shadow of britain

Chapter 845 I, Arthur Hastings, was born to be a dragon among men!
What makes scammers so scary is not that they lie, but that they say what we want to hear.

—Arthur Hastings

Tom lowered his voice even further: "Miss Ivan has been waiting for you upstairs for almost an hour. She originally wanted to bring the snacks down herself, but she held back when she saw you were having a meeting with us. But what happened just now... you saw it too."

Arthur remained noncommittal, his gaze fixed on the window as if he were merely admiring the night view.

Seeing his silence, Tom continued, "Arthur, don't take offense, but no matter how fiery her temper, she's still a girl. For the past year or so, the news of you and Miss Flora Hastings has been the talk of the town; she must be feeling terrible. If it were just a matter of feelings between you, it wouldn't matter; a few kind words later could smooth things over. But you know perfectly well that Nightingale Mansion is her property, and behind that are countless people, countless of our undercover agents..."

Tom paused for a moment, then continued, “If this emotion really comes out, not only will your relationship with her be damaged, but the entire police station will suffer as well. I know of four or five intelligence leads that she controls. But I understand that the intelligence leads I know probably only account for a very small percentage within Nightingale Mansion. Only the two of you probably know exactly how much information she has. If she lets go in a fit of anger, or suddenly has a whim… we might not even have a chance to salvage the situation.”

After saying that, Tom sighed softly, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, but he dared not say anything more and just waited quietly for Arthur's reaction.

After a few seconds, Arthur finally turned around, tapped his fingers lightly on the window frame, and said with a smile, "First of all, Tom, I am very grateful that you said these words to me today, because it shows that you still consider me a friend."

Arthur opened the liquor cabinet and poured Tom a glass: "And you're absolutely right about this. After all, it's not uncommon in London for people to stumble because they can't handle relationships well."

Arthur wasn't saying this entirely to appease Tom; he was stating the facts.

In London, whether Whig or Tory, from the King to commoners, there were plenty of people who caused a mess in their relationships.

Some were simply unlucky, like the Viscount of Melbourne, who married a crazy woman named Caroline Ponceby who acted without considering the consequences.

Others are simply people who are not morally upright themselves.

Of course, it's not easy to find a few people in high society who behave properly.

However, if you insist on counting on your fingers, then the first choice would undoubtedly be the Robert Peel couple.

In an era rife with superficiality, political marriages, and mistresses, the Peeles were completely out of step with the prevailing social norms. Mrs. Peele was not enthusiastic about socializing and rarely involved herself in politics, which perfectly suited Sir Sir David Peele's cautious and unassuming nature. Their marriage was so harmonious that even their political rivals, the Whig Party, had no intention of attacking them.

Even the liberal newspapers that hated Peel the most had to praise him as a respectable father and husband.

But when it comes to matters of the heart, Pierre is, after all, a minority in high society.

Of the rest, even the highly respected model of stability, such as the former Prime Minister, Earl Grey, was a womanizer in his youth, and even had a daughter with Lady Greville, George IV's mistress. However, after marrying, Earl Grey quickly settled down.

Furthermore, the Earl Grey's wife, Mary Elizabeth Poonsambi, consistently displayed a refined and courteous demeanor in public and cultivated considerable connections within the Whig Party social circles for her husband. This contrasted sharply with her cousin, Caroline Poonsambi, the late wife of the Viscount of Melbourne. This was one of the key reasons why the Earl Grey was able to ascend to the position of Prime Minister before the Viscount of Melbourne.

Compared to those who rise through the ranks of politics because of harmonious family relationships, there are countless cases of people being forced to temporarily or permanently withdraw from politics due to sex scandals.

Take Henry FitzRoy, for example. This was Captain FitzRoy's cousin, who was once a promising member of parliament. However, his affair with an actress caused a scandal that angered his father, the Duke of Grafton, leading to the family cutting off his financial support. Later, his gambling addiction and womanizing led him to a complete downfall, ultimately resulting in his withdrawal from politics.

Although his life story is not worthy of being written about in great detail by history, this does not prevent him from being a frequent subject of many tabloids and third-rate novels (excluding "Shadow of Great Britain").

