shadow of britain

Chapter 748 In Memory of Officer Robert Calley

Just as the day was getting light, a sparse crowd of pedestrians gathered in the square in front of Scotland Yard.

The October fog hung like a gray silk sheet over the streets of London, carrying with it the moisture of the Thames and the smell of burning Westminster Palace.

At eight o'clock, the alarm bell at Scotland Yard had not sounded, but the officers were already in place.

"A Letter to Sergeant Robert Culley," The Times, October 1834, 10
Row after row of police officers filed out of Scotland Yard, each of them wearing a black satin armband, their uniforms pressed, their riding boots polished, and even their police badges gleaming coldly in the low sunlight.

Hundreds of police officers in blue and black uniforms formed a square formation in front of Scotland Yard. There was no guard of honor, no noisy drumbeats, only the rhythm of rows of old leather boots tapping on the bluestone slabs and ribbons fluttering in the wind.

For police officers, rest days have always been a luxury.

Although according to Scotland Yard's internal regulations, police officers have one day off every week, in reality, due to the frequent police incidents and the large number of cases, they often encounter situations where they cannot get a day off for several weeks in a row.

For example, take the knight whose portrait hangs in Scotland Yard. During the parliamentary reform in 1832, he set a record of 54 consecutive days of work at Scotland Yard. Unfortunately, due to force majeure, this record was forced to end on June 1832, 6.

But it wasn't a big deal, because Arthur's record was broken by a police officer from the Criminal Investigation Department just half a year later.

Although not every Scotland Yard police officer has a record of working for two consecutive months, even so, their days off are still a valuable asset.

There is only one reason why these gentlemen, who should have been lying in bed and sleeping in, are dressed neatly and arrive at work on time - they are police officers from Scotland Yard and colleagues of Robert Carley.

"Reporting to you! All personnel are here, 143 police officers, not one missing!"

Director Luo Wan took the roll call from the police secretary, glanced at it, then closed the roll and threw it into the secretary's arms.

The first chief of Scotland Yard mounted his horse with great skill, and the heavy weight made the brown horse snort under his crotch.

Rowan looked back at the neatly lined-up police officers and waved his hand coldly: "Let's go to St. Martin's Church!"

St. Martin's Church, a church located near Trafalgar Square, has a small main cemetery, unlike Westminster Abbey and St. Mary's Church, where prominent figures such as Isaac Newton, Geoffrey Chaucer, William Pitt and his son, and successive kings of Britain are buried.

However, this church, which accommodates many middle and lower class citizens, has a special meaning for Scotland Yard, because this is where they are crowned with royal titles and where the symbol of Scotland Yard is resurrected.

In other words, St. Martin is the Westminster and St. Mary's Church of Scotland Yard. It is an exclusive honor for Scotland Yard police officers to be buried here. Unfortunately, so far, this honor has only been enjoyed by Chief Inspector Robert Carley.

This long team of more than 100 police officers from Scotland Yard slowly passed through the foggy Whitehall Street. There was no sound of gongs and drums, no rhythm of horse hooves, only the slight friction of boot soles against stone slabs.

In front of the police team, Chief Rowan and two mounted police officers were leading the team on horseback.

Along the road, more and more pedestrians stopped, some took off their hats to greet, and others just bowed their heads quietly.

Many of them did not know Robert Culley and had never dealt with him, but they had read his name more than once in the newspapers of the past week, as well as those subheadings that could not be ignored - he died without a gun, only with a baton, and at the same time, Sheriff Robert Culley was the only one who did not leave the cold bath standing that night.

Reporters from Fleet Street were already weaving among the crowds in Whitehall Street.

Some of them were sweating profusely from running, and some were splashed with mud from their boots, but they still held a pen in one hand and quickly recorded in a notebook with the other.

"There are three from The Times, two from The Morning Chronicle, and the Illustrated London News.  ...

At 8:20 in the morning, the team commemorating Cali arrived at St. Martin's Church on time.

