shadow of britain

Chapter 788 Miss Queen of Huang Chunju Street

Nightfall obscured the outlines of the south bank of the Thames, and the low-hanging fog of London blurred the boundaries of human nature.

The night fog was as thick as spread butter, casting a sickly orange glow on the gas lamps along Huang Chunju Street.

A tall man was walking briskly through the alley.

He wore a faded cloak and old-fashioned leather boots smeared with mud, and his hat brim was pulled down so low that even a drunkard urinating at the alley entrance couldn't see his face clearly.

His gait was somewhat strange; while maintaining the steady pace of a London gentleman, he also seemed to be on guard against something.

He kept glancing back to avoid the crowd, even deliberately circumventing Pigeon Lane, Sweeting Alley, and Beech Lane before slipping into Huang Chunju Street, like a notorious thief afraid of being recognized.

At this moment, Huang Chunju Street was bustling with activity. The area outside the tavern was filled with half-naked "ladies," but no matter how delicate their features were, their prominent Adam's apples and broad frames always betrayed their gender.

That's right, these are all big shots.

However, since you've come to Huang Chunju Street, you must address people according to the street's customs. In the inns, taverns, and brothels of this street, all the men and women are addressed as "Countess Huang Chunju." Regular patrons, however, generally don't use such a long title; they usually address each other as "Madam" or "Miss." If you use the wrong gender pronoun here, don't blame them for giving you a playful punch.

After a long journey, the gentleman finally stopped outside the Old Lady's Inn. A tattered copper lantern hung in front of the inn, its dim light resembling the whites of an old woman's eyes. As soon as the door opened, a scent of rouge mixed with sherry wafted out.

“Oh…you’re here early tonight, Miss Quinn.” The bartender glanced at him, his eyes filled with a hint of teasing, but more so with a knowing familiarity.

The gentleman did not answer, but simply nodded slightly and stepped into the house.

As he went upstairs, he unbuttoned a corner of his cloak, revealing a dark gray woolen coat, its style so simple it resembled that of a country bumpkin. But when he pushed open the door to the westernmost room on the second floor and took off his wet hat, his true identity was finally revealed under the light.

His face was thin, with slightly high brow bones, and his hair was cut very short. Of course, if Scotland Yard's regulations were more lenient, he might have grown his hair longer. But there was nothing he could do; after all, he was not only a Scotland Yard officer, but also the head of the Fifth Division of the Police Intelligence Service.
Ridley gently closed the door behind him, and the room immediately fell silent, with only the occasional faint sound of a violin coming from the curtains. The sound was like a lighthearted joke mixed in with the wind.

This room was specially reserved for him by the innkeeper. It was right next to the corner of the corridor, making it convenient for both spying and escaping through the window. There was also a long, thin mirror hanging on the wall inside, with a crack running from the upper left corner to the lower right corner, but Ridley didn't care about it.

For him, it was just a place to change clothes.

He walked to the locker room door, turned the bolt, and skillfully lit the candle on the table.

He took off his cloak, opened his small leather bag, and took out a set of exquisitely tailored women's clothing. The waistband, skirt, and gloves were all put on in one go. Then he put on his carefully selected pearl necklace and purple satin hat. In just a few minutes, Ridley King disappeared from the world. In his place was Miss Quinn, a regular customer on Huang Chunju Street.

Portrait of Miss Queen on Huang Chunju Street

Ridley stood before the cracked mirror, quietly gazing at the "Miss Quinn" before him.

He tilted his head slightly, examining his neck and shoulders. A strand of soft hair was blown by the wind through the window crack. He suddenly felt an inexplicable sense of intoxication, as if he had finally found a sense of security in this body that required no explanation or clarification.

Unfortunately, this blissful state did not last long.

There was a knock at the door—three short knocks, a pause, and then another.

This is the old lady's special code: "The new little marquis" is in place and willing to accept Miss Quinn's guidance.

Ridley took a deep breath, raised his chin, and elegantly dusted off his skirt, his eyes regaining Miss Quinn's usual arrogance.

He pushed open the door and walked down the corridor to the third-to-last room on the second floor.

Ridley gently turned the doorknob, a smile that was unique to Miss Quinn playing on his lips—a smile that was both seductive and reserved, like the faint scent of violets, wafting into the nostrils yet conveying its unspoken meaning.

Ridley even wondered to himself whether the "little marquis" tonight was really as inexperienced as the innkeeper had said. He worried that the marquis might kneel at his feet and submit to him before they had even exchanged three words.

He slowly pushed open the door and stepped into that familiar room.