In addition, Lord John Russell, the current Home Secretary, was once reprimanded by senior members of the party for allegedly having an affair with a duchess when he was young. Although he ultimately failed, this scandalous affair did slow down his progress, so much so that he was excluded from the Whig party's inner circle for a long time before the parliamentary reforms of 1832.

If we were to cite a recent example, we would probably have to mention Lord Brougham, Sir Arthur Hastings's mentor.

Since stepping down as Lord Brougham, he has been on holiday in continental Europe and is currently staying in Paris. However, rumors have spread that he is having a close relationship with a dancer in Paris, and many newspapers have even published lengthy reports and analyses on this matter. Some even say that he has a secret family in France.

Although many of these reports are unreliable, this does not prevent the "affair with a dancer" from becoming material for attacks within the Whig Party, affecting his future prospects of joining the cabinet.

Of course, compared to earlier speculation that Viscount Castleray may have committed an unforgivable crime (sodomy), which led to the suicide of this former top-three British Foreign Secretary due to excessive mental stress, Lord Brougham's affair with a dancer did not seem to pose a significant problem.

Ultimately, whether these issues are big or small doesn't really matter; what matters is whether anyone intends to put these issues on the scale right now.

Unfortunately, judging from Arthur's own judgment, there were probably more than just one or two people who wanted him on the scales.

The reason these people are not speaking now is either because they haven't seized the opportunity, or because they feel it's not yet time to fight him to the death.

While occasionally revealing someone's weakness is a way to protect oneself in politics, Fiona and Nightingale Mansion's weaknesses are indeed too great.

Tom downed his drink in one gulp, trying to ease the tension with the camaraderie of old friends: "Actually, it's not that hard to win a woman over. Don't keep that long face. A girl like Fiona, if you suddenly sent her a love letter, a hand-sewn purse, or even a bouquet of night-blooming jasmine... even if you personally brought her the tea tray, even if you were a little awkward and blushed a bit, it would be much more effective than what you did today. Women, if they like you, their hearts are very soft."

He paused, as if suddenly remembering something: "Oh, right, when I went on vacation last year, I bought an astrolabe pendant in Brighton. I heard that girls seem to be quite interested in astrology these days. If you don't know what to give me, how about I bring you that astrolabe?"

Upon hearing Tom's suggestion, Arthur couldn't help but tease, "Tom? Are you serious? Aren't you afraid that by some chance, Mrs. Tom will discover that the ornaments in the house have ended up in Fiona's hands? What are you going to say then?"

Tom was stunned for a moment upon hearing this. He hadn't really thought that much about it: "Well... that makes sense... then you figure out what to send yourself. You always have more ideas than me."

Arthur took a sip of his drink: "What are your thoughts on astrology?"

Tom waved his hand without thinking and said, "What else can you say? It's a place where charlatans, sorcerers, and witches gather, but that doesn't stop the girls from liking it. Do you know Varvara on Hudson Street? That gypsy fortune teller who became popular at the beginning of the year. I don't know what my wife was thinking, but she insisted on taking my birth date to her for a reading. She did the reading herself, and then she came back and told me that I would definitely have a prison sentence before I turned fifty."

Tom was furious when the topic came up: "If I weren't busy with Princess's birthday party, I would have ordered Tony to have his men overturn her caravan and make her swim back to her hometown in Bohemia with her crystal ball!"

Unexpectedly, Arthur gestured for him to calm down: "Don't go looking for trouble with her, at least not for now."

"Why?" Tom asked, puzzled. "Arthur, you don't believe in this stuff, do you?"

Arthur glanced at the Red Devil who was stealing wine by the window: "Whether I believe it or not is another matter, but you'd better not bother Fiona until she has her fortune told by Varvara."

"I..." Tom thought he had misheard, but then he remembered how Arthur had been taking Cowley and Hugh to wander around the Gypsy settlements every day recently: "Arthur, you wouldn't... I thought... you weren't going to tell the princess's fortune, would you?"

Arthur downed the drink in his glass in one gulp: "Tom, there's nothing you can't do in this world. Remember, everything is arranged by fate."

……

The wind on Hudson Street always carries a hint of salt, silently climbing up the brick walls from the Thames, stirring the wind chimes under the eaves, bringing a few crisp, eerily loud sounds.

When Fiona entered the dimly lit room, wearing a cloak, she was clutching a crumpled letter in her hand.

