shadow of britain

Chapter 892 Queen Victoria? Lady Melbourne!

The afternoon sun made the cobblestones of Fleet Street shine. In front of the Rooster Tavern at No. 22, there were sacks of malt stuffed with burlap piled up, and a few lazy printing apprentices were leaning against the sacks smoking and chatting.

The sign for the "Rooster Pub" in London

Perhaps because it was still early, there weren't many customers in the tavern. Everywhere you looked, there were empty tables. The oak floors of the tavern gleamed in the sunlight, and a few swarming flies hovered around the windows, occasionally landing on the small notice board with the price list on it to rest.

The bartender, with nothing to do, leaned against the counter, yawning as he flipped through the order forms that had arrived at noon. Every now and then, he would lazily call out to the window, "George, send three barrels of port to 16 St. James Street. Their club's stock is almost empty!"

"The Rooster Tavern on Fleet Street" painted by British artist Philip Norman in 1886.

Boom!

The heavy door was half-open in the wind, and a man wearing a black top hat and a travel cloak walked in.

As soon as he took off his hat, the bartender recognized the old customer as Mr. Arthur Hastings from "The Englishman".

Upon seeing Arthur, the bartender immediately straightened up, put the order form aside, and waved with a smile.

“Mr. Hastings!” he peeked out from behind the counter. “I thought you wouldn’t be back from Paris until before Christmas!”

Arthur took off his gloves and casually slapped them on the bar: "I can't help it, I just miss the dust in Fleet Street."

"You really are..." the bartender replied with a smile, "Look at all the upper-class gentlemen in London, none of them are like you, it's only August and you're already heading to this godforsaken place again?"

“I didn’t want to come back so early either, but…” Arthur pursed his lips, looking rather helpless: “Johnny, you know, I still have a position in Whitehall.”

"Isn't that easy to solve?" the bartender said with a smile. "Which of those clerks in Whitehall dare to say that they haven't paid someone to cover their shifts? I heard from several reporters and editors from The Observer that quite a few of them are drawing salaries without working. Compared to them, you're practically overly diligent."

“What you’re talking about is all from before the parliamentary reforms,” Arthur said half-jokingly. “Whitehall is cracking down much harder now than before. Although I can’t rule out the possibility that people in other departments might still be doing this, after all, departments like the Treasury and the Court of Justice pay salaries starting at two hundred pounds. But in the Home Office, especially in the police system, you can count on your fingers the number of people willing to pay someone to cover their shifts.”

"Perhaps," the bartender shrugged, chuckling jokingly, "but you're definitely one of those fingers."

Arthur smiled faintly, but did not refute it, which was taken as tacit agreement.

However, although he was one of the few administrative officers in the police system who could afford to hire substitutes, for Arthur, it wasn't a matter of whether he could afford the money, but rather whether he was willing to relinquish power.

Since joining Scotland Yard in 1829, what he had always sought was to have a firm grip on the police system.

Now that his dream has finally come true, why should he just hand it over to someone else to enjoy?
He glanced at the deserted tavern and asked, "Has Dizzy arrived?"

"You're here to see Mr. Disraeli?" The bartender slapped his forehead and laughed, "I should have known. He didn't come to Old Rooster just to find a quiet place to read. Go upstairs, he's sitting in your 'The Englishman's' private box."

Arthur nodded and put his hat back on. "Then I'll go up."

"Take your time." The bartender gestured with his chin. "Please wait a moment, Mr. Disraeli. Your refreshing beer will be here shortly."

Arthur whispered a thank you and turned to walk towards the stairs.

The wooden stairs leading to the second floor were somewhat old, creaking slightly with each step.

He hadn't walked far when he saw a private room door slightly ajar, with a faded note pasted on the door that read: "The Englishman's Private Meeting Room - No Entry Without Permission."

Someone below then hastily added a comment—unless you came with a scandal.

Arthur raised his hand and knocked lightly on the door twice. Before anyone inside could respond, he pushed the door open and went in.

The private room wasn't large, but it was private and quiet.

Two angled skylights let in soft light, and an old desk was placed under the window, with several newspapers and a stack of freshly written manuscripts spread out on it.

