shadow of britain

Chapter 842 Miss Fiona, where is Sir Arthur? Is he with Miss Hastings?

Night had not yet fallen, but the sky over London was already deep, and the streets were shrouded in a layer of damp gray light. Accompanied by a light drizzle, the whole city looked as if it were immersed in the ocean.

Rainwater trickled down the cracks in the stone pavement, reflecting the dim light of the gas lamps. Drops fell one by one onto the eaves, awnings, and carriage shafts, making a soft, pattering sound. The coachman, draped in an oilcloth cloak, sat on the roof of the carriage, silently smoking his pipe, while the horses' manes, already soaked by the rain, clung to their sharply defined necks.

There were very few pedestrians on the street.

Several delivery boys, wrapped in burlap sacks, hurried toward the alley entrance, a few potatoes, softened by the rain, still clinging to their willow baskets on their shoulders. As they ran, they cursed the smell of the East District sewers and complained about the three-hour-long rain that seemed to refuse to leave.

An old woman lifted her skirt and carefully stepped over the puddle, muttering something under her breath—it was unclear whether she was praying or cursing.

Behind her, a drunkard was sleeping soundly against the iron railing at the church entrance, rain dripping from the edge of his worn-out hat onto his stubble.

In the dim, yellowish rain and mist, several unmarked black carriages silently entered the intersection of Kensington Cathedral Street and High Street, heading towards the Russian café hidden in the alley of Flimau Square.

Prints of the south facade of Kensington Palace and surrounding area, 1724

The first carriage stopped first, slowly pulling up to the curb by the roadside.

The coachman, wearing brown leather gloves, tumbled down and skillfully held up a black umbrella with steel studs.

The car door clicked open, and spotless black riding boots stepped onto the stone pavement, splashing water in a small puddle.

His impeccably tailored black woolen police uniform, his cape billowing in the howling wind, and the badge on his tall helmet gleaming faintly under the gaslight, were striking. He took the umbrella from the driver with his left hand, his right resting on the hilt of his sword at his waist. He glanced around, his movements as steady and efficient as a commander surveying a battlefield, devoid of any superfluous expression. Raindrops slid down the umbrella's edge, deliberately avoided, not allowing a single drop to fall onto his epaulets.

Inspector Ridley King, Chief of the Fifth Division of the Metropolitan Police Intelligence Service.

The second carriage followed closely behind, and the first person to step out of the carriage was the one with gleaming boot tips.

The police officer who got out of the car was holding an ebony cane and had an unlit cigar in his mouth when he leaned out of the car.

As he got out of the car, he casually removed his cigar, as if afraid the tobacco scent would overpower the smell of the night rain. He raised an eyebrow with a scar on it, seemingly quite familiar with the cold rain in the neighborhood; on the contrary, he appeared to be enjoying it.

Inspector Braden Jones, Chief of the Fourth Division of the Police Intelligence Service of the Metropolitan Police.

The windows of the third carriage were covered with thick, dark green velvet curtains, which were only slowly lifted slightly after the wheels had come to a complete stop.

From inside the carriage, a left hand wearing a dark gray suede glove first emerged, followed by a right hand holding a military knife. It was an old military knife that looked quite old, with a dark agate embedded in the hilt. Through the rain and mist, the letters T and P could be vaguely discerned on it.

He was more robust than the average person, wearing a gray-blue woolen cloak. Beneath his tall helmet, a weathered face was visible, his lips pressed tightly together. He didn't use an umbrella; instead, he slammed his saber on the ground. The crisp sound was particularly abrupt in the deserted street, as if asserting some kind of control over the neighborhood.

Superintendent Thomas Plenkitt, Deputy Chief of Police Intelligence Service, Metropolitan Police.

Thomas strode toward the brick-red building at the end of Place Filimo, just as the fourth carriage slowly approached.

The carriage was a darker color than the previous ones, almost obsidian. The driver wore a crimson raincoat and his face was covered by a thick cloak brim, obscuring his features. All that could be seen was his extremely upright posture as he held the reins and the Scotland Yard emblem wrapped around his whip.

The car hadn't come to a complete stop, but the door had already slowly opened from the inside out.

The first thing to emerge from the car door was a pristine white glove, its edges stitched with fine gold thread. It wasn't part of the Scotland Yard's regular uniform, but rather the lining of an old-fashioned bespoke suit. The hand lifted slightly, as if checking the direction of the surrounding gale, before slowly grasping the door sill.

Then, a tall figure stepped out of the car.

He wore a navy blue double-breasted overcoat over his police uniform, the collar turned up high, burying most of his face in shadow, only revealing his eyebrows and eyes above the bridge of his nose. Raindrops pattered on the brim of his hat, sliding down and hitting the tip of his nose, causing him to look up in annoyance.