From a distance, you can see a low fence surrounded by black gauze around the church. The stone steps in front of the door are filled with flowers sent spontaneously by citizens. White roses, forget-me-nots, daisies and carnations are mixed together. The colors are simple, without any luxurious or gorgeous gold-rimmed ribbons, but these flowers are more moving than aristocratic wreaths.

Robert Culley's widow, dressed in a black veil, stood quietly in front of the church, holding their two children in her left and right hands, Mark Culley, a little shoe shiner about eight years old, and his five-year-old brother David Culley who often helped him.

When Rowan dismounted, the heel of his boot landed with a thump, splashing a light trail of water. His cloak was wet from the morning mist and stuck to his uniform.

Without saying a word or greeting, Luo Wan walked straight towards the mother and son.

As the chief executive of Scotland Yard, he didn't often walk like this, because more often than not, he was waiting for someone to walk towards him.

But today, he did not hesitate at all. He walked through the passage between the teams, stepped into the silence and solemnity of the whole place, and came in front of Mrs. Carli.

He took off his hat, pressed it against his chest, and lowered his head slightly, which he had never lowered even to Napoleon: "Madame..."

The breathing sounds of the people present were much quieter. Luo Wan's throat moved, and he raised his hand to salute and said, "As a commander, I failed to protect my subordinates. For this, I am very sorry."

Many veteran police officers in the square couldn't help but sneer when they saw this scene, and even the most eccentric reporter put down his pen.

There was silence in front of the church for a few seconds. Suddenly, a voice rang out from the crowd. Someone took the lead and whispered, "May he rest in peace."

"May he rest in peace."

The prayers, which arrived a year late, rang out in front of St. Martin's Church.

Mrs. Carli nodded slightly, as if she wanted to say "thank you" to Rowan, but in the end no sound came out.

She just lowered her head, her shoulders trembled slightly, and the corners of her tightly pursed lips slowly relaxed. A tear ran down her cheek and fell on the bouquet of white roses that had not yet withered at her feet.

Mark Culley, who was standing beside him, was standing motionless, with no tears and no expression on his face. Today he polished the pair of ill-fitting leather shoes on his feet until they were shiny like a mirror, as if these relics of his father could reflect his father's portrait on his toes.

His jaw was taut and his eyes were motionless, as if he was trying hard to hold back something.

Young David Culley bit his lip, held his mother's hand tightly with one hand, and grabbed his brother's clothes with the other hand.

His fingers were shaking, but he stubbornly followed his brother's example and didn't cry out.

The raindrops fell on the brim of Rowan's hat, making a few soft sounds, and also fell on the white rose petals on the ground, splashing a tiny amount of water.

It was not the torrential rain with thunder and lightning, nor was it the cold and rainstorm with malicious intent, but it was fine and gentle, yet enough to wet everyone's heart.

"It's raining again in London."

His voice was not loud, but with the same gentleness and unquestionableness as always, Arthur appeared silently behind the Carley family.

He was wearing the swallowtail uniform that he hadn't taken out for many years, with a pair of white gloves on his left arm and an open umbrella in his right hand, blocking the heads of Mrs. Culley and the two children.

He didn't say much, just lowered his head slightly, glanced at Mrs. Carley, and then looked at her two children.

"Ma'am." His tone was calm, as if he was greeting an old neighbor: "I'm afraid the rain won't stop for a while, why don't you go to the church first."

Just as everyone was about to enter the church, the crisp sound of horse hooves came from afar, penetrating the low-hanging sky of fog and rain, and slowly approaching St. Martin's Church.

The crowd unconsciously made way for a passage, the gentlemen took off their hats one after another, and their eyes all turned to the end of the street.

A royal carriage with a black background and gold edges slowly came into view.

There was a guard leading the way in front and behind the carriage. They were wearing red and blue cloaks, and their epaulettes flashed a dark golden light in the rain.

The side door of the carriage is decorated with a familiar coat of arms: a three-part shield depicting a lion and a unicorn, with two mottos written in Latin around it: Honi soit qui mal y pense (Humiliation befalls those who have evil intentions) and Dieu et mon droit (God bless my power).

