" for a long time since he left the front line of Scotland Yard and no longer had to work the night shift.

But it’s no wonder the stall owner asked this question, because the only people who patronize the coffee stall at this time are workers getting off the night shift or starting the morning shift. Of course, you’ll occasionally run into a few night patrol officers.

Arthur nodded gently: "I'll take over in a while. Are you new to the stall?"

The stall owner smiled cheerfully, pouring water for a new customer next to him without stopping his hands: "How can you say that the stall has just opened! People like me have to get up before dawn to boil water, otherwise if I come too late, the stall will be taken away. Right now in London, this stall is more popular than peeling oranges."

"The popularity today seems good." Arthur stirred the tea with a spoon and looked at the gradually increasing figures outside the tent: "It's probably because the wind last night has stopped."

The stall owner followed up on his words, "That's right. When the weather gets warmer, it's easier for vegetable vendors to work. If it gets icy, the vegetables will freeze into lumps of stone and we won't be able to sell them."

Arthur saw two thinly dressed, frail young workers standing outside the tent, their eyes full of expectation, so he greeted the stall owner: "Please give those two gentlemen a cup of hot drink, and I'll pay for it."

The stall owner was putting the teapot back on the charcoal stove. When he heard Arthur's words, he responded without even looking up: "Okay, sir."

There was no special praise, nor any words of admonition, but it was as if he had seen a very ordinary little thing, because this kind of situation can be seen every few days, and it is considered a kind of "unspoken rule" at the coffee stall.

Although the people who patronize this place are basically working class people with little money, for some reason, London workers seem to generally believe that buying a cup of hot tea for those who are in more difficult situations will not make them poorer, so if they are in a good mood one day, anyone might buy a cup of tea for those unfortunate people who happen to be short of money.

But for Arthur, this was the first time he treated others to food at a coffee stall.

It wasn't because he was stingy, but because he had always been wearing Scotland Yard uniform when he came here before. Policemen were never welcome on the streets, especially since you could often run into many people doing illegal work here.

According to Arthur's experience, any woman who appears at a coffee stand between 2:30 and 5: is % likely to be a prostitute. Of course, the term "prostitute" is reserved for parliament. At the coffee stand, people usually call them "unfortunate girls." Another potential criminal that is easier to identify is a drunkard, who also appears between : and :.

But compared to drunkards, Arthur still prefers to deal with "unfortunate girls" because the former are obviously more dangerous than the latter. Alcohol often makes those burly men lose their basic judgment, which makes them have sudden ideas and suddenly come up with some stupid ideas such as openly attacking police officers.

Arthur suffered a loss when he first joined Scotland Yard. If he had not run fast, he might have been beaten up with stools by those drunkards.

From then on, Arthur always carried a police knife with him when he went out on duty at night. After all, you can't reason with a drunk.

Recalling his night patrol experience at Scotland Yard a few years ago, Arthur could not remember much, because most of the time, he was just thinking about finishing breakfast quickly and going home to sleep, and he had no mood to appreciate the scenery along the road.

Because even just walking down the street for fourteen hours straight is enough to kill any desire to do anything else.

At that time, what Arthur envied most were the clerks working in the financial city.

About seven in the morning you could see a horde of young clerks in pea green, orange and rose-pink gloves, crimson suspenders, shirts embroidered with dahlias and with kaleidoscopes of shirt buttons passing through the streets, pouring into the City, Court Street and Inns of Court from Somers, Camden, Islington and Pentonville.

The predecessors of these young employees, the group of middle-aged clerks, mostly wore white scarves and black coats and walked steadily forward. However, in Arthur's eyes, these middle-aged people were far more hypocritical than the young people. They obviously knew everyone who came towards them, because except Sunday, they had seen each other every day in the past 20 years, but these middle-aged people never said hello to anyone, not even good morning.

Arthur's mind was full of random thoughts, and perhaps even he himself did not expect that just by sitting at the coffee stall for a while, he quickly turned from the arrogant Sir Arthur Hastings back into the disgruntled London citizen.

Just as Arthur put down the teacup, the tent curtain was suddenly and carefully lifted, a hand wearing a black glove reached in, and then a thin man with a nervous look came in.

The man was wearing a gray wool coat, a pair of round-framed glasses on his nose, and his hat brim was pulled down very low, as if he was worried about being recognized.

His footsteps were very light, but he seemed extremely uncomfortable. His eyes quickly swept over the people in the tent, and he complained in a low voice: "Damn it! Why did you have to choose this place and this time to meet? It's four in the morning, at a street stall, and I was almost vomited on by a drunkard just now!"

