shadow of britain

Chapter 742: Scotland Yard’s Strongest Voice? Scotland Yard’s Express Punch!
How long does it take to get from Scotland Yard to Golden Cross? Five miles per second!

10:30——Telegram sounded, "Man in gray tweed coat, five feet nine, carrying stolen property from the royal family", received!

10:33—Sir Arthur looked at his watch. "Post carriage at ten-forty-five? Let's go!"

10:37 – Officer Cowley leads the way, Officer Huett lurks, and dust is raised in front of the station.

10:43 – Suspect attempts to board bus: “Wait, I haven’t…”

10:44—In a flash, the front hand punched, the crowd cheered, and the pigeons took off.

10:45——Team up!
The Thief is Running, the Telegraph is Ringing, and the Police are Flying

So far, this reporter has not been able to contact the official spokesperson for the Pickett Street Mob, perhaps because the organization has not established this position.

The undisputed perfect ending, Sir Arthur Hastings' new nickname: York Lightning

Champion boxer Tom Cribb: "Sir Arthur's punch reminded me of the 1809 Anglo-American duel, where I used the same finishing punch to knock out American boxing champion Tom Molino."

The Royal Seal Was Lost and Found, and the Constitutional Monarchy Heaved a Breath of Fresh Air

The stolen ivory writing box contained a complete set of items used by Princess Victoria during her travels, as well as a handwritten letter signed by George IV and Princess Victoria's personal seal. However, please rest assured, Londoners, because according to informed sources, even if these royal items are abused, the worst case scenario is that Britain will inadvertently form an alliance with our bad neighbor across the sea. Oh, no, please forgive me, this newspaper almost forgot: Viscount Palmerston signed the "Anglo-French-Spanish-Portuguese Alliance Treaty" on behalf of our country in April this year.

If it weren't for the meddling of Scotland Yard and Sir Arthur Hastings, we might have four candidates for Queen by now

Kensington Palace has long been criticized for its lack of police staff, and the theft of the writing box is just one bell in a long process of collapse. Fortunately, His Royal Highness's seal has not yet been put on the paper, and the criminal has never put pen to paper. Fortunately, this time, the officers of Scotland Yard have once again proved to the public why they deserve the royal title on their heads.

Scotland Yard failed to stop the MP's empty talk, but it did stop the thief who stole the royal writing box

If yesterday's thief-catching operation had been led by Parliament, we would probably still be discussing telegraph budgets and "what is a box". Fortunately, in reality, someone is faster than the debate, that is Sir Arthur Hastings, the extraordinary Cowley and Hugh.

"MPs were half an hour late, Scotland Yard was only one minute late: the difference is not just in the boots"

We have heard MPs question why Scotland Yard always gets the spotlight, but The Times reporter James Longworth pointed out that it took Sir Arthur only 12 minutes from the telegram to the arrest in yesterday's Golden Cross Station operation. Parliamentary debates often start at a.m., but it is still unclear whether the biggest criminal gang in the UK is the Pickett Street thugs or the Palace of Westminster until the afternoon.

Death in the Cold Bath, Victory in the Golden Cross: Belated Applause

Yesterday's successful arrest was not a "flavor of genius detective", but the voice of a dead police officer's obsession. Sergeant Robert Culley, the infamous hero who died in the Cold Bath riots, left a very secret list when investigating the Pickett Street thugs. The third person on the list, a criminal codenamed "Little Bobby", was the thief captured at Golden Cross Station yesterday. Scotland Yard has not forgotten him, and neither should we.

"The badge of Scotland Yard shines brighter today because of a piece of scrap iron called Carley"

"You can kill a policeman, but you can't take away his service." This is a phrase Sir Arthur Hastings left behind when he was interviewed by our newspaper yesterday. Perhaps this should be written into the conscience of each of us.

"Kali lies in the ground, but his wounds are still bleeding"

The thief-catching hero, Officer Mike Cowley: "Captain Cowley? He's not very smart, but he's a good man, and he doesn't curse like other veteran police officers. I made mistakes in the first two months, but he never scolded me. On the day of the cold bath, he was originally assigned to stay behind, but he ended up going to the riot site. I asked him why he changed his post, and he said, 'Your sticks are new, and I'm worried. It was a rule set by Sir Arthur Hastings that newcomers should not be on the front line. You're far from being qualified to take my place.' You say... is this guy a fool?"

"A penny for a pair of polished boots cannot buy back a fallen father"

Yesterday, our reporter encountered a boy of about eight years old on the streets of Lambeth. He looked dull and ragged, squatting on the bridge and cleaning shoes for passers-by at the price of one penny a pair. It was confirmed that the child was the eldest son of Robert Carley, the police officer who died in the "Cold Bath Incident" last year.

