shadow of britain

Chapter 740: Hastings the Web Weaver

The fool is trapped in the web, the wise hide behind it. The spider does not talk about morality, but only asks which thread vibrates first.

—Arthur Hastings

As the largest city in the world at that time, London's urban scale and number of streets were beyond the reach of cities such as Paris, Berlin, St. Petersburg and Constantinople.

However, although there are many streets, it is not difficult for an old Londoner to remember the names of all the streets, because almost every street has its own characteristics.

Opticians usually clustered in Ludgate Street, pawnbrokers in Long Lane, booksellers clustered near St. Paul's Cathedral courtyard, cheesemongers traded in Thames Street, gamblers gathered in the Strand to play cards, taverns' signs proliferated in Hoop Lane and Shoe Lane, flower and bird dealers were all in Seven Stars, coach builders in Longacre Street, sculptors in Euston Road, dressmakers in Tottenham Court Road, and dentists eyed the land in St. Martin's Lane.

Of course, if we talk about Elder's favorite street, it is undoubtedly St. Catherine Street, which is famous for its pornographic book vendors.

The segregation and classification of these commercial areas has further affected the residential divisions of citizens of different ethnic groups in London.

Because these industries are not only highly related to the streets, but also closely related to the ethnicity of the practitioners.

In London, second-hand clothes sellers are basically Jews, most bakers are from Scotland, diggers are from York and Lancashire, most shoemakers are from Northampton, a considerable part of the sugar refining and toy industries are controlled by Germans, cotton merchants are all from Manchester, the cheese business is monopolized by Hampshire, and Welsh "milkmaids" enjoy the "monopoly" of the milk business. The only two industries that are inexplicably all from old London are barbers and bricklayers.

what?
You ask the Irish?

The Irish are everywhere. In all walks of life, the laborers who work hard for the masters or help them are basically Irish.

Generally speaking, if you want to spend a morning seeing people from all walks of life and all ethnicities scattered in every corner of London, it is not an easy task.

Or, you can just wander around like a headless chicken and try your luck in the huge city of London.

Or you could just spend a few hours squatting in Charing Cross Road.

Why come to Charing Cross and not somewhere else?

This is because the most famous industry in Charing Cross Road is saddlery, and the reason why the saddlery here is the most famous is because Golden Cross Station is located on this street.

Over the past few hundred years, Golden Cross Station has been the most famous coach terminal in London, operating coach routes to Bath, Portsmouth, Oxford, Canterbury and other places. Many travelers from all over the UK and even Europe make this their first stop when visiting London.

Just sit on the steps in front of Golden Cross Station and you can see the huge crowds.

The paint-flaked copper nails on the sign at the station entrance were smooth and shiny, and two long-distance carriages had just arrived, one from Portsmouth and the other from Bath, were standing on the road.

The driver shouted to the hired workers to unload the suitcases and sacks. Several well-dressed ladies helped the servants out of the carriage, and from time to time they would look back at the tweed suitcases behind them that were locked with brass buckles, as if they were filled with some treasures.

A number of postal coaches had just been vacated in the yard of the station. The ground was covered with horse manure and last night's rain, which had not yet been cleaned up. The grooms who had just started work were running around with buckets and shovels, smoking cigarettes.

Several postmen with numbered copper badges on the chests of their uniforms sat directly on the steps of the inner courtyard and drank freshly brewed black tea with hard biscuits as their breakfast.

Arthur stood under an old-fashioned gas lamp by the station, leaning against a pillar on the porch of the Golden Cross Hotel.

He was wearing a dark green dress coat today, and still holding the ebony cane he always carried with him.

Perhaps he was getting impatient waiting, so he simply used the information on today's train schedules written on the blackboard in front of the station as morning reading.

10:00 departure - Oxford, Ely, Stratford
10:15 departure - Rochester, Canterbury, end point Dover

10:30 Arrival - Passengers transferring between Manchester and Sheffield

Suddenly, a traveler passed by the blackboard, blocking Arthur's view, which made Arthur frown.

Just as he was hoping that the uninvited guest would move away quickly, the guy suddenly turned around and faced him in the face.

"Sir Arthur?"

Arthur also recognized the other party and put on a smile: "Mr. Longworth."

James Longworth, the Times correspondent who accompanied Sir David Urquhart deep into the Caucasus Mountains.

Or rather, he should be called by a more resounding name, such as the nickname given to him by Fleet Street - the Liberator of the Circassians.

James Longworth was carrying a gray-blue suitcase at the moment, and there were some mud spots on the hem of his coat. He bowed slightly and neither shook hands with Arthur nor greeted him.

"Please allow me to apologize first." Longworth spoke at a steady pace, sounding very sincere: "I heard that you resigned from the position of cultural counselor in Russia... When the news came back, I couldn't believe it for a while."

