shadow of britain

Chapter 761 Are you going to humiliate yourself?
Although this café is marketed with a Russian theme, as a restaurant that originated in London, it inevitably has to incorporate some elements of British style.

What kind of style do the typical British restaurants on the street usually have?

The styles are actually quite diverse.

Some restaurants allow diners to bring their own food, which is then cooked on the restaurant's stove. After the food is prepared, they charge you two or three pence for the cooking and labor.

If you don't want the hassle of going to the market to buy groceries, you can order directly from the restaurant.

A typical cup of fine South American coffee costs five pence. A two-pence set meal includes a sandwich with four slices of ham and a glass of sherry. A pot of black tea with three teacups, six slices of buttered bread, a muffin, and two flatbreads costs ten pence, or one shilling, since an extra two-pence tip is expected to be placed in the waiter's pocket at checkout.

In general, in 19th-century London, considering the price, being a drunkard was much more affordable than being a tea or coffee lover.

However, in the best-case scenario, if you don't drink any beverages and only eat, sixpence can buy you a large plate of marbled roast meat at a restaurant.

Of course, even though it's all about eating barbecue, whether you order takeout or delivery, and whether you dine in or sit in the poor man's eatery outside or the rich man's dining room inside, all these things matter.

Moreover, different types of people also have their own favorite spots.

Merchants doing business in the West Indies liked to gather at the Jerusalem Café on Cornhill Hill, while the nearby Basen Café was a place for doctors to meet with clients. The Old Butcher Café on Martin Lane was a favorite haunt of painters, and the Will Café on the north side of Russell Street in Covent Garden was a paradise for intellectuals. Whigs favored the St. James Café on St. James Street, while Tories preferred the Coco Tree Café on the corner of Belleville Street not far away.

If a Londoner wants to find a gentleman, he usually doesn't ask if he lives on Fleet Street or Lord Chancellor Lane, but rather if he frequents the Greek or Rainbow Café.

If you don't understand these tricks, then there's nothing more to say; people will definitely think you've only been begging in London for a short time.

This Russian café, located near Kensington Palace, also has its own unique customer base.

Yes, just as you just saw, Scotland Yard officers always like to come here.

Why is that, you ask?
It's simple. Didn't you see the news report in The Times?

I did not see?

Oh dear, you can't really be from out of town, can you?

That memorial service for Officer Robert Culley.

Since the memorial ceremony, many police officers have voluntarily come to the vicinity of Kensington Palace to perform their duties in their spare time.

But ultimately, this is their off-duty time. You can't expect them to patrol for more than ten hours at a time, just like they're on duty.
We should always be considerate of others and give them time to catch their breath, have a cup of tea, and eat a meal.

In all of Greater London, there is probably no lady more concerned about the welfare of police officers than Miss Fiona Ivan.

As it happened, she was looking to invest in a new business, so she took over this shop around Kensington Palace.

To attract customers to the new store and improve the treatment of police officers, Miss Ivan set a rule that all police officers could get a 20% discount by showing their badges, and the store also provided free tea for them.

Therefore, it was not long before this place became a gathering place for Scotland Yard police.

Even officers whose patrol areas are not in Kensington often bring their families here for meals on their days off.

After all, it has to be said that this is a foreign restaurant. Although Russian food may not be as high-end as French food, it is certainly enough to make your wife and kids happy.

Blackwell flipped through the menu while listening to the conversation of two plainclothes police officers at the next table.

Although the two men weren't in uniform, you could tell from their tone of voice that they were police officers.

Their conversation ranged from the new policing regulations on the south bank of the Thames to the drunkard arrested under Lambeth Bridge the previous night, and eventually they even talked about their child threatening suicide at school over a little girl.

One of the officers asked, "What does her father do?"

“He runs a printing business on St. John’s Street. I heard he printed ‘Ten Recommendations for the Anti-Police Bill’ a couple of years ago.” Another officer clicked his tongue. “I’m almost used to it. In London, you have to live next to all sorts of lunatics.”

Blackwell listened and smiled slightly.

These London policemen are quite talkative, but compared to the Third Bureau in Peterborough, they're rather endearing.

He put down the menu, and soon the waiter brought over a pot of hot, lightly brewed tea and freshly baked Kurnik chicken pies.

Blackwell picked up the sliced ​​pie and took a bite. The crust was slightly crispy and crunchy, with a milky aroma. The chicken filling blended perfectly with the rice, and when you swirl it around on your tongue, you can also taste the mushrooms and herbs inside.

"Hmm...it's quite authentic. No wonder Sir John Backhouse chose this place for the meeting; the food is indeed excellent."