After the death of Officer Culley, his widow Martha Culley moved to a shabby rented house in the East End with her two young children, making a living by sewing and washing clothes for others. Her eldest son should have been enrolled in the parish school this year, but because he could not afford the fees, he had to work as a shoe shiner in Lambeth Street.

Benjamin Disraeli MP wrote to the Home Office, asking why it had turned a blind eye to the plight of the family of a police officer who had died on duty.

Benjamin Disraeli: "We cannot let down the heroes who sacrificed their lives for the country. The injustice suffered by the Carley family is unbearable for any decent gentleman! I call on all upright London citizens to raise funds for the Carley family. If the Ministry of the Interior does not take care of it, then it will be handled by those of us who still have a conscience!"

An official from the Ministry of the Interior said: The Ministry of the Interior is currently discussing the establishment of the "Regulations on Pensions for Families of Deceased Police Officers" at an appropriate time.

Our reporter informed Mrs. Culley of the good news as soon as possible, but surprisingly, this strong lady said that she did not need any compensation, but only hoped that the public would clear her husband's name one day.

It is reported that this is not the first time that Mrs. Carley has refused condolence money. Previously, colleagues at Scotland Yard had spontaneously donated money to the Carley family, but Mrs. Carley also refused the money.

……

The sun gradually rose from the surface of the Thames, and the kerosene lamp in front of the editorial window of "The Brit" was still lit with the afterglow of last night.

Arthur leaned against a leather chair by the window, holding a cup of cold black tea in his left hand and turning the pages of the newspapers of the past few days with his right hand.

He thought he would be very happy to see the shocking reversal of public opinion in London in recent days, but in fact, he was not happy at all, and even felt a little aggrieved.

Perhaps because of his feelings for Scotland Yard, he always felt that this matter should have been handled like this in terms of public opinion a long time ago.

Especially the title "Death in the Cold Bath, Victory in the Golden Cross: Belated Applause" seemed particularly ironic in Arthur's eyes at this moment.

Although the newspapers were full of news about Disraeli advocating for Sheriff Culley, what Arthur actually thought of was the famous saying of Disraeli's opponent Gladstone - Justice delayed is justice denied.

There are two ways to translate this sentence. If an incident similar to what happened to Sheriff Cali happens in society, this sentence will be translated as: Justice may be late, but it will never be absent.

But if translated according to the real context, what this sentence actually means is: Justice delayed is justice denied. If it is more straightforward, it is Article 40 of the Magna Carta: We will not sell, deny or delay justice to anyone.

Yes, it sounds good, but in reality, whether it was in 1215 when the Magna Carta was officially signed or in 1834, this statement has never been fulfilled.

To the extent that he had to resort to some disgusting means and go through a lot of twisted circles to achieve the goal that should have been achieved long ago.

A gust of cold wind came in through the window, making the map on the wall rustle.

Arthur frowned and lowered his head to close the newspaper.

The next moment, a deep and familiar voice slid past his ears like a cat's claw: "Why? My dear Arthur? The fruit of victory tastes bitter?"

Agares, with a smirk on his face, looked as heartless as ever: "You worked so hard to get back a victory, forcing those Whitehall rats to chant the name of Kali like a saint. The funny thing is, they are just mending their own faces, and have nothing to do with justice."

Arthur drank a mouthful of the cool black tea expressionlessly: "What else? Do you have any other expectations for them?"

Agares pretended to have just noticed the newspaper next to Arthur. The Red Devil covered his mouth and pretended to be surprised and said, "Still flipping through the newspaper? Tsk, how strange. Didn't you hate reading gossip written by reporters? Especially the kind that writes about policemen as saints and bad guys as jokes?"

Arthur said nothing, but his knuckles turned slightly white as he gripped the newspaper.

"Stop pretending." Agares seemed to have made a great discovery. He hadn't been so happy this month. The Red Devil gloated, "You still have expectations in your heart, for justice, for the system, and for this country. Otherwise, you wouldn't be angry. You wouldn't frown when you saw Cali's children polishing shoes for others, and you wouldn't remain silent when you heard Mrs. Cali refuse to provide pensions. You are indeed dead, but you are also still alive, cursing the sky, the earth, the gods, and everyone, cursing why they forced a good man to death and put the blame on him."

"You're wrong." Arthur raised his eyes: "I'm not angry, I'm just too lazy to waste any more saliva."

