shadow of britain

Chapter 923 Let me introduce myself, Arthur Hastings, an unknown nobody in Whitehall.
Lewis felt a pang of anxiety when asked the question.

Informant?

assistant?

Damn it! Where did he get his informants and assistants?
In most cases, he can't even support himself, so how could he possibly have any surplus money to share with others?

If I really have to talk about informants, I only have two or three friends who are doing pretty well now.

Lewis occasionally glimpsed a corner of high society from his conversations with them, then took it back, processed it, and turned it into news articles to submit to newspapers.

Apart from that, all he relied on for a living was a notebook, the appreciation of a few newspaper editors, and his fancy "drowsy narrative" skills.
Even so, one must not lose face in public, especially in front of a diplomat, even if he is just a beggar, one must still act like the king of beggars.

Lewis picked up his glass and coughed lightly: "Informants? Of course! In the journalism business, you can't get by without a few special connections."

He spoke of it so casually, as if those fabricated connections were real.

“For example…” Lewis’s eyes lit up as he unleashed his storytelling talent: “There are two people at the West India docks who give me tips, an old friend near the Golden Cross station, and even backstage at the Alhambra Theatre, I know a few girls who are willing to give me a heads-up.”

Lewis rattled off his list of connections in one breath, feeling somewhat smug.

These places are messy and chaotic enough that even if the other party suspects he is lying, there is no way to verify it, so it is difficult to expose him.

Unfortunately, all of the locations that Lewis had carefully selected were within the intelligence coverage of Sir Arthur Hastings, the Secretary General of the Commissioner for Police.

West India Docks is located in the heart of the Hastings faction's power base in East London.

Since the establishment of Scotland Yard, apart from the first Inspector Clemens, the senior police officer in charge of the East End has either been Sir Arthur Hastings himself or a close former subordinate of his, starting with the second officer.

Several officers who now hold high-ranking positions in the Police Intelligence Bureau, such as Brendan Jones and Ridley King, have long service records in the Eastern District.

The unusual connection between the Police Intelligence Bureau and the Eastern District once led officers to whisper among themselves: "It's hard for someone who hasn't suffered in the Eastern District to enjoy a comfortable life in the Intelligence Bureau."

As for the area near Golden Cross Station, even disregarding the police station that Scotland Yard had newly established there two years prior, there was still the English Electromagnetic Telegraph Company's telegraph station to help transmit messages.

And what about the Alhambra Theatre?
Leaving aside how desperately this theater went to curry favor with Imperial Publishing in order to obtain the adaptation rights to Dickens's play, just looking at their location—Leicester Square—shows that they are within the surveillance range of Mr. Elder Carter, Leicester Square's chief intelligence officer.

Mr. Carter knew exactly how many entrances and exits the Alhambra Theatre had, and how many rooms were backstage.

Even though Arthur could easily tell whether Lewis was lying or not with just a flick of his little finger, he still couldn't be bothered to make a big fuss over such a trivial matter.

It's just bragging to relieve boredom, why forcefully puncture someone's superficial self-esteem?
Arthur listened and simply nodded slightly: "I see. Your reach is even more sensitive than that of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs."

He finished speaking in a gentle tone, sounding like a serious compliment, yet also like a casual, polite compliment: "The Foreign Minister may know what's happening in the Caucasus Mountains, but he has absolutely no idea how many robberies took place in the East District last night."

Lewis was flattered and smug, but it wasn't long before he became wary again.

He understood this principle all too well: the higher you're lifted, the harder you fall.

Didn't he almost get caught because he lied in the newspaper before?
So he quickly retreated from the danger zone and shifted the topic: "Well, actually, our sources as journalists aren't much. But you, sir, you're a diplomat, that profession is far more sophisticated than ours! I've heard that diplomats also have networks of informants, isn't that right? In Parisian salons, at Viennese parties, in the corridors of the palace… there are ears everywhere that can tip you off. I've read many travelogues and memoirs written by retired diplomats, which say that diplomats always have to navigate between balls, salons, and banquets, that a single sentence must convey three meanings, and that a single sentence must be interpreted to guess three layers of motive. Is all of this true?"

