shadow of britain

Chapter 737: Scotland Yard's Rule Maker

It had just rained in London. The sunlight shone obliquely on the car window, and was refracted by the wet glass, making it hazy and beautiful.

The carriage slowly drove through Grosvenor Square, its wheels rolling over the bluestone slabs, making a rhythmic creaking sound.

Arthur was half-lying on the cushions of the coach, with a new book open on his lap. On its dark cover was written in gilt letters the title: The Strange Story of Alroy.

This is the annual masterpiece created by Benjamin Disraeli, one of the 72 pillars of "The Limey", for his new magazine "Spark".

How to describe this work?
In terms of story structure, this book is an excellent adventure novel. For readers who love history and adventure elements, this is definitely a work that cannot be missed.

Especially considering the real background that Disraeli was about to run for election, you can imagine how much effort he put into his new book in order to gain the support of public opinion.

Although the social evaluation of this book after its publication is still unknown, at least Agares has taken the lead in giving it an extremely high rating of 9.0.

To be honest, this guy read this book all night yesterday, and read it over and over again several times.

"I have to say. This is the most exciting reading experience I have had in the past decade, no, in the past twenty years." Agares took a sip of red wine and commented in that familiar contemptuous and slick tone: "I admit that I had some prejudice against the little Jew before, but his new book has greatly changed my opinion of him. This book is more fascinating than the 18th century Black Mass manual, more fanciful than Lord Byron's autobiography, and more literary than all the collections of narcissistic politicians that I have read in the world."

He raised his eyebrows and tapped the cover of the book with his knuckles. "Alroy, son of the king, descendant of King David, fugitive, prophet, love saint, and the Messiah of the end times. What could be more attractive to readers than these?"

After saying that, he turned to Arthur, who had always ignored him. He looked like he was seriously preparing for a Duke of Hell-level book recommendation meeting.

"If you are a teenager born into a rich family but with limited financial resources, if you can't find a place in politics, if you can't stay faithful in love, if you are neither devout nor thorough in religion, this book is for you."

Agares was so kind, but Arthur's reaction was very cold. He turned the pages and whispered, "Agares..."

"What? You also think I'm right?" The Red Devil said excitedly.

"You've been buzzing in my ears non-stop from last night until this morning. If I hadn't seen you when I opened my eyes, I would have thought there were Baal flies in the house."

Agares frowned when he heard this.

Usually, this is a sign that he is about to get angry.

But today, he did not attack the cruel York boy in more than 200 languages ​​that Arthur could or could not understand as usual. Instead, he kindly advised: "Arthur, to be honest, the subtitle of this book should be given to me, or at least a recommendation should be written. How about listening to this paragraph? It's a passionate attempt at identity, faith, and completely screwing up everything. Alroy set out like St. Paul, was obsessed with luxury like Solomon, and finally lost the vote in the parliamentary vote like an ordinary English member of parliament."

Arthur closed the book and shook his head slightly: "It's too peaceful."

“What about this paragraph?” Agares cleared his throat again: “The experience of reading this book is like being on a ship in the Mediterranean and encountering a storm: you know it’s going to capsize, but you can’t help but keep reading.”

Arthur curled his lips slightly. "As a subtitle, it doesn't make any sense, and as a recommendation, it seems like the author hasn't even read the book carefully."

Agares' eyes widened, his nose almost digging into Arthur's eye sockets. "Arthur, don't be too pushy. Do you know how great an honor it is to get a comment from me? If you think you have good taste and are good at naming, then you should come up with a better one than mine!"

"What's so difficult about this?" Arthur, who has worked in the publishing industry for several years, picked out the following books at will: "Alroy's Fantastic Journey, or How to Fall in Love in the Syrian Desert and Avoid Jihadists at the Same Time", "Alroy: How to Start a Failed Startup Project in the Holy Land of Kabbalah", "The Jewish Prince Training Manual: It Only Takes Three Steps from Escape to Ascension to the Throne, and the Fourth Step is Demise", "My Army, My Lover, and the Scepter That I Didn't Understand What It Was Used for Until the End of the Story"..."

After he finished speaking, he raised his index finger and commented: "By the way, since the story line of this book involves regaining King Solomon's scepter, it is particularly appreciated by some demons."

Seeing that smoke was coming out of Agares's head, Arthur suddenly changed the subject: "But I have to say that although this book has this or that flaw, Benjamin still likes to write autobiography in his novels, but at least this time he wrote his autobiography in a more subtle way than The Young Duke and Contarini Fleming."