The sandalwood scent lingered, the sherry had long since awakened, the candlesticks on the table burned at an angle, the light flickering just right, illuminating the soft chair beneath the curtains... and the person in that chair.

……

that person?
That person!
At first, Ridley didn't realize what was happening.

His gaze remained fixed on the man's hands: a knife in his left hand and a fork in his right, his movements as elegant as if he were attending a state banquet.

A little above that, there was the man's expressionless yet calm face.

Arthur...

Hastings...

Jazz!!!

"Redley, good evening." Arthur nodded slightly as he cut the veal steak on his plate. "I hope you don't mind that I've been waiting for you for ages, so I've been eating by myself."

Time froze in that instant.

Ridley was stunned for a moment, then felt as if he had been plunged from hot soup into an icy river.

The pearl necklace, which had just been warm and comfortable, suddenly turned into a rope tightening around his throat.

His high heels smacked against the ground, and he lost his balance, falling straight to the floor.

Ridley's mouth was half-open, but she couldn't utter a single syllable, and her exquisitely made-up face was as pale as a freshly painted wall.

Arthur didn't get up or ask any questions. He simply glanced at Ridley with the same indifference one would show a carrot slicing on the table: "Well, it seems you don't like me calling you Ridley here. So, Miss Quinn, would you like me to help you up?"

Ridley's facial muscles twitched slightly.

He tried to stand up, but his legs were as stiff as lead, and he could only sit on the carpet, his skirt spread out in an awkward mess, looking like a scene from a stage play accident.

His mind raced, trying to activate the police intelligence agency's crisis management procedures to deal with the situation. But it was no use, because that system was designed to deal with radicals, agitators, and terrorists, not to deal with him being cornered in a room by his old boss while dressed in women's clothing on Huang Chunju Street.

His throat tightened, but he could only manage to squeeze out a few syllables: "How...how did you find this place?"

Arthur cut off another piece of steak and chewed it slowly, as if this meal was his real task for the day: "Miss Quinn, if I don't even know this, why would Scotland Yard hang my portrait on the wall?"

“How could you… how dare you…” Ridley gritted her teeth and finally struggled to stand up, one hand supporting herself against the wall and the other tightly clutching the hem of her skirt.

"How dare you?" Arthur wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Are you saying how dare you show up here, or how dare you eat your whole serving of lamb ribs by yourself?"

At this point, Arthur paused, picked up his wine glass and swirled it: "By the way, you have quite the taste when it comes to ordering food."

Ridley was speechless, his face turning red and white in turns. He didn't even know whether he should blurt out a series of threats, call for help, escape through the window, or simply pass out on the spot.

However, judging from Arthur's nonchalant attitude, he seemed to have no sarcasm or contempt; he was simply eating.

This was what truly devastated Ridley. "Actually, I really admire you," Arthur said, taking a sip of his drink. "You manage to do your job so well while still finding time to pursue your hobbies."

"What exactly do you want?" Ridley finally exploded, his voice nearly cracking, yet he had to deliberately lower his tone due to anger and fear: "Are you going to report me? Force me to resign? Or, or do you want to hang me..."

“Calm down.” Arthur put down his wine glass. “If I really wanted to ruin you, you wouldn’t have had the chance to put on this dress. Miss Quinn, I told you, I…”

"Stop calling me that!"

"But the boss told me... that's what regular customers call me, and if they don't, it'll seem like I'm unprofessional."

"Are you a regular customer? Sir, is this a place for you?!"

Seeing that Ridley's emotions were nearing their breaking point, Arthur stopped teasing him. He sighed softly and pushed his plate away a little.

“Alright, enough joking around.” Arthur’s tone was gentle, with his usual calm and cautious demeanor: “I’m here tonight just to confirm one thing.”

Ridley's eyes were red, and his voice still trembled with a mixture of anger and shame: "Confirm what? Confirm whether I like wearing skirts? Confirm whether I'm a 'Sordomon scum' who was born to be hanged in Treben Square?"

Arthur was taken aback and asked, "How did you know I came here for this?"

Ridley nearly fainted upon hearing this.

"What...what exactly do you mean?"

Arthur did not answer immediately, but instead took out a stack of documents from his briefcase. They were typical police intelligence agency files: the cover had no heading, and only a line of text written in pencil in the lower left corner: TG.

He tossed the file on the table and gestured for Ridley to look at it.

However, Ridley didn't move. He just glanced at it sideways and then immediately turned his head away: "What's so interesting about this thing? I was the one who handed you the file. I even checked every single line of it for spelling errors. Now you're trying to scare me with this? What kind of tactic is that?"