Disraeli, whose vest was unbuttoned by one button, was leaning back in his chair with his feet on the table, puffing out a cigar.

“My dear Arthur, you’ve finally come back.” Disraeli put down his manuscript. “I thought you were doing so well in Paris that you were planning to buy the French Opera House as well.”

Arthur took off his hat and draped his coat over the back of the chair: "Benjamin, is it really necessary to be so sarcastic? I'm on a business trip to Paris. As for the tasks of drinking, gambling, and whoring, those were mainly handled by Elder and Alexander."

"So you didn't get to benefit from it?"

"Occasionally."

“That’s settled then?” Disraeli rolled his eyes. “You, Mr. Carter, Charles, Alfred, and all of you disappear in the summer, either partying in Paris or enjoying the seaside life in Brighton. And me? I’m stuck in piles of ink-smelling ballots, wrestling with the Whigs.”

"Alright, at least you won the hand-to-hand combat," Arthur joked. "You should think about your opponent. He also worked hard all summer, spent a lot of money on the election, but he still couldn't take the House of Commons seat from under your butt." "Hmph, of course he couldn't take it." Disraeli took a puff of his cigar and pulled his feet back off the table. "Because I have more than just a chair under my butt. Thankfully, you guys had some conscience and took turns writing all sorts of editorials praising me before you went on vacation. Now all I have to do is run ads, spread rumors, and give speeches, and everything will fall into place."

Arthur picked up a newspaper from the table, and the first thing that caught his eye was a cartoon portrait of Disraeli: "In the past month, your name has appeared in our magazines more often than all the others combined. I don't want our readers to think we're running some kind of religious publication."

“Sorry, Arthur, I don’t think so.” Disraeli raised an eyebrow. “Besides, the hottest name in London this past month isn’t me, Benjamin Disraeli, but Mrs. Melbourne.”

"Lady Melbourne?" Arthur paused, then asked, "Are you referring to Viscount Melbourne's mother, the old Lady Melbourne? Or are the London journalists running out of stories lately, so they're just dredging up that old saga of the Viscount Melbourne and his deceased wife again?"

“No, no, no…” Disraeli pushed the newspaper forward and pointed to the italicized text on the front page, reading aloud: “According to sources, Her Majesty the Queen has found a husband who is not just a title—not sitting by her bedside, but sitting in her Privy Council. Look, the satirist just published it the day before yesterday.”

“Damn it.” Arthur pressed a hand to his forehead. “How did this kind of report get published? Is Mr. Barnard Gregory of The Satire looking to go to jail again?”

"You make it sound like this wasn't said by someone you know in Whitehall." Disraeli raised an eyebrow. "What, you didn't authorize *The Satire* to publish this article?"

“Me?” Arthur said with a look of regret, “Benjamin, I’ve always thought of myself as a smart person in your eyes. Did you really think of me as so stupid? I can’t offend both the Queen and the Prime Minister with one article.”

“That’s true. Actually, I also think you didn’t need to do this… But as the Secretary General of the Commissioner for Police Affairs, if Buckingham Palace raises any issues, you’ll have to explain to them how this passage got into the printing press.” Although Disraeli had never been a policeman, he knew his old friend Arthur’s job quite well: “After all, Scotland Yard has enforcement power over publications, right?”

Scotland Yard has enforcement power over book publishing, especially for those political, obscene, and seditious books listed on the prohibited list. But The Satire has a news publication number, so let alone issuing a ban, even sending them an official letter of inquiry requires filing with the Home Office.

Arthur stared at the newspaper, tapping his fingertips lightly on the table: “Unless they openly slander Her Majesty, mentioning her full name, saying she has an improper relationship with the Prime Minister, or using words that are legally considered disrespectful to the monarch, Scotland Yard can’t legally summon them. I bet even if I went and arrested them right now, they would argue that the passage was merely describing Her Majesty and the Prime Minister working together.”

Disraeli stroked his chin and pondered, "So, you really didn't leak this information?"

When Arthur heard that Disraeli actually doubted him, he couldn't help but curl his lip: "Benjamin, even if I wanted to leak the news, The Ironist would never cooperate with me."

