shadow of britain

Chapter 799 All the powers of old Europe have united.

In the early morning in London, the sky had not yet fully cleared, and the fog from the night before had not yet dissipated from the streets and alleys on the north bank of the Thames. A thin layer of dew covered the various garden flowers, grass leaves, and windowpanes.

As usual, the door to number 15 Lancaster Gate was opened promptly at 6:30 a.m., and Arthur did not call for a carriage as part of his early morning exercise.

Perhaps because of a habit he developed while patrolling the streets of Scotland Yard in his early years, he preferred to walk through the gradually awakening city in the early morning. This served two purposes: to loosen his muscles and to use the short journey to organize his thoughts. Walking through London in the morning was more effective at waking up his mind than any medicine.

He descended the steps from his front door, walked along Bethwater Road north of Hyde Park, and passed through the shadows cast by trees and stone walls that had not yet been completely dispelled by the sunlight.

The bakery at the street corner had just pulled up its wooden gate, and the air was filled with the aroma of malt and ghee. A maid wearing a headscarf was bending down to scatter kitchen waste onto the chirping sparrows in front of the door, muttering to herself, whether she was complaining or scolding the sparrows for being inconsiderate.

Arthur nodded silently to her. The little girl, seeing this strange gentleman, quickly stopped talking, blushed, and returned his smile before watching him turn into Oxford Street.

In the early 19th century, Oxford Street was a typical example of London's dirt and disorder. However, after the street was renovated, it was slowly transforming into a high-class shopping street. Curtain workshops, candy shops, and Scottish woolen shops lined the street, and through the shop windows, you could see a dazzling array of women's hats, French perfumes, woolen coats, and new embroidered stockings from Glasgow.

The streets were not yet bustling, with only a few laborers carrying buckets of water and grooms pulling coal carts. Merchants who had opened their shops in the morning were dusting their shops with small dusters. A shoeshine boy sitting at the shop entrance, who had just set up his stall, glanced at Arthur's spotless boots and then wisely retreated to the edge of the steps.

Arthur walked along the street past the Tottenham intersection, through Soho, and then south into Charing Cross.

This place has always been a wonderful crossroads of cities, bordering the city center to the east, the royal palace to the west, booksellers to the north, and the theater to the south.

Arthur stopped at a roadside stall at the street corner for a coffee break. There were also many construction workers dining there. Judging from their conversation, these workers were probably working on the expansion project of the National Gallery. A batch of newly delivered marble columns were neatly arranged on their carriage at the street corner.

Continuing from Charing Cross and onto Strand Street, the cries of newsboys began to rise and fall. The *Morning Chronicle*'s front page was filled with news of East India Company stock price fluctuations, the *Times* discussed the new policies of the Melbourne cabinet, and the *Times* introduced readers to the recently popular railway bonds. Meanwhile, on the pages of *The Economist*, aside from an article titled "Napoleon's Thoughts" by Louis Bonaparte, most of the content discussed the shockwaves sent to the City of London by the Electromagnetic Telegraph Company of England's acquisition of the Belgian railway telegraph monopoly.

A young, nervous intern reporter, carrying a roll of papers, brushed past Arthur as he ran, quietly reciting the interview script he had prepared overnight. His face reminded Arthur of himself when he was studying at the University of London, when he was not yet a knight, but just Mr. Hastings, who had just taken off his peasant linen clothes and put on a tweed student coat.

Fleet Street is just ahead, and it's always one of the earliest streets to wake up in London.

The printing press had already turned a page, and the smell of ink and damp paper filled the air. While Londoners were just getting up to go to work, most of the work on Fleet Street was already coming to an end. Printers and proofreaders who had worked all night were having a quick breakfast and a drink at a breakfast stall at the street corner, while the bespectacled editors who had just arrived at their posts were sitting in their offices preparing sample copies for tomorrow's newspaper.

Every now and then, you can see a few unlucky guys who didn't go home last night sticking out of the second-floor window. Judging from their stubble and the notebooks they're holding, they're probably messengers writing reports at night.