Arthur smiled lightly, but his eyes did not move away from his face: "Do you not believe that the Ministry of Foreign Affairs will accept my resignation, or do you not believe that I will take the initiative to resign from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs?"

Longworth blushed a little: "I can't lie, so I have to admit that the latter is more true. Sir, I must say that I misunderstood you before."

Arthur did not comment, but just said: "If you mean the editorial "Gunfire at the Tower of London", I think you wrote it quite well. Especially the last sentence: The man who was once hailed as the best police officer in Britain was, after all, just a shooter who used the people as targets."

Longworth's face changed slightly. He didn't expect Arthur to remember that sentence word for word: "I was young and hot-tempered, and my judgment of some details may be a bit extreme... But now thinking back, although there were casualties in the riot, but... I didn't know the pressure you faced at the time."

"I don't blame you." Arthur walked up to him and patted him on the shoulder with a smile. "You just did what a reporter should do. You described what you saw truthfully. Even if it's not the whole truth, just because you say what you see, you are better than many reporters."

Arthur turned his head and looked at the bustling crowd around him. "There are too many people at the station entrance. I think we should go sit somewhere quiet. It's a good opportunity for you to tell me what you and Sir David did in the Caucasus, and what the suffering Circassians need now."

"I was just about to mention this..." Longworth nodded and glanced around: "But it may not be easy to find a quiet place at this time."

As they talked, they walked west along the stone path of the station.

As Longworth expected, the three coffee houses on the corner were packed with businessmen, travelers, and postmen. Even the few small round tables facing the street were occupied by thick coats and oilcloth umbrellas. The situation was even worse at the breakfast stall not far away. Corned beef and chopped onions were frying in an iron pot, hot steam was coming out of the tea kettle, shouts were heard one after another, and four or five apprentice-looking guys were squeezing for the last pancake left in the pot.

Longworth glanced at the jam-packed lane and said, "If we go a little further, we'll probably run into a public carriage with empty seats..."

But when he turned around, he found that Arthur was gone.

As Longworth was looking around, he suddenly heard someone across the street shouting at him, "Mr. Longworth, there's an empty seat over here!"

Longworth looked in the direction of Arthur's shouting and saw a low stone building, close to the wall on one side of the station. There was no receptionist or doorman guarding the door. There was only a dozing male clerk sitting in the porch, and there was a small oilcloth table covered with a checklist next to him.

At this point in time, it was incredible to see one or two empty seats near the station, and it was unimaginable to have a place like this with so few people.

"What kind of business is this place doing?" Longworth muttered as he walked through the crowded streets. His eyes fell on the sign hanging on the lintel: "England Electromagnetic Telegraph Company? This... sells scientific instruments?"

When Longworth stepped onto the stone steps, Arthur, with a smile on his face, had already opened the door for him: "This is not a place selling scientific instruments, this is a telegraph station."

"Telegraph station?" Longworth raised his eyebrows, obviously very interested in this new word. "Is this a place where electromagnetism is used to write newspapers?"

"That's too romantic." Arthur smiled and said, "Originally, this place was designed to transmit messages to Scotland Yard, but after I left Scotland Yard, it was sold to the England Electromagnetic Telegraph Company, which means it was converted to civilian use. But in the final analysis, not many people really know of its existence."

Arthur explained to Longworth the wonderful uses of the telegraph, and as expected, it immediately aroused the interest of the journalist.

"So, this thing... can send messages from one end to the other without the help of horses or ships?"

"To be precise, it is from the east end of London to the west end of London." Arthur smiled and added: "The construction of telegraph lines is too expensive. Just building a telegraph network in London has already emptied the pockets of my friend Mr. Wheatstone. At present, the English Electromagnetic Telegraph Company is not only unable to cross the English Channel, but also unable to connect Paris and Constantinople."

Hearing this, Longworth said with regret: "That's such a pity. If this thing could connect to Constantinople, I wouldn't have to spend more than half a month rushing back to London..."

Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta

The telegraph machine suddenly twitched and began to sound. The sound pierced the silence like a steel needle, piercing Longworth's nerves again and again.

"Hmm? What's this? Someone sent a message?" Longworth reflexively looked at the mailman who was about to fall asleep at the door: "Sir, this way..."

Unexpectedly, Arthur reached out to stop him: "Forget it, don't call him."

He blinked at Longworth and said with a smile, "I just happened to be free, so I'll teach you how to use this thing."

Longworth was interested in this new gadget, and since Arthur was willing to teach him, he was naturally happy to see something new: "Do you know how to use a telegraph?"

"Of course." Arthur said proudly, "To be honest, the code used by the English Electromagnetic Telegraph Company actually has some of my designs."

