shadow of britain

Chapter 741 London Cannot Lose Hastings
"Search separately! Check every carriage on the southern route that has not left yet!"

As Arthur gave his orders, he rushed towards the fleet of stagecoaches that were about to depart. His eyes scanned the carriages like a hawk, taking in every passenger by the door, every piece of luggage, and every hat and scarf that might hide a face.

There was no time to waste for Cowley and Hughie, and they almost stumbled after Arthur and went their separate ways.

This was not the first time they had been involved in a sudden operation, but this time not only were they named by the Scotland Yard legend Sir Arthur Hastings himself, but the telegram also mentioned the words "Kensington Palace stolen goods". Even a pig could realize that if they failed to handle this case well, not only would they have no hope of promotion in the future, but they would also lose their jobs.

Correspondingly, if the case can be handled successfully, such a great credit will go to one's head. We dare not even think about being promoted three levels like Sir Arthur did in the past, but it cannot be considered as an extravagant hope to be promoted a little bit, right?

Cowley, a veteran who has been in the job for two years, knows the ins and outs very well. Although his henchman, Officer James Huett, does not know what is good and what is bad, his brother, Captain Richard Huett of the Russian gendarmerie, has repeatedly warned him in a letter home: You must work hard when you arrive at Scotland Yard this time. If you dare to be lazy again, you will be in big trouble.

Just two days ago, Huett received the latest letter from his brother in Russia. According to Captain Huett, he was planning to resign and return to London to find a job at Scotland Yard.

James Hugh knew very well that if he was fired from the bureau at this critical juncture, the first thing his brother would do when he returned to London would probably be to beat him so hard that he couldn't get out of bed.

James Hught only regarded the sudden police incident as bad luck, but he didn't know how blessed this "bad luck" was.

If it weren't for his brother's sake, Sir Arthur would not have bothered to arrange for him to perform the martial arts standing in the car.

At this moment, the little police officer, who didn't know the relationship between fortune and misfortune, was sweating profusely as he pulled the passengers of the stage coach one by one. His voice was almost hoarse. "Excuse me, this is the Scotland Yard security patrol. Please show us your luggage and ID!"

Cowley, who had worked with Inspector Field for several years, was obviously more experienced than him. He neither shouted nor questioned, but imitated Arthur, quickly scanning faces, paying special attention to those passengers who deliberately lowered their heads to cover their faces. Gray tweed coat, burn on the left side of the face, these were the key features.

Seeing his younger brother being so disappointing, Cowley first slapped Huett on the back of the head, and then whispered a few words in his ear.

Then, Hugh Te showed a look of sudden enlightenment and ran straight to the duty room of the station.

An old policeman like Arthur could see at a glance that Cowley wanted him to ask the station clerk to delay the departure time of the South Line coach.

"You go to the head of the horses, and I'll check the rear of the cars." Arthur instructed Hughette, and then he quickly walked to the end of the convoy.

Longworth, who was following the police on a case-handling trip for the first time, seemed both nervous and excited. The arms of this well-known reporter from The Times were trembling slightly in his sleeves, but he pretended to be calm.

Longworth knew very well that he should not hinder the police from performing their duties, but he was a journalist after all, and he could no longer suppress his curiosity and sensitivity.

He was about to take out the small notebook in his pocket and write something down when he heard Arthur's deep voice: "Car number three, the one on the left."

Next to the third carriage, a man was stuffing a heavy wooden box into the trunk. The box was not big, but it looked like it had been specially polished, with light ivory lines and silver patterns. The man was tall, wearing a gray tweed coat, with the brim of his hat pulled down very low and a scarf wrapped very tightly around his neck.

Longworth paused for a moment, and out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of a slanted scar on the side of the man's face, extending from the cheekbone to the jaw, as if it had been splashed with boiling oil, giving it a dark red sheen after the skin and flesh had curled up.

Grey tweed jacket, five feet nine inches, burn on the left side of the face, the image is perfect!
Just as Longworth was about to step forward, he was stopped by Arthur.