Arthur arrived at the door of the Englishman's editorial office, the brass sign gleaming from the previous night's rain. He took off his gloves and gently knocked on the wooden door, still damp from the night.

Today is the day of the monthly board meeting of Imperial Publishing Company.

The British publications such as The Englishman, Spark, The Economist, and Nature will all submit their quarterly advertising revenue and circulation reports to the board of directors today and be subject to routine questioning from board members.

The clock at the front desk was just past 7:40. The receptionist was sitting behind a small table piled with clippings and folders, looking down at the newspapers that had just been delivered while drinking freshly brewed black tea.

He looked up and saw Arthur enter. He quickly stood up to greet him, saying, "Good morning, Sir. Three or four people have already arrived at the conference room, but the editors are still on their way. However... there was just a visitor who wasn't on the list, saying he had an appointment with you."

"You arranged to meet me?" Arthur took off his coat and hung it on the coat rack. "What's his name?"

“Vydoc, Mr. François Vidoc, from Paris, has been waiting for you for twenty minutes.”

“Vidocq?” Arthur was taken aback, his voice tinged with surprise. “That’s quite a rare guest. Could you please inform the conference room that I might be a few minutes late?”

As the clerk nodded to report, Arthur had already turned and stepped into the reception room not far away.

As soon as the door opened, a strong smell of tobacco wafted out. The person waiting stood by the window with his back to him, wearing a faded but neatly ironed gray coat, the trouser legs slightly damp, and the old felt hat from five years ago still on his head. He was rubbing a brass snuff bottle with his thumb, his posture as familiar as ever, but his figure was a bit more bloated than Arthur remembered.

Hearing footsteps, the person slowly turned around.

A slightly aged face, but still sharp-eyed, appeared in the morning light, with thick sideburns extending downwards to connect with a French-style short beard.

"Ah, my ami, your newspaper arsenal is really hard to find."

Arthur looked at him and gently closed the door: "Mr. Vidocq, you should have written me a letter before you came. We arranged a time, and I can send someone to the dock to pick you up."

“Why go through all that trouble?” Vidocq chuckled. “Besides, you know my habits. I don’t like revealing my whereabouts in letters. Anything that has to go through a third party is unreliable. I don’t want the Paris police to know where I’m going anytime soon. Who knows if they’ll send someone to ambush me on the road?”

Arthur said half-jokingly, "They wouldn't go so far as to kill you, their old commander in the security department, would they?"

“That’s not necessarily true,” Vidocq shrugged. “Although I was once part of the Paris police, that’s precisely why I know you’d better never overestimate their character. Of course, if you put character aside, many of them are very capable. However, the more capable they are, the more careful I am about their private acts of revenge.”

"What have you gotten yourself into lately?" Arthur pulled out his cigar case and tossed it to Vidocq. "Murder? Arson? Theft? Or highway robbery?"

Victor pulled out a cigar, sniffed it, and said, "It's more serious than that."

Arthur understood immediately and said, "You want them to lose face in front of others?"

"more or less."

The two veteran policemen communicated without any difficulty. Perhaps because he was in England, Victor didn't bother to hide anything: "Don't you know I run a detective agency in Paris?"

"How's business? Booming?" "Booming? More than booming?" Vidocq raised his wrist and showed Arthur his newly bought gold watch: "See? This is nothing. Last month I bought a Spanish school painting at auction for 70,000 francs. It's a work by Bartolomé Esteban Murillo."

Although Vidocq was a renowned detective, he was still a Frenchman at heart, so he naturally couldn't resist the habit of showing off.

Once you start talking about his extravagant lifestyle, you just can't stop.

“My daily expenses are 100 francs, which adds up to 36500 francs a year. Although the Breok Detective Agency doesn’t charge its clients high fees, even so, after deducting all expenses, I still had an income of 15,200 francs last year.”

At this point, Vidocq couldn't help but feel proud: "Arthur, do you know? In just the first two months of this year, I helped 11 businesses recover 60,000 francs in payments. Although I haven't had any big orders since March, I feel that doubling my income this year shouldn't be a problem."