Superintendent Charles Field, Chief of Police Intelligence Service, Metropolitan Police.

The officers nodded to each other silently, without exchanging pleasantries or saying anything extra. The only sounds were the soft rustling of their capes against their boots in the wind and rain, and the light clinking of knife hilts against metal buckles.

They walked slowly through the narrow cobblestone path of Piazza de Filmo, raindrops splashing on their umbrellas and coats.

The gas lamps at the entrance of the café were already lit, their brass shades covered with a thin layer of mist. The stone steps in front of the door had just been wiped clean, and the rainwater had not yet accumulated.

Two plainclothes police officers had been waiting under the porch for some time.

Officer Hught stood ramrod straight, one hand gripping his police knife and the other hand resting on the doorframe.

Officer Cowley stood beside him, wearing a half-wet gray cloak, but his expression was less cynical than usual.

He quickly took the umbrellas from the officers and then nudged Hught's arm with his elbow.

Hughes then realized what was happening and immediately stepped forward; the two of them opened the door almost simultaneously.

The door opened very quietly, without even the hinges making a sound.

Chief Inspector Field was the first to step onto the stone steps. He had just stepped into the porch when he stopped, turned to the two men, and asked, "Has Sir Arthur arrived yet?"

“Not yet,” Hught replied immediately, his tone crisp and decisive. “But…”

"I'll be there soon!" Cowley raised his hand in salute, adding the second half of the sentence.

Field glanced at them, didn't press further, and simply nodded.

At this moment, Plenkitt had already poked his head out from behind Field. The sharpshooter patted the door frame with one hand and called out with a smile, "Alright, the rain is getting into my neck. Instead of standing at the door greeting guests, you might as well go and get us some ginger rum to warm us up."

“Everything is prepared inside.” Cowley smiled and turned to make way for the inside: “The fireplace in the reception room on the third floor is already lit. Miss Fiona Ivan has thought of all these things; she has already sent someone to prepare warm tea and snacks.”

"Black tea?" Plunkett smacked his lips and repeated, "Isn't there any wine?"

“Black tea with lemon and honey,” Officer Hught chimed in. “The kind that’s steaming hot.”

Upon hearing this, Plenkitt muttered a complaint: "It's not that drinking tea is bad, but in this awful weather, it just feels like something's missing if we don't have a sip of rum."

Inspector Jones stepped forward and patted him on the shoulder: "That's enough, Thomas. Black tea is good enough. If you drink too much now, how will we be able to hold the meeting later?"

Ridley, who was following closely behind the group, smiled and chimed in, "Inspector Jones is right, tea is safer than wine."

Ridley was merely agreeing without any ulterior motive. But Plunkett didn't even lift an eyelid, nor did he turn to look at him, as if he hadn't heard Ridley's words at all.

He simply patted Jones on the shoulder: "Then I'll do as you say, Braden. Have some hot tea first, and I'll treat you and Chief Field to drinks after the meeting. Oh, and we should also invite Sir Arthur along, hmm... I wonder if he'll do us the honor."

Ridley's smile froze on his face. He couldn't help but clench his fists, but soon he adjusted his expression and acted as if nothing had happened.

Even Cowley and Hught couldn't help but cough softly and tug at each other's clothes at this awkward scene.

Over the past year or so, Ridley has come to understand what it felt like for Braden Jones to have to keep a low profile after Arthur left.

Although Arthur had fulfilled his promise and declared that he would forgive Arthur's betrayal after he had dealt with Princess Sofia's illegitimate child.

But Arthur's attitude did not represent the attitude of everyone at Scotland Yard, especially within the Police Intelligence Service, where many officers looked down on him.

Although most mid- to lower-ranking officers wouldn't openly give Ridley the cold shoulder because of his rank.

However, there were many high-ranking police officers who disliked him.

Worst of all, Thomas Plenkitt, who had the worst attitude and the most volatile temper among all the senior officers, was promoted to deputy director of the Police Intelligence Bureau after the Ramsgate incident.

"Please come upstairs, officers." Cowley tried to lighten the mood with a relaxed tone: "The refreshments on the third floor are ready, and the room is lit with incense, all prepared at Miss Fiona's request this morning. By the way, Inspector Tom Flanders from the Crime Investigation Center and Tony Eckhart from Greenwich have also arrived. If you're bored, you can chat with them."

Field was aware of the conflict between Plunkett and Ridley, and he ordered, "Alright, let's go upstairs first, we'll talk about the drinking later."

The door on the third floor was open, and a hanging silver-plated oil lamp was lit at the end of the porch.