"Kensington Palace carriage?" someone whispered in the crowd, "The Duchess of Kent?"

"Not only that, His Highness may be here too." The carriage slowly stopped in front of the church door.

The first person to get out of the car was Mrs. Letzen. She was wearing a dark green cloak, walked steadily, and held up an umbrella without saying a word.

Then, a small boot stepped onto the wet stone steps, and then a well-tailored black tweed skirt and a cloak with pearl buttons appeared.

She did not wear a veil nor hide her expression, but her still childish face now had a layer of unprecedented solemnity.

"It's so cold," she said softly.

Princess Alexandrina Victoria, heiress presumptive to the British throne.

On the other side of the carriage, the Duchess of Kent was also slowly walked out of the carriage, supported by Sir John Conroy.

Although she was just attending a memorial event for a police officer, the Duchess of Kent's attire today was enough to show how much importance Kensington Palace attached to her.

Under the gray-blue satin cloak was a formal mourning dress with a black satin corsage on the chest, a symbol of mourning.

There was not a trace of unnecessary emotion on her face, but wherever her eyes went, people subconsciously straightened their backs.

She did not step forward immediately, but stood at the foot of the stone steps and nodded to Director Luo Wan and the police officers present.

Luo Wan immediately took a few steps forward and whispered, "Your Highness, Madam, you don't have to come in person."

The Duchess of Kent shook her head slightly: "That's why I have to come."

After she finished speaking, she looked up at the mother and her two children in front of the church. Her eyes fell on the two young children who were trying hard to hold back their tears, and she was slightly moved for a moment.

The Duchess looked at her daughter and patted her shoulder gently: "Delina."

Unexpectedly, before he could finish, Victoria had already walked forward. She did not reveal her identity, but walked to Mrs. Culley and stretched out her hand to signal gently.

Then, Mrs. Letzen was seen handing over a bouquet of flowers brought from Kensington Palace.

They were a few hyacinths, as pure as snow, wrapped in fine linen paper and tied with a black ribbon that was not tied very neatly.

"Ma'am," Victoria said softly, "I picked these in the garden... I don't know what to say now, but... but I think Officer Cali must be as great as my father. I want him to know that we all remember him."

Mrs. Culley was already choking with sobs, but at this moment she suddenly felt extremely quiet.

She knelt down, took the flower, nodded gently, and said in one sentence: "Thank you, Your Highness."

When Victoria saw this, she couldn't help but look up at Arthur, until she found that the grammar teacher was nodding slightly, then she breathed a sigh of relief.

Immediately, Victoria waved gently towards the church door and said to Arthur, "Sir, please lead the way."

Arthur nodded slightly, bowed forward, and responded to the order of the uncrowned crown prince with the simplest etiquette.

"Yes, Your Highness."

His voice was as steady as ever, but his steps were much more relaxed than the last time he came here.

The door of St. Martin's Church was slowly pushed open. Arthur stood upright with an umbrella in one hand and the other hand slightly raised, guiding the crowd behind him into the church.

At this moment, the seats in St. Martin's Church were already full.

The first few rows were reserved for Cali's relatives and royal guests, while the remaining seats were already occupied by some police officers who resigned after the "cold bath incident", their colleagues, and citizens who had come early to see Sheriff Cali off.

The seats under the dome were packed to the brim, and even a few small stools were temporarily placed along the aisles. Seeing this situation, many police officers simply stood on both sides of the aisle without complaint.

The rain outside the church had not stopped and the fog had not dissipated.

Those citizens who failed to enter the church could only stand silently at the foot of the stone steps, some holding umbrellas, some wearing cloaks, some leaning on canes, and even a few holding babies who were still learning to speak, but no one left.

After everyone was seated, the lights inside St. Martin's Church were dimly lit, and the black veil hanging in front of the altar contrasted with the cross. After the presiding priest nodded, Arthur whispered, "Let's begin."

He stepped back and the speaker who was giving the opening speech in the corridor stepped forward.

Not a nobleman, not a clergyman, not Viscount Melbourne or Sir Robert Peel, but a young Member of the House of Commons in a well-tailored long coat - Benjamin Disraeli.