“I’m not trying to scare you,” Arthur said calmly. “I’ve just discovered something new.”

Ridley didn't move, but his expression clearly changed.

“That kid Thomas Garth…” Arthur said, leaning against the windowsill, “He’s not just a royal bastard who gambles and drinks; recently he’s been suspected of appearing on some guest lists that shouldn’t be there. Some of these parties are the kind that even you might not dare to attend.”

Ridley sneered: "You mean, the Ladies' Club?"

“I didn’t say that,” Arthur said expressionlessly. “But I know that in 1835, if you showed up in Beech Lane or certain places in Papal Head Alley in the middle of the night, it would be enough to make you lose everything. Of course, I’m not sure yet, so I need you to get close to him, observe him, and confirm whether he really has… that tendency.”

“Are you crazy?” Ridley almost instinctively took a step back. “You want me to sleep with him?”

"Come on, Ridley, I didn't ask you to do anything you didn't want to do." Arthur rested his chin on his hands. "I just want you to get closer to him, get to know him a little, chat, have a drink, and see if he's interested in you. But anything beyond that is not my request. If he lays a hand on you, you can punch his brains out and no one can say anything about it."

Ridley retorted angrily, "So what if he's interested in me?"

Arthur smiled slightly: "It's nothing, I just wanted to know about it. Of course, if you really don't want to go, I can't force you. But if you're willing to make a little sacrifice, I promise, Ridley, our past grievances can be wiped clean, and no one will care about your little hobby anymore. You know me, Ridley, I always keep my promises, and I sincerely hope you'll consider it carefully."

Although Arthur didn't say it, Ridley knew in his heart that things were definitely not as simple as they seemed on the surface.

This Scotland Yard legend, a paradox of greatness and baseness, Sir Arthur Hastings, never did anything without a profit.

If he wants to investigate Thomas Garth Jr.'s sexual orientation, he'll definitely make a fuss about it.

Although Ridley didn't know what Arthur was planning, the fact that he made such an overstepping request meant that it must have been quite important to him.

Can……

What is it for?

Ridley was completely baffled.

Ridley stood there, his expression shifting. He could no longer hear Huang Chunju's laughter outside the window, nor did he care whether he was still wearing a skirt.

Only one thought occupied his mind: This man is insane. And he's insanely calm and calculating.

Arthur Hastings.

This man was known for his bloodthirstiness at Scotland Yard in his early years, and for his reputation as a schemer at the Foreign Office... Yet now he sits at a low coffee table on Huang Chunju Street, having his old subordinate seduce a spoiled brat.
Ridley finally spoke slowly, his voice hoarse: "So... you're so sure I'll agree?"

Arthur shook his head, his tone calm to the point of sincerity: "I'm not sure. I just want you to understand that this is important to me."

"What if I refuse?" Ridley asked hesitantly. "If I turn around and leave tonight and refuse to cooperate with you no matter what, what... what are you going to do?"

Arthur didn't answer. He simply stood up, slowly straightened the wrinkles in his cuffs, walked to the door, and gently pushed it open a crack, letting the cold wind from Huang Chunju Street in.

However, before he could even step out the door, he heard Ridley's chilling exclamation behind him: "You... no, Sir! I promise."

With his back to Ridley, Arthur's lips curled up almost imperceptibly.

He knew all along that the kid would agree. He knew Ridley too well. The kid not only longed to improve, but he was also afraid that Ridley would hold a grudge and seek revenge, or even... kill him to silence him.

He loosened his wrist and said, "Well done, Ridley. Have a great evening. I have other plans to meet up with tonight, so I'll take my leave now."

With a click, the door closed.

Ridley watched Arthur leave, only letting out a stiff sigh of relief when his impeccably tailored tuxedo completely disappeared at the top of the stairs.

But before he could exhale completely, he was like a tightly wound spring again; his legs were still trembling, and his palms were so wet they looked like they'd been pulled out of a bucket of water.

He slowly took a few steps back, slumped into a soft chair, and stared intently at the door, as if it were about to open by itself at any moment.

He desperately wanted to take off the clothes, but his fingers wouldn't obey him. He couldn't even open the clasp of the pearl necklace.

"Damn it..." Ridley slapped himself in frustration. "Am I the one who's gone mad, or is he the one who's mad...?"

However, just as he was trying to calm his breathing and prepare to take off the dress that had humiliated him to the extreme...

"Ahhhh!!!"

Outside the window, a sharp scream pierced the night.

Ridley jolted and abruptly looked out the window: "What happened?"

(End of this chapter)