Arthur looked at the penny reporter in front of him, who had just made a small fortune, and wondered if it was his seriousness or his exaggerated expression that made Arthur laugh.

"It's a mix of truth and falsehood." He smiled slightly, raising his hand to support his chin, and said, "Although the actual situation isn't as exaggerated as they say, it's true that many times we obtain diplomatic intelligence through personal connections."

“Really?!” Lewis couldn’t help but interrupt.

“Really.” Arthur smiled as he recalled the “good old days” of getting his work done while drinking a few years ago: “Those parties, salons, and banquets you mentioned are indeed things diplomats have to attend. In diplomacy, hard work rarely yields results; on the contrary, those who ‘play the field’ are more likely to achieve success. In most cases, the intelligence you painstakingly piece together is less valuable than a single slip of the tongue by a few countesses when they’re drunk.”

Lewis listened intently, even forgetting the wine glass in his hand: "So...so was your previous work like what's described in these books? Always having to be careful and smooth things over?"

Arthur's smile was faint, tinged with a hint of mockery and self-deprecation: "It's not so much about being adept at navigating social situations; most of the time it's about managing to get by. Think about it! Interactions between nations aren't just between individuals, but between groups of people. So many people, each with their own temper, habits, misunderstandings, prejudices, and desires… The job of a diplomat sounds noble, but even the best diplomat can't please everyone. He merely ensures that no one is so dissatisfied as to overturn the table. But a bad diplomat… well, he can do much more…"

Lewis couldn't help but press further: "What can he do?"

As if he had just thought of something, Arthur joked, "A bad reporter might get scolded by 20,000 readers at most, but a bad diplomat could cause 20,000 more troops to be stationed on the border."

Lewis burst into laughter: "My God! That's definitely more dangerous than being a journalist!"

Seeing Lewis smiling happily, Arthur raised his glass and clinked it lightly against Lewis's: "So, I really have to learn a lot from you, especially how to maintain connections."

“Learn from…learn from me?” Lewis nearly choked.

A diplomat learned social skills from him, from Mr. David Lewis.

If this gets back to Fleet Street, it'll probably make those penny-pinchers laugh so hard they fall off their chairs.

“I…I only deal with dockworkers, coachmen, washerwomen, and the like.” Lewis awkwardly touched the tip of his nose. “What do I know about high society…”

“How could that be?” Arthur said as if he had heard an interesting fallacy: “No matter what kind of society it is, it is ultimately about dealing with people. If you learn how to talk to ordinary people, you will naturally be able to stand on a higher stage. That’s how I started out. I spent several years hanging out with people in the East District, drinking, arguing, fighting, bargaining with them… Over time, I gradually learned a lot of things.”

"East District?" Lewis's heart skipped a beat.

He forced a smile, but alarm bells were ringing in his mind.

Those who can survive in the East District for a long time and even make a name for themselves are usually not ordinary people.

but……

Judging from his attire and manner of speaking, and the fact that he later got a job at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, his family background must be quite good. His claim of "having worked in the East District" probably doesn't mean he actually spent his time in that dregs of society.

While both lived in the East End, Irish laborers did manual labor and ate potatoes, while the sons of nobles almost always held official positions.

He must have held some position in the East District...

In the East End, the only respectable places that the sons of the powerful and wealthy could afford were the Middlesex Quarterly Court and the Toulhamletz Magistrates' Court...

The generous treatment of judges of the Court of Quarterly Trials is well known in Britain, and since the establishment of Scotland Yard in 1829, the treatment of magistrates of the peace, who were previously not highly regarded, has also risen accordingly.

According to a report disclosed by Parliament in 1835, the annual salary of the Chief Magistrate of Bow Street had jumped to £1200, and the annual salaries of the other Magistrates' Courts in London had generally reached over £800. The general increase in the annual salaries of the Magistrates' Courts also led to an increase in the salaries of the other Magistrates' Courts staff.

A magistrate's court treasurer can earn up to £500 a year.

The starting salary for a Chief Clerk of the Magistrates' Court is £250, increasing by £10 each year until it is capped at £450.

The second clerk's starting salary is £180, increasing by £8 annually up to a maximum of £300.

The third clerk's starting salary was £120, increasing by £5 annually up to a maximum of £250.