He stood on the podium, without a manuscript or a prompter, and only had his left hand lightly placed on the edge of the podium.

"Gentlemen, ladies and gentlemen! Fellow British citizens!"

His voice was not loud, but extremely clear.

"We stand here today not to boast about any policy, to defend a party, or even to compete for the pitiful halo of the speaker's podium. Instead, we stand here to pay tribute to a British man who has no title, no medal, and no constituency - Officer Robert Carley!"

With just one sentence, Disraeli calmed the slightly noisy meeting place, and everyone's attention was focused on the initiator of the "Fundraising Campaign for the Carley Family".

"Mr. Carley never made a speech, never wrote a memorandum on national planning, never handed out gilt-edged business cards at evening social events, never worried about his life in the corridors of Parliament with the attitude of 'big man worries'. He never even entered Parliament, but he died for the people it protected!"

Hearing this, the ladies could not help but wipe away their tears, while the Duchess of Kent, who was standing next to Mrs. Carley, gently comforted the poor woman who shared the same suffering as her.

Disraeli waved his right arm: "This is a British man whom we tried to ignore, but his actions forced us to awaken our memories of him. Sometimes I wonder why we commemorate certain figures under marble, but are collectively silent about ordinary people whose blood has not yet dried and whose names have not yet been written into history books? Robert Carley is such an unknown person, but it is because of people like him that London has not lost its order in chaos! The empire has not rotted in the night!"

Many of the Scotland Yard police officers straightened their backs silently, some squeezed their hat brims unconsciously, and others gently stroked the black satin armband wrapped around their left arms with their fingers.

Disraeli paced on the podium: "The death of Inspector Culley reminds me of another night. It was two years ago, also a rainy night, London had not yet emerged from the heated debate on reform, and the riots quietly spread to the dark street corners. A close friend of mine, also loyal to his duty, also fell in the chaos. That night, I doubted whether he would wake up again. But tonight, I know that Inspector Culley will never wake up again.

This is not a simple coincidence. This is fate using the same script to warn us: when the country needs calm and order the most, it is not those of us sitting on the mahogany chairs who bear the price, but the heroes who stand behind the rubble and never retreat.

Yes, Kali died! He died in a night without gunfire but full of anger. He did not fall under the enemy's guns, but fell between our own cracks! London that night did not need firearms, anger itself was the fuel! No enemies were needed, compatriots themselves were the challenge!

He could have retreated. Scotland Yard's orders did not require him to die, and his duty did not require him to die! He just looked at the chaos, the violence, and every opportunity to escape, and then stayed. This, everyone, is not heroism, this is the highest expression of national responsibility! "

Disraeli paused at this point.

The audience burst into thunderous applause. However, the Jewish young man did not enjoy the applause. Instead, he unexpectedly put his hands down, signaling the audience to stop for a moment.

“I must say this: if we bow our heads for a minute’s silence for Robert Carley today, but tomorrow turn a blind eye to the young men standing in the streets in uniform with batons in hand, then our mourning would be false and our tears hypocritical. I do not always agree with the government, but I will say this today: when a country is stingy with its memory of its night watchmen, it is not far from falling asleep.

As for those who have complained about violence due to batons, I would like to remind you that if you are dissatisfied with the cane, please be grateful that Officer Calley did not draw his gun. His self-restraint is more powerful than the empty non-violent speeches of some lords in the parliament!
In the future, perhaps future generations will call 1834 the year of reform or the beginning of reconstruction, but I will remember that this was the year we lost a man who reminded us of our civic responsibilities through his loyalty, perseverance, and death.

I don't think the monument we erect today can carry all of his meaning. I hope that some young man will pass by this place in the future and see the slab with Robert Carley's name on it and ask: Who is he? And one of us will answer: He is the one who chose to stay. "

At this point, Disraeli took a deep breath and exhaled slowly: "Rest in peace, Officer Culley, before our consciences fall asleep."

The applause lasted for a long time.

(End of this chapter)