shadow of britain

Chapter 924 Three Cobblers

Lewis returned to his rented room on the fifth floor of 7 Whitfield Street at 2 a.m.

The dilapidated stairwell was still as narrow as a crack, with peeling paint and loose planks. The sour smell of the cheese warehouse next door seeped in through the windows, making the air sticky. Usually, Lewis would get a headache, feel nauseous, and want to curse as soon as he smelled that; he wished he could grab a torch and burn the cheese warehouse to the ground.

But tonight, he didn't even flinch.

It was as if the stench wasn't a stench at all, but rather a symbol of poverty, a symbol that, for the first time in Lewis's thirty years of life, was drifting further and further away from him.

Logically, at this time, he should have been sound asleep in the suite he had booked at the GreenTree Hotel. It was the first time in his life that he had stayed in a luxury room that cost one pound a night, with ironed sheets, a bright fireplace, hot bath water, and a foot mat placed by the staff...

That's practically the highest level of treatment one can receive in life.

For a journalist like him, who usually has to be careful with even the cost of a beer, it was an extravagance that seemed like a scam.

But he didn't stay there.

He insisted on going home.

It wasn't because of frugality, nor was it a sudden change of heart; it was for another reason—he was particular about the type of bed he slept in.

If he sleeps in a hotel tonight, he'll definitely oversleep tomorrow, or be so drowsy that he won't want to get up from the feather pillow.

But tomorrow morning, he was going to a place that could change the course of his life—4 Whitehall Street, Scotland Yard.

He was going to visit Sir Arthur Hastings.

That big shot who was willing to write down his address, hand him his business card, and send all sorts of shocking cases to him with a flick of his finger.

Therefore, even though Lewis was so drunk that he could barely keep his eyes open, he still insisted on going back to his dilapidated rented room with its hard bed and moldy pillow, just like a poor student afraid of missing an exam, so that the alarm clock (actually, the sound of the bells from the cheese carts downstairs at six o'clock) would wake him up on time the next morning.

In order to get home, he managed to snatch a carriage from a group of gentlemen and ladies who had just finished watching the play and were heading home in Covent Garden, paying a high price.

"Number 7 Whitfield Street... fifth floor!"

He was so drunk that his tongue was slurred, and the driver, annoyed by the strong smell of alcohol on him, politely declined, saying, "Excuse me, sir, but I saw that the gentleman over there waved first."

Lewis threw out two shillings.

Two more shillings were thrown out.

He then pulled out his last half shilling.

The driver immediately shut up and helped him into the carriage.

The exorbitant taxi fare was a real blow to Lewis's heart.

To pay for the trip, he had to delete everything he had just written into his little ledger this afternoon: "to buy a new scarf on Regent Street," "to find a secondhand silver pocket watch on Jermyn Street," and "two newspapers for tomorrow morning."

But, it's all worth it.

The carriage swayed along the way, and he almost fell asleep inside, but the thought of being late the next morning and making Sir Arthur wait for him...

Do not!
Lewis was so startled that he felt a jolt, as if a bucket of cold water had been poured over his head.

Giving such a powerful figure even one chance is already a blessing from God; as for a second time...

Don't even think about it!

So he stubbornly refused to sleep.

When they arrived at Whitfield Street, he paid the fare and was practically kicked off the rickshaw by the driver.

The midnight wind blew in his face, making his head spin even more, but the business card with the name "Nobody" was burning hot in his breast pocket, like a hot coal.

Lewis staggered up the five flights of stairs, opened the door, went inside, and then slumped onto the edge of the bed like a rag wrung out by a washerwoman.

The sky outside the window had long since darkened. Through the moonlight, one could see that the pitifully small rented room contained only a bed, a table, a half-burnt candle, and a notebook that was almost overflowing with writing.

The night wind blew through the window frame, making the wooden planks creak.

Lewis lay down on the bed, then sat up, then lay down again, then sat up again.

Can't sleep.

Can't sleep at all.