The great gourmet Blackwell was enjoying his meal when he suddenly heard a familiar voice.

"Mr. Blackwell?"

Blackwell looked in the direction of the sound and saw a tall man in a dark vest and a white shirt standing at the top of the stairs.

“Mr. Richard Hught?” Blackwell paused, then put down his knife and stood up, half surprised and half suspicious. “What are you doing here?”

Richard Hught, with his right hand behind his back and a snow-white rag draped over his left forearm, walked over half-jokingly: "Working as a military policeman in Russia these past few years has been too tiring, and I didn't earn much money, so after thinking it over, I decided to just resign and go back to London."

"Resign?" Blackwell was stunned for a moment: "But...you...you don't resign like this! With your resume, you've worked for a Moscow company and been in the Russian military police system. It shouldn't be difficult for you to find a job in an import and export trading company, right? Why would you become a supervisor in a coffee shop?"

Hughes smiled and deftly pulled out the chair opposite Blackwell and sat down. "That's what I thought at first too. But then I realized that the more respectable the position, the more trouble it attracts. As a veteran military policeman who has worked on the Caucasus, dealt with the Poles, and handled several lists, I'm really tired of that cutthroat life. Now I just want to live a simpler life. Serving tea and water, taking a few tips, plus my weekly salary, the income isn't as low as I imagined. Most importantly, I'm very happy now."

Blackwell stared at Hughes for a few seconds, as if to confirm whether he was serious.

He chuckled and said, "Hearing you say that, I'm starting to wonder if the Third Bureau sent you back as a mole."

Hughes didn't deny it, he just pursed his lips and shook his head: "Perhaps Scotland Yard thought so too, otherwise they wouldn't have rejected my application to join."

"You want to be a policeman?" Blackwell finally realized what he meant. "No wonder you insisted on being the supervisor here. I just noticed that there seem to be quite a few police officers dining here. Are you trying to build relationships with them first, or are you hoping to try your luck here and see if you can run into some big shots at Scotland Yard and get them to approve your application?"

“You have a point.” Hughes didn’t answer directly; he just smiled. “Taking your luck in London is an art, but…” Before he could finish, a rhythmic thud of riding boots came from the stairwell. It wasn’t the chaotic sound of ordinary guests going upstairs, nor the light steps of waiters serving food. Instead, it was the footsteps of someone who habitually walked at the front of the line, neither fast nor slow, always at their own pace.

Immediately following was a series of sounds of chairs being pulled up and people getting up, along with a chorus of greetings.

Good afternoon, Sir.

"Please come this way."

"I was just talking to Sheriff Collins about you..."

The officers' warm greetings sounded completely unpretentious, but their words revealed their admiration for the newcomer. Some raised their hands in salute, some hurriedly stood up without even pushing their chairs away, and others took the coat and hat he had taken off.

Hughes didn't need to turn around to know who it was; there was only one person who could enjoy this kind of treatment in this coffee shop.

Blackwell, sensing that something was amiss, gently set down his cup. He remained still, but his eyes secretly glanced towards the stairwell.

A burgundy vest, a crisp white shirt, and slicked-back hair...

“Mr. Blackwell.” The man looked at the table, a smile on his face, and opened his arms in a warm tone: “Welcome back to London, to my place.”

Arthur Hastings!

Jazz!

Blackwell felt half of his face go numb, and his fingers unconsciously slipped, almost knocking the teacup to the ground.

He almost dared not look Arthur in the eye, but he knew that avoiding the question too obviously would only attract more attention.

So he could only quickly adjust his expression, letting the muscles in his face twitch for a moment before stiffly forcing a smile.

"Sir Arthur...you've come at just the right time."

He struggled to his feet, the chair beneath his feet creaking on the floor, startling him so much he almost screamed.

Blackwell quickly bent down to straighten the chair, and when he looked down, he realized that his palms and the backs of his hands were covered in sweat.

“It’s been a long time, a long time.” Blackwell straightened his back, smiled awkwardly, and said in a voice several octaves higher than usual, “I… I mean, it’s a real surprise, a very pleasant surprise.”

"A surprise?" Arthur raised an eyebrow slightly and said with a smile, "It is indeed a surprise, Henry. I've always thought we have similar tastes and could be friends. Look, you even specially chose my favorite spot for tea today. How about it, this window seat? The light is great, and there are no buildings nearby to block the view. It's absolutely fantastic."

Blackwell's smile froze instantly. His lips twitched, and he quickly moved aside from his seat. "Well... I just wanted some peace and quiet, haha... nothing more."

Arthur waved his hand: "What are you standing for? Henry, sit down, sit down."