Arthur walked slowly to the telegraph machine and stroked the paper tape with his fingers. "This code was originally used exclusively by Scotland Yard. Some of them called it the Hastings code, but the official name should be the Police Intelligence Code. This code was improved by Mr. Wheatstone and I. Although it was not used many times, the code translation is engraved in my mind."

Arthur gently twisted the paper tape, fixed his eyes on it, and slowly uttered a line of translation: "Male suspect, left cheek burned, gray tweed jacket, five feet nine inches..."

When Arthur reached this point, he suddenly paused and his expression changed three times.

Longworth immediately noticed Arthur's change. He subconsciously held the back of the chair and lowered his voice suddenly: "What's wrong?"

Arthur did not answer immediately. His eyes were fixed on the paper tape, and the easy smile on his lips was fading quickly. He read out the next sentence in a very low voice: "The suspect is taking a cab to Golden Cross Station, intending to escape by the 10:45 Southern Post Coach. He is carrying an ivory and silver writing box, a gift from George IV, which is evidence of the theft from Kensington Palace. Request to intercept him on the spot, immediately!"

After reading the last sentence, Arthur tore the paper tape apart with a snap. He quickly took out his pocket watch from his pocket and snapped open the lid. The hour hand on it pointed to ten thirty-three.

"Damn it!" Arthur cursed, "That person has to leave the station in twelve minutes!"

"Who?" Longworth didn't react for a moment.

"Who else could it be?" Arthur seemed a little anxious. He walked to the window in two steps and looked out. "The thief who stole the royal loot from Kensington Palace. This telegram is from Scotland Yard!"

After saying this, he grabbed Longworth's arm and rushed out: "Time is running out and the situation is urgent, Mr. Longworth, please follow me first, and I will explain things to you later."

At this time, Longworth finally realized what was going on.

He staggered out of the house following Arthur. The street was still noisy, but in Longworth's ears, it seemed that all the sounds had faded away, leaving only the ticking sound of the watch hand moving forward relentlessly.

They walked quickly through the crowd, Arthur's clothes rustling and his ebony cane hitting the stone floor, the rhythm of which seemed like a death warrant.

"The walking time from the telegraph station to Golden Cross Station is about two and a half minutes..." Arthur said as he walked, his eyes never leaving the street. "As long as that guy hasn't boarded the train, we have a chance."

Longworth was breathing heavily. He realized that he might be involved in a royal robbery, which made him very excited: "Are you sure he will enter the station from this end? What if he goes in from the back door..."

"He took the 10:45 South Line coach, which departs from the square in front of the station. If he went through the back door, he would only take a long detour..."

Before he finished speaking, Arthur had already turned onto a long flight of stairs outside the station.

Not far away, in the corner of the left wing of the station, two uniformed Scotland Yard patrolmen were standing by the car shed, one leaning against a pillar smoking, while the other was fiddling with a horseshoe sample. They were both obviously enjoying this morning fishing time.

Arthur pretended to bend down and look at them. After a few breaths, he rushed forward as if he was sure they were acquaintances, and scolded them harshly: "Cawley! Hugh!"

The two police officers who were fortunate enough to participate in the offline stage play of "The Hastings Cases" were frightened by Arthur's voice. They jumped up as if they were electrocuted. When they turned around and saw who was coming, their faces were full of panic.

"Sir Arthur?" The tall Hugh couldn't believe his eyes: "How could you..."

"Shut up!" Arthur pointed at their noses. "The telegraph station is less than fifty steps away from you. The patrol instructions for Scotland Yard Station that I drafted clearly state that patrols are set up on the west side of the station every day. The telegraph station is an important place and its defense cannot be neglected. Are you blind to it, or are you on duty with your eyes closed?"

Hugh was confused by Arthur's scolding, and he stammered, "I...but wasn't the regulation issued last year..."

Cowley immediately remembered the special instructions given to him by Inspector Field this morning: the station patrol order that was abolished last year will be resumed today. Particular attention must be paid to patrolling the west side of the station, especially near the telegraph station. There must be someone on duty!

Cawley felt that he was unlucky and almost slapped himself in the face. This was probably another surprise inspection by the bureau: "We...we thought there was nothing important over there..."

"You don't need to think so!" Arthur was angry, and at this moment he didn't have the heart to scold the two "extras" for being amateurs. "You should have kept an eye on the telegraph station! Now, the situation is critical, I ask you to follow me immediately. The target suspect is a man in a gray tweed coat, five feet nine inches tall, with a burn scar on his left cheek, and carrying an ivory and silver writing box. This person has boarded a hackney carriage and is ready to rush to the South Line Post Coach to escape from London."

Before he finished speaking, he turned his head and looked towards the station square. He walked forward and growled, "Search separately! Check every carriage on the southern line that hasn't left yet!"

(End of this chapter)