After hearing this, Agares finally calmed down. Although he was very dissatisfied with Arthur's previous remarks, based on the devil's usual superb literary accomplishment, he had to admit that Arthur was right.

In a word, Disraeli's writing style is as arrogant as his dressing style. As soon as you open the book, the image of green shorts and red vest will hit you.

Take the book Contarini Fleming as an example.

This book is not so much a novel as it is an overly decorated memo of life that Disraeli wrote to himself, with at most a little bit of fantasy literature as an outer shell.

The protagonist Contarini was born in a noble family and was unhappy since childhood. He began to think about the nature of life at the age of five, began to write poetry at the age of ten, published a collection of essays at the age of fifteen, and hated the world for not understanding him at the age of eighteen. Then, he went to college, published a bunch of shocking political views, and then, unsurprisingly, was expelled from school.

Later, his father suggested that he do something serious, so he became his father's personal secretary and spent a few years in the diplomatic circle, thinking about how to save the fate of the empire while taking time to be depressed.

The love scenes in the book are also extremely disgusting. The dialogues between Contarini and his lover are basically all lines like "Why is fate so cruel", "You don't understand my loneliness", "I am willing to give up the whole of Europe for you", which looks like Napoleon and Goethe exchanged diaries.

The ending of this book is also unusually standard: Contarini published a collection of poems, which was mercilessly ridiculed by critics, and was then forced to resign. He chose to travel alone in a highly symbolic storm; of course, he did not die, but he almost became an exiled soul.

When this book was first written, there was controversy within "The Litter", but due to their friendship, Dumas, Dickens, Arthur and others were embarrassed to speak too bluntly, but the implicit meaning of their words was: if this book is published, the ending may not be too good.

However, Heine, who had always been at odds with Disraeli, had no reason to indulge him. The first sentence Heine said after reading the book was: "I read fifteen pages and found that the protagonist stared out the window fourteen times in these fifteen pages. The fifteenth time was staring into the mirror. Then he said to the mirror, 'I am destined not to belong to this world.' My God! Do you know? I almost fell off the chair at that time!"

However, although "Contarini Fleming" received unanimous bad reviews from the editorial department, fortunately, Mr. Disraeli is now a famous author with a certain readership.

So, although this book did not receive much response and did not sell well, at least it did not receive so many bad reviews that it could not recover the cost.

Of course, "Contarini Fleming" is not entirely useless. At least Sir Arthur Hastings, the tutor at Kensington Palace, thinks this book is very suitable for reading training for students.

If you can understand all the inner drama hidden in this book, you can basically master reading comprehension.

There's nothing I can do about it, since the guy who wrote this book is a drama queen himself.

And how is "The Amazing Story of Alroy" better than "Contarini Fleming"?

In Arthur's opinion, the strength lies in the fact that if you don't observe carefully, it is difficult to realize that this is actually an autobiographical work of Disraeli.

For example, Alroy had a deep relationship with his sister Miriam. In order to save Miriam, he killed a local nobleman and had to flee to the wilderness. High in the Caucasus Mountains, he met the Kabbalah High Priest Jabastet, who told him that if he wanted to liberate the Jews and liberate the Holy Land, he must first take back Solomon's Scepter, etc...

Arthur was not sure who the character of Jarbas in Disraeli's book was based on, but he was willing to bet a gun that the prototype of Miriam was Disraeli's sister Sarah.

Moreover, in the book, after Alroy liberated Hamadan and conquered Baghdad, he fell in love with a Muslim noblewoman. At this time, the high priest Jabaste warned Alroy: "You may be the king of Baghdad, but you cannot be a Jew at the same time."

When Jarbast's exhortations proved futile, he plotted to unite the conservatives to overthrow the apostate Messiah. Alroy foiled the plot, but at the same time he was mocked by a Jewish radical for his moderate stance. Combined with recent events, it's hard not to understand which Prussian Disraeli was snarling at.

But rather than dwelling on the details of the book, Arthur's favorite thing about it was that he read Disraeli's political stance between the lines - Toryism, a product of the old era, is out of date, but that doesn't mean I will stoop to becoming a Whig.

The truth in such writings says more about a man than it does when it comes from Disraeli's own lips.

As far as the current situation is concerned, if Disraeli's thoughts do not change too drastically, Arthur's friendship with him may last very long, which will not only be reflected in their personal relationship, but also in their career.

The most direct manifestation of friendship is that Arthur will personally visit his good brother Mr. Disraeli this afternoon and present 800 pounds of campaign funds to him. The board of directors of the Empire Publishing Company will always have Arthur's vote in favor of the proposal to help Disraeli in the election.