As for the Inspector General of the London Magistrates' Courts, his annual salary reached an astonishing £1001. Even his twenty subordinate inspectors earned a staggering annual salary ranging from £751 to £901.

It's worth noting that forty years ago, the total salary expenditure of the magistrates' courts was only one-third of what it is now.

那时候弓街的首席治安法官只拿400镑，三位书记官的年薪则分别是160镑、130镑和100镑，而其余书记员则只有80镑。

Of course, forty years later, not everyone's treatment has improved.

The guards patrol of Bow Street Magistrates' Court back then, which are now the patrolmen incorporated into Scotland Yard, were paid 2 shillings and 6 pence per night forty years ago. That is, if they worked all year round, they could earn £45, 12 shillings and 6 pence a year, which is not much different from Scotland Yard's current salary.

The only difference is that, at least now Scotland Yard patrol officers can have one day off per week.

Of course, the gentleman in front of me is definitely not the kind of guy who patrols the streets.

If he wasn't a magistrate who only appeared in court two days a week and enjoyed a thousand pounds a year, then he was a magistrate's inspector, or at the very least, a court tax officer or something. The more Lewis thought about it, the more accurate his deduction seemed, and he felt a surge of heat, his heart pounding wildly.

If this gentleman really did work at the Eastern District Magistrates' Court, then he must still have many former colleagues and old friends there.

What is the East District?
That place was a breeding ground for murder, poisoning, theft, fencing stolen goods, nightingale brawls, and vagrant fights.

What is the most frightening thing for a penny reporter?
What I fear most is not encountering a case that grabs my attention!
But if someone could tell him immediately after something happened that a headless body was found in Whitechapel, that a bizarre death occurred in a hotel on a back street, or that a sailor was stuffed into a sack and thrown into the river at the dock...

Then him, then him...

Doesn't that mean David Lewis has landed a golden goose?!
Moreover, not only can they know about the case immediately, but they can even get him into the crime scene!
Enter the autopsy room!
Even attend the preliminary hearing!

From now on, whenever David Lewis shows his face on Fleet Street, the deputy editors of various newspapers will be kneeling down to invite him for drinks.
With an excited heart and trembling hands, Lewis felt invigorated at the thought.

He subtly moved forward a little: "Since you used to work in... uh... the government departments in the East District, you must still have quite a few friends there, right?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow, seemingly not liking the question. He didn't answer, but simply took a sip of his drink.

But in Lewis's eyes, this silence was more intriguing than any answer.

Lewis was secretly delighted and quickly probed further: "I've heard that the East District... has a lot of cases and complicated relationships, so it usually needs experienced officers to oversee things. Especially the magistrates' courts; those who can work there for several years are no ordinary people!"

Arthur still didn't admit it directly, but looked at him with interest and smiled, "You seem quite familiar with the security system?"

“A little more familiar…” Lewis quickly waved his hand: “When you’re writing news, you have to know a bit about people. I’ve dealt with magistrates, police officers, and clerks. Of course, in terms of relationships, I can’t compare to you.”

Arthur didn't expose him. Instead, he seemed amused and smiled, saying casually, "The East End is indeed not easy. Anyone who can stay there, regardless of their position, must have some skills."

Lewis was invigorated.

Is this a partial admission?

He quickly probed further: "So, when you go there... will you be in charge of interrogation? Or are you better at... coordinating the inspectors under your command?"

Arthur ignored all the keywords he threw at him, and instead changed his perspective: "The security affairs in the East District are inherently multifaceted."

He put down his glass, as if recalling something: "The docks require dealing with the Port Authority, the waterways need to be coordinated with the Thames River Police, the streets are under the jurisdiction of the patrol police, and the pubs, theaters, and brothels rely on trusted veterans to keep an eye on them. As for the magistrates' courts..."

He paused here, deliberately leaving a blank space, which made Lewis's heart skip a beat: "The magistrate's court also has its own rules."

This statement is ambiguous, but extremely dangerous.

Lewis was quickly processing the information in his mind.

Multiple departments operating in parallel, experienced personnel overseeing the process, and the rules of the magistrate's court—isn't this the kind of talk only a leader would use?