Agares raised his eyebrows. "Too lazy? Then why did you spend the whole night in the office writing letters, instigating major newspapers to criticize the Ministry of Internal Affairs for doing nothing? Oh, my dear Arthur, you really have the style of a 'lazy man'."

Arthur threw the newspaper onto the bookshelf next to him. "I wrote letters because I know they are more afraid of words than people. I don't bother to tell them what is right or wrong because I know they can't understand."

“You still believe in change.”

"Yes! Change!" Arthur stood up suddenly, pulled the windbreaker off the back of the chair, draped it over his shoulders, and raised the collar, as if he was putting a shell on himself: "Now I only believe that turtles will move when they are hurt!"

As he spoke, he buttoned his coat with a skilled but violent touch, as if the buttons owed him money and the hat had suffered for some foreign secretary.

He picked up the top hat on the table and pressed it hard on his head, then raised his hand to straighten the brim of the hat as if he was slapping someone in the face.

Agares leaned against the window, arms folded, the corners of his mouth curved so much that they could be used as a coat rack: "Oh, are you serious? Where are you going? It's so early in the morning, the bell of St. Martin's Church hasn't even rung yet, and you're already on the battlefield. Are you planning to take people around Golden Cross Station again? Or..."

At this point, Agares paused for a moment, then covered his mouth and pretended to sympathize, "Oh... So Kensington Palace has a class scheduled today? Even though you look livid, the little whip in your heart still remembers it clearly. The little princess of the royal family is still waiting for you to be her nanny."

Arthur turned around, stared at the Red Devil for a long while, then snorted coldly: "I'm not going to class today."

"Oh?" Agares said in a long voice: "You dare to skip classes without Elder by your side? Arthur, you have indeed grown up in the past few years!"

"I'm not going to work today." Arthur gritted his teeth and spoke every word as if he had a stone in his mouth: "I'm going to beat up a turtle."

"Who?"

Arthur did not answer, but stood at the door for two seconds and turned his hat around, as if he was giving himself an order.

He pushed the door open and walked out with quick and decisive movements, his riding boots making a thumping sound on the wooden floor.

Agares whistled behind him, and the Red Devil didn't care whether Arthur was willing to pay attention to him or not, and followed him desperately. Judging from his expression, he was determined to see which brand of turtle Arthur was going to smoke today.

Ever since Agares met Arthur, this stupid boy has always been like this. He shouts that the world deserves death, but at the same time he tries every means to avenge the dead.

However, if he were not such a person, the Red Devil would not bother to follow him around. People who are as white as paper and people who are as black as ink are too boring for the devil.

When Agares saw the hired carriage that Arthur was riding in turned into Trafalgar Square, he thought he was going to Parliament or the Ministry of the Interior to question him. However, when he saw that the black-topped carriage turned onto Marlowe Street, then went straight along Whitehall Road towards Knightsbridge, and finally slowly stopped in front of the towering gate of Kensington Palace, Agares was stunned for a moment.

"You cowardly boy, how dare you go to the palace?" The Red Devil jumped up and down angrily: "There are so many turtles for you to beat, and you actually beat a fifteen-year-old girl?"

He turned around three times, like an owl trapped in a tree.

But the next moment, he suddenly seemed to be slapped from behind, and his whole face instantly turned red like burning charcoal, and the corners of his mouth even twitched into a terrifying smile.

"Ha...ha...hahaha! So that's what's going on!" Agares muttered to himself. He supported himself against the wall with one hand and slapped his thigh with the other hand. "Speech. Of course, speech! No wonder the homework assigned for several classes in a row was to write a speech. Damn it! Why didn't I think of it earlier?"

He remembered it too clearly.

Three days ago, Arthur was sharpening his quill pen in his study at home while muttering to Victoria's homework: "The logic is not clear enough, the emotions are not moving enough... You can't just copy Tennyson's poems, you have to learn to write sincere speeches, speeches that can really move the public, like Fox, shaking the Palace of Westminster. Of course, I'm not saying that you should go to the cellar of Parliament to plant explosives..."

At that time, Agares did not think much about it, and just thought that Arthur was sick while preparing lessons again. But now thinking about it carefully, he realized that the guy might have planned it in advance!

"You little fox in pig's skin! Dirty and obscene sewer rat!" Agares cursed with gnashing teeth, but a look emerged on his face that was hard to tell whether it was admiration or gloating: "Oh no, no, no, this is not just about hurting the cuckold, my dear Arthur, you are trying to use Kensington Palace to stab Whitehall with an ebony cane..."

(End of this chapter)