"Don't move. Wait until Huett and the others eliminate other targets." Arthur looked very relaxed. He even had time to light a cigar. "We can't be completely sure it's him yet. If we go up and arrest him now, we will only alert the enemy if we catch the wrong person."

Longworth was stunned for a moment, and just as he was about to speak, he saw Arthur slowly turn around, take out a silver pocket watch from his gray coat pocket, and glance at the time.

Ten thirty-seven.

There are still eight minutes before the South Line Post Coach departs.

Longworth whispered, "It seems that there is not enough time."

"Don't be in a hurry. If he is an expert, he will wait until the last minute to get on the bus." Arthur smoked a cigarette, his voice so low that it was almost inaudible: "At this time, he is still observing the environment and testing whether there is a tail. He has not confirmed whether he has been exposed, so he will not act rashly."

Arthur said, shaking off the ash gently.

Just as Longworth was about to ask again, he suddenly heard hurried footsteps behind him. It was Hughet jogging back.

The young police officer finally came to his senses. He left his uniform jacket and police helmet in the station duty room, exchanged clothes with the duty officer, and returned to report: "The duty officer said that the departure time can be delayed by five minutes, but someone has to take responsibility. I reported my name."

Arthur nodded slightly but did not respond.

At this moment, the clock in the station square struck ten forty.

The high-hanging iron bell echoed under the glass dome, attracting a few pigeons to flutter and fly up.

The driver of the South Line post coach has begun to call out the names, urging late passengers to board as soon as possible.

The man seemed to have heard the bell, and he stood up straight and slowly straightened his scarf. He did not rush to get on the bus, but stepped back and stood in the shadows, took out his pocket watch and took a look.

"An old hand," Arthur commented softly, "never rushing to the front, always at the back. After waiting for other passengers to get on the bus, he squeezed into the queue, making people mistakenly think he was just an ordinary latecomer."

"Then let's..." Longworth turned to Arthur nervously.

Arthur saw Cawley not far away pretending to stay away from car number three, but in fact he was blocking the road that car number three had to take to leave.

Arthur knew that this guy had finally locked onto his target.

So he said, "Hugh, you go up and interrogate him later. Keep a close eye on his suitcase. There may be explosives, guns, or something like that in the suitcase. Don't give him a chance to open it."

"Understood." Huett swallowed his saliva: "Do you want me to kick the horse twice to shake the box down?"

"Don't be stupid!" Arthur glanced at him. "If the horse gets scared and pulls the cart away, then our trip will be in vain!"

At ten forty-three, the driver had already started to pack up the tickets. He hadn't loosened the reins yet, but the impatient horse had already raised its hooves.

A lady at the back of the carriage finally climbed onto the last step. As she sat down firmly, the station clerk standing behind car No. 3 raised his hand and shouted, "The last passenger has boarded. Prepare to close the door!"

And the man in the gray tweed coat finally moved.

He raised the ticket in his hand high and trotted all the way to the door of the car, as if he was just an ordinary passenger who was delayed for a moment because of his hurry: "Wait, I haven't got on the car yet!"

Arthur shook off his cigarette butt and then signaled to Hugh Te with his eyes.

Hugh, who was wearing the station uniform, understood what he meant. He walked out from the side through the crowded crowd and stood between the gray tweed coat and the door: "Excuse me, sir!"

"Station inspection, routine inspection of passengers' luggage." He said, extending his hand and pointing to the suitcase: "Please cooperate with the inspection."

The man raised his eyebrows and said in a hoarse voice: "I'm in a hurry."

Huett looked a little embarrassed: "Everyone who is in a hurry says so, but this is the station's rule, there is nothing we can do about it."

The man did not resist immediately, nor did he cooperate. Instead, he slowly turned his face to the side, exposing his slightly hideous left face due to the burns to Hught. "When did Golden Cross Station start checking passengers' carry-on cases?"