He had just taken a step forward when Hughes stood up without saying a word and offered him a chair: "Sir, please sit here."

Arthur didn't stand on ceremony. He had just sat down when he noticed the half-eaten Kurnik pie in front of Blackwell. He smiled slightly and said, "You still have the same old habits. Look at this pie. It's really delicious, but it's not even cold yet. You've already started eating it. Aren't you afraid of burning yourself?"

Upon hearing this, Blackwell could no longer maintain his smile; a few beads of sweat appeared on his forehead and seeped into his temples.

Is Arthur talking about pies?

This is clearly a reference to Blackwell!
In an instant, he understood every detail of the story: from disembarking at the West India docks today, to George Austin picking him up in his old Forton carriage, to the "chance" encounter with Richard Hught at the café, and then...

A letter of thanks from Viscount Palmerston? Sir John Backhouse's appreciation?

That's all a lie!

At the crucial moment, he didn't see either of these two important figures, but instead met Arthur Hastings, the one he least wanted to see!
Arthur picked up the teapot and poured himself a cup of tea, speaking slowly as he did so: “London has changed a lot lately, Henry, you must have seen it too. In the years you’ve been gone, the fences at the West India docks have been replaced several times, and the old mimeograph machines at the newspaper and printing presses have all been replaced with new ink. You know, the later someone comes back, the more likely they are to be treated like a stranger. Sometimes, people don’t even remember which department you’re in.”

He didn't deliberately raise his voice, nor did he name names; his tone was so polite it could have served as an official Whitehall letter.

However, sometimes, it's not a good thing when someone speaks to you with excessive politeness.

Blackwell remained silent for a long while, his neck stiff, before finally speaking softly, his tone carrying an instinctive ingratiation and fear.

"Sir...Sir, I have come here today simply to have a quiet meal...I have long since left Russia and have no desire to dredge up old grievances. I have wandered abroad all these years and have not done anything immoral. Now I merely wish to earn a living in London...Please be lenient."

Arthur simply picked up his teacup, lowered his head, and took a sip.

As he set his glass down, he spoke in his usual unhurried tone: “Mr. Blackwell, you keep saying you want a peaceful life, yet you choose to sit in the spot where I usually sit. Coincidence? I don’t believe it’s a coincidence, especially for a diplomat.”

Blackwell's throat tightened, and he forced a smile, saying, "Sir Arthur, I...I have never considered you an enemy. I respect you, and I have always regarded you as a friend..."

Arthur interrupted him before he could finish: “Of course you should respect me. You should have learned to respect me the night before you left Petersburg. If you truly respected me, the first thing you would have done upon returning to London would have been to come to me. You contacted the editors of The Times to gather information, you went to inquire about your old connections in Whitehall, but you didn’t think to write me a letter, nor even send a visiting card to my house. You keep saying we are friends, but you never visited me, never offered me a drink, and never wrote me a letter. Only when you were desperate did you think to say, ‘Ah, Sir Arthur, I considered you a friend.’ This is not how friends behave, Mr. Blackwell.”

Blackwell instinctively gripped his knees, trying to explain, "Sir, I...I was just afraid of bothering you..."

Upon hearing this, Arthur gazed at him for a long time: "London doesn't tolerate heartless people. If you want to eat the food of this city, you have to respect its hearth. Henry, you should know that you are sitting before me today because I am willing to let you sit. You can eat this pie because I have kept it warm. I remember you said that the winds of St. Petersburg were too harsh and that you wanted to return to London to do diplomatic work someday. I remember everything you said, which is why I had Benjamin find a pretext to transfer you back from St. Petersburg. Not Palmerston, not Backhouse, but me."

Blackwell nodded reluctantly. "Yes, I understand... Thank you, Sir."

Arthur shook his head slightly: "Don't thank me yet, Henry. You have to remember, nothing in this world is free. I eat here for free because I'm friends with the landlady, but you, Henry, are we friends?"

Blackwell's facial muscles twitched, revealing a smile that looked more like a grimace.

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but Arthur beat him to it, shaking his finger sarcastically: "You can certainly say it, but saying it doesn't mean I believe it. St. Petersburg can teach people a lot. In the past, I believed people based on their words, but after my trip to Russia, now I can only listen to their words and observe their actions."

"Sir, I...I'm sorry..."

Arthur looked calmly into Blackwell's eyes and slowly said, "Henry, you might think I'm angry, and indeed I am. However, I don't blame you for making a wrong choice, because even wise people make mistakes. A wise person making one mistake is still a wise person. But if he insists on making the same mistake twice, then it's not making a mistake, it's humiliating himself. Do you want to humiliate yourself?"

(End of this chapter)