Arthur didn't doubt that Vidocq was exaggerating, because he had heard Dumas mention before that Vidocq had become very famous in the last two years.

Because his detective agency was so profitable, it wasn't long before many private detective agencies in Paris followed Vidocq's lead, such as the "Lighthouse Detective Agency," the "Alarm Bell Detective Agency," and the "Illuminator Detective Agency," all of which were once Vidocq's strong competitors.

But Vidocq was not at all alarmed by the emergence of these new detective agencies.

On the contrary, he also predicted that these detective agencies would go bankrupt within a year or two.

The outcome confirmed his prediction: the Lighthouse Detective Agency went bankrupt after only six months, and its owner was imprisoned in St. Bellacie Prison for fraud. The owner of the Alarm Bell Detective Agency was also imprisoned and is currently serving time in Mezier Prison. While the Illuminator Detective Agency had a prestigious name, they were ultimately exposed for assisting criminals in destroying evidence, and thus also ended up in jail.

It's not hard to understand why detective agencies have become hotspots for crime, since their work often skirts the line between criminal and legitimate business. Detectives also have easy access to all sorts of private information, which they can then use for blackmail.

If there are any aspects in which Vidocq does better than his peers, besides his strong abilities, it is that he is very disciplined in this industry, acts ethically, and conducts business with integrity.

What's even more remarkable is that the division of labor and scope of services at Vidocq's Breok Detective Agency are incredibly detailed.

He would even send someone to help a clothing store owner collect a 25-franc debt from a difficult customer.

If they politely inform you the first time, threaten you verbally the second time, and still don't return it the third time, then Vidok will send professionals.

Dumas even mentioned an incident where Vidocq helped someone collect their wages.

It is said that Moussal, a well-known concert agent in Paris, refused to pay his gardener's wages. However, because the gardener had purchased the lowest-tier detective service from Vidocq, Vidocq immediately sent someone to find Moussal and practically forced him to pay his wages.

With detectives like Vidocq running a business, it's hard for his business not to thrive.

Moreover, he not only made money from it, but also earned a good reputation for himself.

Almost everyone in Parisian society, from top to bottom, is praising this Parisian detective.

Vidocq seized the opportunity to expand his business scope, even starting to handle robberies.

However, Vidocq's actions made his former colleagues, the bureaucrats of the Greater Paris Police Department, very unhappy.

Or rather, it's not just about being ugly and uncomfortable, but about being extremely indignant.

In their view, Vidocq, this scoundrel who was dismissed from the Paris Police Department, has actually built a team that can rival the Paris Police Department. Moreover, when many citizens encounter crimes, their first thought is not to report to the police, but to report to Vidocq!

Admittedly, even if citizens report cases to the Paris Metropolitan Police Department, they may not be able to handle these cases properly.

Some cases are indeed beyond their ability to handle.

However, just because the Paris Police Department can't handle these cases doesn't mean that Vidocq can take them on. By doing so, Vidocq is challenging the authority of the Paris Police Department.

As is well known, the dignity of the Paris Police Prefecture is sacred and inviolable. If you want to challenge it, then we'll see.

Worse still, perhaps it was because Vidocq was too repressed in the Paris police precinct back then.

So now that he's made a comeback, he'll seize any opportunity to vent his frustrations.

Not only did he handle the case quickly and well, but he also bossed the Paris police around every day, ordering them to arrest this person and detain that person.

Although the Paris police were reluctant to be under his command, they knew that the suspects Vidocq had identified were most likely criminals, so they had no choice but to carry out his orders. After all, if they let the criminals escape, they would also be held responsible.

As time went on, the enmity between the two sides naturally deepened.

Not only did Vidocq offend the Paris Police Prefecture, he also took on debt lawsuits on behalf of his clients.

Because of his detailed evidence and the fact that he hired an eloquent lawyer at great expense, he was virtually invincible in the civil court, winning every case he appeared in.

Now, even the judges in Paris started to see him as a thorn in their side.

(End of this chapter)