"why?"

“Is that even a question?” Arthur crossed his legs and threw the newspaper on the table. “Because the last time their founder and editor, Mr. Barnard Gregory, went to jail, it was on my orders to arrest him.”

"What did he do last time?"

Arthur took off his gloves and said, "What else could it be? You know what kind of business Gregory is in."

“Of course I know,” Disraeli laughed heartily. “But I heard he went in that time because he exposed some noblewoman’s secrets?”

“Benjamin, you’re being too polite and superficial,” Arthur said slowly, unbuttoning his cuff. “Although the incident stemmed from him exposing a noblewoman’s secrets and slandering that beautiful lady’s private life, the real reason he was convicted so quickly was because *The Satire*, since its inception, has consistently attacked Tory politics and relentlessly ridiculed the Duke of Cumberland and the Queen of Adelaide. He just happened to be caught red-handed that time, so don’t blame the court for being lenient with him.”

Disraeli scoffed, "Gregory probably thinks his tactic of sending copies of scandalous articles to those he's reporting on, threatening to expose them if they don't pay, is something anyone can do. In this respect, he's not even as clever as Heinrich Heine. At least Heine knew that you can't openly mention money to the victim in a letter; at most, you can slip in a couple of bills as a hint. But..."

Disraeli stared at the newspaper, frowning. "It seems Gregory hasn't learned his lesson. How long was he in jail before?"

“Three months.” Arthur started to get angry. “Actually, we also contacted other victims at the time. If all the witnesses were willing to come forward and testify, Gregory would have been in jail for at least three to five years. But… you know, many victims had already paid to settle things privately, and some of their scandals weren’t entirely fabricated. So in the end, very few people were actually willing to sit in the witness stand.”

“No wonder…” Disraeli stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray. “No wonder every time there’s a satirical cartoon about the police in ‘The Satire,’ the policeman’s face looks so much like you. It turns out Gregory is bringing up old grudges against you. But if you didn’t spread this news, then who did? John Conroy? The Duchess of Kent? Or someone else who disapproves of Her Majesty’s relationship with the Viscount of Melbourne?”

Disraeli's guess wasn't too far off, after all, there were far too many people in London who disliked the Viscount Melbourne.

The Kensington Palace duo were naturally on the shortlist, and they certainly had the guts to do so.

In addition, the influence of the Conservative Party cannot be ruled out, given that their leader, Sir Robert Peel, had previously expressed dissatisfaction with the selection of Lady of the Court and privately criticized the Queen's political immaturity and the Viscount of Melbourne's unscrupulous methods.

While it's unlikely that Peel, given his personality, would resort to underhanded tactics like spreading rumors, that doesn't mean other members of the Conservative Party wouldn't.

If someone actually does that, it's possible that Peel might turn a blind eye.

After all, this new leader of the Conservative Party was not a traditional royalist aristocrat like the previous Tory leaders, but came from a family of factory owners. Since the generation of Sir Robert Peel the Elder, his family had been one of the most prominent textile magnates in Lancashire.

For this reason, Peel, as an industrial bourgeois, was never interested in royal power. In fact, when he talked about most of the princes of the Hanoverian family in private, he often showed a contemptuous attitude and bluntly called them parasites of the state.

If it weren't for the concerns about the attitude of the conservatives within his party, Peel wouldn't even bother to acknowledge Buckingham Palace's position.

Arthur twirled the match head between his fingers, then suddenly looked up at Disraeli: "Benjamin, is it possible that anyone in your Conservative Party leaked this information?"

“Us?” Disraeli raised his eyebrows, as if he had been deeply humiliated. “Arthur, have you been in Paris for too long and your head is full of the remnants of the French republic? We noble Conservatives would never stoop to colluding with a scoundrel like Gregory who spreads rumors and stirs up trouble.”

“I didn’t say that you were the one who leaked the information,” Arthur said, sitting in his chair. “But you should also know that Peel sometimes can’t control his subordinates, especially those new-style senators who have completely abandoned the political logic of the George III era.”

(End of this chapter)