The conference room was not large, let alone luxurious, but it was decorated with great care.

Several oil paintings depicting the Passion of Jesus and Mary the Perfumer hang on the wall. The curtains are made of heavy linen with Russian embroidery, and the carpet is embroidered with the Union Jack in red and blue. Although the edges are worn white, the exquisite craftsmanship of the artisans can still be seen.

A long table stretched across the center, its surface covered with a dark purple velvet cloth. The samovar on the fireplace was lit, and plumes of white steam rose in wavy plumes.

On the silver tray were black tea, honey, gingerbread, and poppy seed cakes prepared by Fiona herself. Each cup was covered with a thin veil to prevent the aroma of the tea from escaping.

Tom and Tony, who were sitting at the very back, saw their colleagues from the Police Intelligence Bureau arrive and quickly stood up with smiles, inviting them to sit down and exchange pleasantries.

Jones pulled out a matchbox and a cigarette case from his pocket, intending to smoke a cigarette to pass the time.

Ridley sat upright at the corner of the table, his posture almost exaggeratedly formal.

Plunkett slung his saber over the back of his chair, casually draped his boot over his other leg, grabbed a teacup, took a sip, then muttered, "No wine."

Field sat in the first seat below the chief, his hands clasped on the table, chatting with his two old colleagues, Tom and Tony, about work with a smile.

Just as everyone took their seats and the atmosphere gradually warmed up.

They suddenly heard footsteps coming from the corridor outside the meeting room. All the police officers turned around and saw a woman standing at the door wearing a dark green velvet dress and a pomegranate red tassel shawl.

That's Miss Fiona Ivan; she's come to greet us personally today.

"Sirs," Fiona nodded slightly, a perfectly measured smile playing on her lips, neither overly intimate nor aloof, "The weather is cold tonight, and the streets are slippery. The refreshments are simple, and I apologize for any shortcomings in our hospitality."

Jones stood up first, put the cigarette case into his pocket, and replied with a smile, "Miss Ivan, this is hardly a humble abode. To be honest, your place is much more elegant than the tea room at Scotland Yard. We Scotland Yard folks drink tea here more often than at home."

As soon as Jones finished speaking, a good-natured laugh rang out from inside the room.

Tony chimed in, "If I didn't have to pretend to be a good guy in Greenwich, I'd love to move the precinct's annual meeting here."

Seeing Fiona now, Tom couldn't help but sigh, "Time flies! It's been seven years since we met, hasn't it? I still remember the first time I met you..."

Upon hearing this, Tony quickly stomped on Tom's shoe to remind him not to talk nonsense.

Tom, realizing what he'd said, quickly shut up, awkwardly scratching the back of his head and laughing.

That makes sense; he couldn't very well reveal to everyone that Fiona was a delinquent back in the day, could he?

Even in Scotland Yard, not many people knew Fiona's background.

Most people only know that Miss Fiona has an ambiguous relationship with Sir Arthur Hastings, but how they got together and what their relationship actually is remains a mystery...

Aside from Tony and Tom, two of the earliest Scotland Yard veterans who followed Arthur, there were very few officers who could actually figure things out.

Field coughed lightly and gently placed his teacup back on the silver tray. “Miss Ivan, we just asked Cowley and Hught downstairs. Sir Arthur… when will he arrive? Of course, I don’t mean to offend you, but you usually know better than we do when he’ll be at a key location.”

The room fell silent for a moment.

Jones put down the matchbox, Ridley straightened his back even more, and even the whispers between Tom and Tony ceased.

As for Superintendent Thomas Plenkitt, this burly sharpshooter was unusually thoughtful at this moment. He stared at Field with wide eyes, his gaze carrying a hint of resentment.

As the police officer who accompanied Arthur to Ramsgate, Plunkett naturally heard the rumors about Arthur and Miss Flora Hastings.

He had even seen Arthur walking with Miss Hastings on the beach at sunset more than once, the two chatting and laughing. Even if he said they were getting engaged next month, Plunkett wouldn't find it strange at all.

However, the problem is that even someone as simple-minded as Plunkett, after having tea here many times, could sense Miss Fiona Ivan's genuine feelings for Arthur.

Although having multiple partners is not particularly unusual in high society, people generally keep quiet about it, especially in front of the individuals involved.

Although Field did not explicitly mention Miss Flora Hastings to Fiona, he merely inquired about Arthur's whereabouts.

But what if Arthur was flirting with Miss Hastings at that moment?
Isn't this just rubbing salt into someone's wound?
Although Plunkett wanted to learn from Arthur's "play dumb" approach in this matter, he was ultimately a warm-hearted York man.

(End of this chapter)