As for what to do this morning?

The rain in London had just stopped for a while, the stone floor had not yet completely dried, and crystal water droplets were still hanging on the iron fence in front of the police station.

The heavy clouds slowly dissipated over the sky of London, leaving behind a few thin rays of sunlight that slanted through the dilapidated eaves and lampposts, casting elongated shadows.

There was also a hint of dampness in the air, a mixture of coal smoke and rust, the scent of ink from newspapers and documents, the foul language of the coachman, and a hint of uplifting dampness, a kind of scent that only appears before something big happens.

The front door of Scotland Yard stands tall and silent, like an old guard in deep sleep, quietly watching the ruts and flow of people on Whitehall Street.

The iron door knocker still had water droplets on it, and occasionally made a clicking sound in the wind.

The carriage slowly stopped at the door.

Before the coachman could help the people out of the carriage, the door was pushed open lightly from the inside, and a hand wearing a white glove rested on the door frame.

The white shirt and silver-grey bow tie complemented each other beautifully, and a dark gold Scotland Yard badge was faintly visible on his chest. Arthur's attire was as restrained and neat as usual, almost harsh.

He walked towards the main entrance of Scotland Yard with his cane in one hand. His pace was not fast, but each step landed on the brick surface of the floor, causing everyone's heartbeat to slow down slightly.

The officer on duty at the door was a new police officer who had been on the job for less than half a year, and the buttons on his uniform still gleamed with a newly polished luster.

Seeing a strange gentleman walking in without saying hello, he immediately blocked the passage subconsciously: "Please stay, sir. Please show me your visiting documents or police letter."

Arthur stopped and looked up at the young police officer. He was neither angry nor sarcastic. He just smiled and asked, "New here?"

The young police officer straightened his chest and said, "Yes, sir, I just started working in March."

"Which department?"

"Detective Division, sir."

"Oh? Are you taking notes on the scene or following clues?"

"It's mainly about organizing clues." There was some arrogance in his voice. After all, this is one of the most noble and prestigious departments in Scotland Yard. "I am responsible for the preliminary filing of the report information and intelligence documents, and then forwarding them to the higher-ups to decide whether to open a case."

Arthur nodded, his tone still gentle: "That's important. Is the theft at the West India Dock last night your responsibility?"

The young police officer frowned and hesitated: "I, I'm not sure...but our department did receive a letter from the Pier Police Station yesterday afternoon...but I haven't read the specific content yet. Why are you asking this?"

"Just a casual question." Arthur smiled, as if he was just a curious London citizen: "Who do you usually partner with?"

"Uh... I'm mainly helping Sheriff Bobby Campbell." The young police officer paused, his eyes becoming impatient: "Sir, are you from a newspaper? If you want to interview, you have to go through the east side door. Now is official time, no one is allowed in."

Arthur still looked calm, as if he was carefully observing a thriving grass.

He was about to ask another question when he suddenly heard the sound of steady footsteps of riding boots on the floor tiles.

"George." A slightly old but sonorous voice sounded: "Don't block the road."

The new police officer was startled and turned his head suddenly.

An old inspector with grey hair and eagle eyes was seen walking out of the main hall of Scotland Yard.

He was wearing an old-fashioned dark tuxedo uniform jacket and a half-worn police belt around his waist. He walked slowly, but he had a strong aura.

The man walked forward and put a thick hand on the shoulder of the young police officer George. He did not scold or curse at him, but just looked at him quietly.

Then he turned to Arthur, stood straight, and raised his hand in salute.

"Welcome home, sir."

Arthur just nodded slightly: "Long time no see, Evans."

While they were talking, a group of police officers on duty in the front hall also raised their heads. Some rubbed their eyes, some quietly touched the police badge on their chest, and some could hardly contain themselves and wanted to rush up to greet them.

The new police officer George stood there stiffly, his face red as if he had just been pulled out of a stove. He slowly lowered his head and quietly took a small step back.

Arthur just raised his cane slightly, smiled, patted George on the shoulder, turned to Inspector Evans and said, "This young man is good, a good seedling."

The corners of Inspector Evans' mouth twitched, and a rare smile appeared on his old face, which was angular due to time and wind and rain.

"Very good indeed," he said, jokingly, "but I have not yet learned that the gate of Scotland Yard never stands in Sir Arthur's way."

Arthur smiled and shook his head: "It's not his fault. Rules are rules."

"Rules are for newcomers to see." Evans led Arthur inside, his voice was not loud but very clear: "And you, are the one who makes the rules."

(End of this chapter)