Arthur pointed to the stool beside him and replied lazily: "Isn't this to take care of you? You don't like crowded places, and you don't like noise and comfort. Sit down, this is the freest place in London. There are no examiners, no bishops, no audiences, no college council, and no Scotland Yard agents. There is at most one predecessor."

Whetstone glanced warily at the dozing customers at the next table, then at the dogs huddled together by the charcoal stove to keep warm, and finally sat down carefully.

His hands were still clasped on the top of his cane, as if it was not a tool for walking, but a pillar that could support his self-confidence in social situations: "I... I thought you would ask me to go to the club, or at least the bookstore, the editorial office, or even the post office."

"Don't worry, they'll see you as nothing more than a chemist who came to buy a sample of the 'Unfortunate Girl' perfume."

"Arthur!"

Arthur waved to the stall owner and said, "Two more cups of black tea, two servings and two thins."

"I'm not hungry!"

"Who said I ordered this for you? I have a good appetite today."

Whiston puffed his beard and glared, "You called me out so early in the morning, are you planning to not even treat me to breakfast?"

"Aren't you hungry?"

"I can choose not to eat, but you can't choose not to order." Whiston slammed the table, scaring the dog beside the charcoal stove: "I want an attitude!"

Arthur nearly choked on his tea. He coughed and raised his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, you are Charles Wheatstone, a member of the Royal Society, the great inventor of the phonograph, and a leader in the fields of optics, acoustics, and electromagnetism in Britain. I dragged you out to blow the cold wind early in the morning. How can I not give you some breakfast? Here, sir, another double-thumbnail. As usual, the bread must be crispy and the tea must be piping hot."

Upon hearing this, Whiston slammed the table again and said, "Two! We should be equal!"

The stall owner was laughing so hard that he wiped his apron. "I see. You two gentlemen are chatting so animatedly. If you had known earlier that there would be a quarrel, I should have put out a few more stools today so that you two could sit at a table each."

"We don't call this a quarrel." Arthur slowly picked up the teacup: "This is a communication of research results."

"You can call your detective look a research result? It's just a pretense at best."

Whiston curled his lips and turned the cup holder half a circle when he took the tea, as if to confirm whether Arthur had done anything wrong. "But... this tea is not bad. If I really had to drink the foot-washing tea made with tap water in the cell of Scotland Yard, I would turn around and leave now."

Arthur leaned back on the stool, smiled slightly, and looked at his old friend across from him through the rising steam.

He knew that people like Whiston could not be persuaded or forced, and he had to be tricked by using roundabout ways, subtle tricks, and hidden hooks to trick him little by little.

"You weren't so particular about tea before." Arthur said slowly, "I remember one time you drank a whole pot of cold overnight tea with cigarette ash floating in it in my office, and later told me that the water temperature had no effect on the experiment."

Whetstone pulled his face and said, "You didn't let me go! You threatened me that if I didn't explain the error in the transcription of the phonograph, you would put me in Scotland Yard to assist in the investigation."

Arthur cried out, "Charles, I never said I wanted to put you in Scotland Yard. I only said I wanted you to assist in the investigation."

"What's the difference between your assistance in the investigation and being imprisoned in Scotland Yard? Don't say you don't know!" Whiston counted on his fingers and went through the past. "And that time, at three o'clock in the morning, you called me from home to the Criminal Investigation Department and asked me to analyze a piece of 'intelligence about a suspected British Jacobin uprising'. What was the result? You just wanted to verify whether anyone could understand the newly written encryption language!"

"Look at you, you're anxious again." Arthur smiled and comforted him, "Charles, you should know that you are the first person who dared to say at the door of Scotland Yard, 'If you dare to mess with me again, I will complain to Parliament.' Later, my subordinates said that I was so scared by you that I didn't dare to knock on your door for three days."

"Yeah!" Whiston was so angry that he laughed: "So that's why you asked them to come back on the fourth day, right?"

Arthur couldn't help laughing. He tore the bread in half and handed over one piece. "Come, finish this meal and we'll be reconciled."

"Why?" Whiston almost wanted to smear bread on Arthur's face. "I haven't settled the score with you for sending people to kidnap me and take me to Göttingen."

Hearing this, Arthur couldn't help but sigh and said, "I knew you still remembered, so... Charles, I just returned to London not long ago, didn't I come to apologize to you immediately?"

"Just talk about it?"

Arthur hesitated for a moment: "Then according to you, what should I do for you?"

(End of this chapter)