Huette was choked by these words for a moment. It's not like he hasn't seen criminals before, but the guy in front of him really made him feel a little scared.

He quickly searched for a solution in his mind, but he was not an experienced person after all, so he had to bite the bullet and said, "We received a tip-off that someone was trying to smuggle contraband... That's why we conducted a temporary inspection."

"Tip?" The man sneered, "Who tipped me off?"

"Me." This time, it wasn't Huet's voice.

The man turned his head suddenly. But what he saw was not Arthur's face, but his fists full of calluses from sword practice.

That punch, without any preparation or nonsense, hit the scarred face cleanly and neatly.

With a dull thud, the man staggered back half a step but did not fall down.

He staggered and twisted his body violently, trying to hide in the crowd from the left side of the carriage.

However, just as he took a step, he was hit hard by a flying hug and a throw. Cowley appeared from nowhere. This young backbone of the Police Intelligence Bureau, who was personally trained by Inspector Field, pounced on him like a black dog and pinned the man to death on the slippery stone road mixed with horse urine.

“You still want to run?!” Cowley gritted his teeth, pressed the man’s back with his right knee, and clamped his wrist with his left hand. Before he could struggle, he quickly pulled out a pair of handcuffs from his coat pocket: “Scotland Yard police officer Mike Cowley formally arrests you on suspicion of stealing royal property!”

The man in the gray coat realized that something was wrong and finally stopped pretending. He let out a low growl, like the roar of a dying beast.

His other hand suddenly stretched out from his lapel, holding a shiny knife!

But this time, it was Huerter's turn.

Although this boy is not good at speaking, he is quite nimble with his legs and feet.

He kicked the knife high up, causing it to fly far away with a clang and land right in front of Longworth.

The reporter was caught off guard and took two steps back in fright. But not long after, he suddenly remembered that he had followed the Circassians and seen the Cossack cavalry before. How could he be frightened by a knife?

Longworth tried to remain calm, bent down and picked up the knife. He found a string of letters engraved on the handle.

"PSM, Pickett Street Mob? This guy is the Pickett Street Mob!"

Pickett Street is well-known in London, but unfortunately it does not have a good reputation.

As a notorious alley in the East End of London close to the Thames docks, Pickett Street is populated mainly by vagrants, unemployed sailors and port workers. In short, it is a group of energetic, young but poor and idle guys.

As these guys stay together for a long time, they will naturally start to think about making a living through unfair means.

The Pickett Gang was born in such an environment. As one of the most powerful criminal gangs in London, their main sign was "cutting bags with a knife", which is called "cutting" in jargon. In short, they would cut open the pockets of passers-by and steal their wallets when they were not paying attention.

However, there are many gangs that do incisions in London, but not every gang has the same superb skills as old Fagin and his gang.

The Pickett thugs were particularly crude in their incisions. Their thefts often failed, and when they did, they would turn the thefts into robberies, and even if the robberies failed, they would quickly injure the victim and escape. Because of the backward medical conditions, they often caused fatal injuries during their crimes.

As the situation developed, the Pictish thugs, who had no idea what to do, could only lower their heads and turn their attention to robbing docked merchant ships and taverns. However, even though the industry was transformed, their extremely violent behavior and frequent armed injuring people continued.

The Pickett streetman who was pinned to the ground was still trying to resist, but Cowley's knee was like cast iron, pressing him so hard that he couldn't breathe.

Huett also rushed forward, and the two of them worked together to hold him down. Their movements were swift and experienced, and they did not look like he was just smoking and dawdling in front of the station.

"You still have the nerve to say you're in a hurry?" Cowley snorted coldly and pulled out a blood-stained ticket from the inner pocket of the man's coat - to Gravesend Port, time: 2pm.

"Even the escape route has been arranged." Hughet muttered as he handcuffed the man, "Are these bastards on Pickett Street really planning to escape from the South Shore Port?"