That was a letter Varvara had sent to Nightingale's Mansion two days ago. It contained only one sentence: "The celestial orbits are unusual; fate is turning. Not coming is calamity. Coming is also a disaster."

Three low copper lamps were lit inside the room, their light like damp coal dust, clinging heavily to the walls.

The spiritual leader of countless London occult enthusiasts, the Gypsy sorceress Varvara, was sitting behind a wooden table covered with star charts.

She appeared to be in her early fifties, with a high-bridged nose, deep-set eyes, and her hair tied in knots. A simple silver pendant adorned her left ear, and five or six coils of copper wire amulets wrapped around her right wrist. An old leather boot peeked from beneath her robe, and she wore her usual bright red taffeta robe. Her eyes were decorated with exaggerated lines and patterns that Londoners considered only for Eastern witches. As if she had known Fiona would come, she didn't even bother to look up, simply uttering a hoarse, "You want to ask him?"

Fiona's cloak was stained with water from the street, and her heels were splashed with mud. These were minor lapses in behavior that she would normally not tolerate, but at a time like this, she was in no mood to care about them.

She sat down somewhat hastily, her fingertips gripping her leather gloves tightly. Then she scanned the tent, as if to confirm whether it was truly secluded enough, or perhaps to force herself to calm down.

Finally, she pulled a note out of her glove and handed it over.

“This is his…birthday.” Her voice was so low it was almost inaudible: “He told me himself last night. I asked him if he was born in winter, and he paused for a moment, then nodded. So I followed up by asking about his childhood, and he wasn’t on guard and casually mentioned that he was born in Bradford, York. I wrote all of that down.”

Varvara took the note, squinted at it, and then looked at it as if he had seen something unbelievable.

The fortune teller was stunned for a moment, then immediately began flipping through the astrology book beside her, muttering to herself as she turned the pages: "Born at 2 a.m. on January 15, 1810, in Bradford, York... According to Bradford's latitude and longitude, the sun should have been in Capricorn, the moon in Scorpio, and the rising sign in Sagittarius... Oh dear... this, this..."

Fiona was startled by Varvara's reaction: "You... is there something wrong with his fate?"

Upon hearing this, Varvara stopped turning the pages of his book, looked up, and clicked his tongue in amazement, saying, "On the contrary. This person is of immeasurable nobility."

She laid the astrology book open on the table, her fingertip pointing to the cusp of Capricorn and Scorpio, muttering to herself, "The Sun in Capricorn indicates a person with strong direction and a pragmatic style, but also a strong desire for power and social status. A Moon in Scorpio usually indicates a deep inner world, intense emotions, and a powerful intuition and need for control. Sagittarius rising suggests that to others, this is a free-spirited young person, but because of the Sun in Capricorn, they are actually extremely calm and calculating. But most remarkably, Mars is also in their ruling sign, Capricorn."

Fiona was initially skeptical of Varvara, but after hearing his explanation, her eyes quickly shifted from initial wariness to unwavering conviction.

There was no way around it; Varvara's judgment was indeed too similar to her image of Arthur Hastings.

Fiona asked softly, "You just said that his Mars is also in Capricorn? What does that mean?"

Varvara nodded, turned a page of the chart, revealing the complex astrological chart: "This is an extremely strong configuration, symbolizing that action and goals are aligned. Such a configuration usually only appears in calm, disciplined, and ambitious warriors. Such people usually have amazing endurance and can persevere to the end in harsh environments."

In a daze, Fiona recalled the cold, lifeless body lying in the Church of St. Martin.

While she was still in a daze, Varvara casually asked, "His cause must be related to justice, law, and order, right?"

Upon hearing this, Fiona felt a chill run down her spine: "How did you know?"

Varvara smiled and took out the astrological chart calculated based on his birth date and location: "Because his Midheaven is in Libra, and Saturn is in Sagittarius, it means that his responsibilities and tests lie in knowledge, law, and faith. Such a person is destined to bear pressure on the stage of ideas and order."

“But what about his feelings?” Fiona’s voice suddenly became somewhat uncertain: “I don’t… I don’t necessarily need him to love me. But I always feel that sometimes he’s like he’s made of stone, keeping everything buried deep inside, and no one can know what he’s really thinking.”