Those who work down there, who would have nothing better to do than use such nonsense to comment on the security situation in the East District?
He was immediately certain that Arthur had previously worked at the Eastern District Magistrates' Court, and in a fairly high position!

To confirm further, Lewis coughed and pretended to chat: "I heard that the scribes in Taulhamletz have to know Latin and speak a little French. Is that true?"

“Taurhamletz?” Arthur replied with a smile, “You’ve come to the right person. I used to work at Taurhamletz.”

This statement was like a heavy punch, hitting Lewis directly in the head.

Lewis's eyes were glazed over, but he still managed to offer a compliment: "Oh... really... Taulhamletz... is indeed a good place."

Arthur chuckled and added, "It is indeed a good place, except for being a bit chaotic. But at least the people there still respect me."

Respect him?
Do the people in the magistrates' court still respect him to this day?

In an instant, Lewis, along with his status as a member of the magistrates' court, showed Arthur a deep respect.

He felt that for the first time in his life he might have truly come close to a great person who could change his destiny.

The usually eloquent Mr. Lewis was now flushed with excitement, his whole body trembling, and he could barely speak: "Well... if I ever need to know anything about the East District cases... uh... I wonder if you... could..."

Arthur understood what he wanted, but pretended not to understand, and smiled slightly: "A reporter, after all, needs to travel around, see more, and get to know more people. Of course, if I happen to be of any help..."

Arthur stopped mid-sentence. As if suddenly remembering something, he lightly slapped his forehead: "Oh dear, we've been chatting for so long... and I still don't know your honorable name."

The tone sounded both annoyed and a sign of oversight, making the listener feel taken seriously.

Lewis sat up almost reflexively, his voice trembling: "I, I'm David Lewis, sir! David James Lewis! Please don't mind the common name, I, I... 7 Whitfield Street, 5th floor..."

He spoke faster and faster, and in the end he almost blurted out his address, as if afraid that Arthur would forget it in the next second.

“Number seven, fifth floor, the one on the far right!” he added, “the one whose window faces the cheese warehouse!”

Arthur raised an eyebrow slightly, a faint smile playing on his lips: "Your accommodations are quite specific."

He slowly pulled a pen from his jacket pocket and then a small card he always carried with him. His movements were unhurried, gentlemanly, and natural, as if he were not writing down the address of a penny-cash reporter, but rather recording the date of the submission of Tsar Nicholas I's credentials.

"Lewis...7 Whitfield Street..."

He wrote and read aloud, making sure that every word was accurately written on the paper.

After finishing writing, Arthur looked up, as if afraid of making a mistake, and asked again, "You're not suddenly moving, are you?"

Lewis hurriedly waved his hand: "No, no! Absolutely not! I've already paid my rent until next Easter! Besides, my landlady is a lazy bum; she'd never bother finding a new tenant for an extra penny or two. Don't worry, I definitely won't move! If you ever want to chat with me, you can just send a letter to this address."

He spoke so quickly and urgently that it even sounded like he was assuring his boss, "I won't resign."

Arthur nodded slightly, folded the note card, and put it in his pocket.

Overjoyed, Lewis asked, both eager and cautious, "Now that you know my name, I wonder if I could have the honor of..."

He certainly wouldn't miss this golden opportunity to turn a stranger into a "potential date".

Arthur paused for a moment, then laughed and slapped his forehead: "Look at my memory, of course, it's only natural."

"May I ask your name?"

Arthur calmly pulled a business card from his inside pocket.

The business card was printed with exquisite detail, on thick paper, with a deep, rich ink color, and the edges were neatly trimmed.

He gently pushed the business card towards Lewis: "Please accept it."

Lewis held the business card in both hands, as if he were holding a ticket that could rewrite his destiny.

Sir Arthur Hastings' business card, August 1837 edition.

Sir Arthur Hastings
Knights of the Order of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland
Knight of the Order of St. Anne, Second Class, Russian Empire
Permanent Secretary of the Commission of Police of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland

Non-resident Royal Attendant of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland
Chairman of the Board of Directors of Imperial Publishing Company

Address: 36 Lancaster Gate, Bethwater, London

"Let me introduce myself, Arthur Hastings. I do odd jobs on the side, but my main job is as a nobody in Whitehall."

(End of this chapter)