Arthur squatted down, picked up the suitcase that was still stained with water, and gently rubbed the copper buckle with his fingertips. The box opened with a click, and the ivory and silver-inlaid writing box and several other insignificant stolen goods were placed neatly inside.

"Personal property theft case at Kensington Palace, the evidence is solid..." Arthur smiled and glanced at the suspect pinned to the ground: "Oh, who was it? It turned out to be Little Bobby. You should know that you can't get away this time, right?"

Little Bobby of Pickett Street!

As soon as this nickname was announced, it immediately attracted exclamations from the onlookers.

"Oh my god, that's him?"

"My aunt's tailor shop was robbed by this gang two years ago!"

"Is that the fellow who cut off the patrolman's fingers on the Strand?"

"Yes, it's him!"

"Look, he's caught!"

The crowd immediately swarmed in, and the two police teams that had been lying in ambush near the station had to blow their whistles repeatedly and set up cordons, only then were they able to barely separate the crowd that had gathered to watch the excitement.

"Who the hell are you... You're not a policeman..." Little Bobby, who was pressed on the bricks, gasped, his eyes were fierce, and he said threatening words: "You'd better not let me know who you are, otherwise we Pickett thugs will not let you go!"

Officer Cowley, who was nearly stabbed by Little Bobby, punched him on the head to avenge himself: "Speak more politely! This is Sir Arthur Hastings!"

"Arthur Hastings?" Little Bobby, who had just threatened to kill the whole family, suddenly trembled in his voice: "The one who...threw Fred into the sea?"

"Yes." Arthur replied lightly, "Do you want to go and accompany him?"

He slowly stood up, threw the box to Inspector Field who had just arrived, took off his gloves and whipped the mud off his trouser legs.

"Everything in that box is real." Field looked through the contents of the box and reported in a high-pitched voice that was no less impressive than Giovanni Rubini's: "Even Her Highness Victoria's personal seal is there!"

"Even Her Royal Highness Victoria's personal seal is here!"

As soon as Inspector Field said this, it was like a thunderclap that struck the ears of the citizens. There was a burst of exclamations and uproar in the square, mixed with confusion, excitement and almost crazy whispers:
"Your Highness's seal?! Oh my God! How did they steal this thing?"

"Are these people crazy? How dare they steal things from the palace!"

"This kid is finished...completely finished..."

"Those Pickett thugs are so bold!"

The crowds are like waves, the sounds are like tides.

Little Bobby's threat of "Pickett's thugs will not spare you" had long been swallowed up by the raging waves. The stone slabs on the ground were icy cold. Little Bobby's head was pressed down tightly, his cheeks pressed against the dirty water, and his face gradually turned into a gray and lifeless waxy color, but he did not struggle. His mind was still stuck in the echo of last night's rainy night.

He could never have imagined that the things he snatched last night would actually be royal items!
Last night, it was also a damn terrible weather!

The streets of East London were always so damp and smelly. He, Fat Tommy and Old Taylor huddled outside a dilapidated brick house at the end of Malta Lane, smoking by a three-legged rotten table with a rusty oil lamp.

Several carriages passed slowly along Beacon Street, without the sound of wheels rolling over cobblestones, as if blankets had been wrapped around the wheels.

The middle-aged businessman arrived at a very opportune moment and very quietly. The suitcase he was carrying was not big, but it was decorated with silver buttons and intricate patterns. One could tell at a glance that it had been custom-made with much effort and was very valuable.

The moment he reached out his hand, it went surprisingly smoothly. No one shouted, no one chased after him, and the businessman just turned around and glanced at him calmly. His eyes didn't look alert or surprised, but rather like he was waiting for him to take the ticket.

Thinking of this, little Bobby shuddered. He closed his eyes and heard nothing in his ears, no noisy insults from the citizens, no excited discussions from Longworth about telegraph technology and on-site capture, he couldn't even feel the blood on his cheek.

The only thing that fell into his ears was a voice that couldn't be calmer: "Retreat."

(End of this chapter)