Upon hearing Fiona's question, Varvara slowly withdrew the star chart: "People with the Moon in Scorpio are not incapable of having emotions, but they grow too deep, taking root in darkness. Moreover, this is a Capricorn Sun, so such people are often too clear about what emotions mean, and also very clear that once emotions are invested, it is difficult to extricate themselves."

The fortune teller paused slightly at this point: "Perhaps you should think of it on the bright side. Maybe he doesn't not care about you; on the contrary, he might care too much. So, when he senses that the feelings between you are getting too intense, he might think of putting it aside for a while, and then come back to rekindle the flame once it cools down."

To everyone's surprise, Fiona, who had just been completely trusting of Varvara, retorted, "I don't mean to offend you, dear Varvara. But why would someone who cares so much about you turn around and show such concern for another woman at this crucial moment? Is this also part of the astrological chart?"

When Fiona mentioned "another woman," she practically wanted to tear the words to shreds. Although she wanted to pretend she couldn't see it, in a place like Nightingale Mansion, where all sorts of information gathered, it was impossible for her to feign blindness or deafness.

She didn't want to admit that she was jealous.

She just wanted to find out whether she was too stupid or that guy was too good at acting.

“Don’t worry. You just said yourself that the man is like a stone. But don’t forget, a stone can’t burn.” Varvara stroked the crystal ball and added, “But he has fire on him, and it’s suppressed. If you get too close, you’ll get burned. Of course, he’ll try to divert that fire and find someone safer and less important to vent some of his heat on.”

"You mean...that woman was just a substitute?"

Varvara didn't answer directly, but instead flipped open the star chart again: "During this period, his Venus is retrograde, and its placement is extremely unstable, causing his emotional tendencies to fluctuate and change, which means..."

She looked up and stared directly at Fiona: "He's the least trustworthy person during this time."

Fiona frowned: "Then how do you know I can trust you?"

“Didn’t I calculate it for you before? Because you are in the original position of Venus,” Varvara said calmly. “And she is just borrowing a position.”

These words sounded like a charade, but to Fiona, they were a perfectly timed shot of adrenaline.

Seeing that she was somewhat relieved, Varvara pressed her advantage, saying, "If you're really afraid he'll run away, don't chase after him. The more you chase him, the more he'll run. Just stand there quietly and wait for him to break out in someone else's arms in a cold sweat; he'll come back and start a fire on his own."

Fiona asked, "Is there anything else I need to do?"

“Your time is up.” Varvara stood up to see her out, took a bronze amulet from his pocket and put it in Fiona’s hand: “Tie this to your wrist. Remember, just keep things at your original pace.”

“Thank you, Varvara.” Fiona breathed a sigh of relief and thanked her softly. “At first, I was a non-believer in God, but after experiencing some things, I began to believe in God. And… what you said last time and this time makes me feel that the stars in the sky can also predict people’s fate.”

Her words were not merely polite; they carried a strange sincerity.

After speaking, the lady of Nightingale Mansion took out a small wallet from her pocket, pulled out a ten-pound note and placed it next to the star map: "Then everything remains the same, contact me again if needed."

The curtain fell again, and the wind chimes jingled as Fiona left.

Silence returned to the tent immediately, and under the copper lamp, Varvara slowly sat down.

She was silent for a moment, then suddenly let out a long breath.

She was about to reach for the teapot on the table when she heard a soft rustling sound of fabric behind her. The dark blue curtain behind the tent was being lifted from the inside.

Two men slowly emerged from the shadows.

The man was tall and slender, expressionless, and wearing a tightly buttoned-up civilian coat; that was Officer Michael Cowley.

The other man was slightly overweight and had a stern face that didn't match his personality; this was Officer James Hught.

Koli spoke first, saying, "Well done. You mentioned all the key points as we instructed."

After speaking, he turned to look at Hughes, who, understanding the unspoken agreement, tossed a small bag of guinea coins onto the table: "This is the agreed-upon payment. Also, according to the guidelines just issued by the Police Commissioner's Committee, starting tonight, the patrol routes near Hudson Street will be slightly adjusted. No one will come to check your business license anymore, and no drunkard will dare to knock over your stall. Mrs. Varvara, remember to keep in touch when you have time."

(End of this chapter)