After all, this kind of thing, this bizarre, dreamlike yet incredibly real thing, is something that just won't leave your mind.

He held the business card in his palm.

He didn't know how many times he had touched it.

The paper was thick and heavy, the ink was clear, and each line of text weighed heavily on his palm and chest, making it hard for him to breathe.

Sir Arthur Hastings
The permanent secretary of the Police Commissioner's Committee, the chairman of the board of directors of the Imperial Publishing Company, and even a non-resident aide-de-camp to the Royal Family, with a close relationship with Her Majesty the Queen...

Lewis grew increasingly delighted and happier as he looked at the book.

He suddenly laughed, a laugh like a drunken fool, but his eyes were wet.

The more agitated he becomes, the more he recalls those unbearable days and nights of the past thirty years.

He was born in a dilapidated seaside fishing village in Kent. His father was a lazy fisherman, and his mother died of a cold. His father was sent to a workhouse by the parish due to alcoholism and debt. Lewis, a boy of about half a year old, should have gone in with him, weaving ropes and twisting threads in those cold stone walls, eating porridge so thin you could see your reflection in it.

However, the parish deacons disliked the overcrowding of the workhouse and felt that it would be better to send a half-grown child to work in London than to let him eat for free.

So he contacted a distant relative who owned a printing shop in London, and Lewis was shoved into a carriage and thrown into London along with an old coat and a bag of oat biscuits.

No one was being merciful; it was just the usual way British parishes operate—they save money wherever possible.

Lewis was assigned to a small attic behind the printing shop. He was responsible for moving paper and washing type every day. He couldn't remember how many times his fingers were cut, but he didn't dare to complain at that time because there were three other children even younger than him in the attic. They didn't even have beds and could only sleep on burlap sacks.

No one cares about their names, and no one remembers where they came from. It's as if they are just a few stray cats thrown into the city, and it doesn't matter whether they live or die.

The printing shop went out of business when he was twelve years old.

The boss absconded with the money before the creditors could arrive, leaving the children to wander the streets.

At that time, Lewis only had half a penny in his pocket.

What can you do with half a penny?
They can't buy hot meals, and they can't afford to rent a bed.

Lewis nearly froze to death that night.

That was the first time he truly realized that he was the least valuable person in the world.

However, fate sometimes likes to play tricks.

He was awakened by the noise of newsboys in the early hours of the next day.

The young man, though not old, was cursing with great gusto, waving a stack of crumpled tabloids: "Breaking news! Breaking news! Foreign Secretary is dead! Breaking news! Lord Castleray, Foreign Secretary, is dead! Suicide scandal! Suicide scandal! All the details for a penny!"

Lewis stared at the newspaper for so long that the newsboy thought he wanted to read a free copy and yelled at him, "Finish it for a penny, don't even think about skipping it!"

Lewis pulled out the only half-penny in his pocket, only to be met with disdain from the young man: "Half-penny? Then you can only listen to me read it!"

After saying that, the boy took the newspaper and read it aloud to him, reading it intermittently, but making the whole thing sound like the Last Judgment.

That was the first time in Lewis's life that he felt the power of news; he realized that the death of a cabinet minister was nothing more than a matter of using larger headlines.

In fact, Lewis was not completely illiterate. He attended school intermittently for a few years in a Sunday school in rural Kent when he was a child. Later, he worked in a printing shop, and his boss forced him to memorize half a spelling book in order to recognize the type.

However, no one had ever told him before that being able to read could actually put food on the table.

After the printing shop went out of business, he wandered the streets for more than half a month, barely making ends meet by carrying bags and running errands for people and reading the news for people in bars.

On one occasion, a dockworker brought a letter, saying he wanted to send it to a newspaper and asked Lewis to take a look.

It was a poorly written accusatory letter, riddled with typos and with the word order completely reversed.

Lewis revised a few sentences according to his own understanding, and added a sentence or two of Sunday school-style moral comments.

A few days later, he saw the letter published in a cheap tabloid. It was exactly the same as his revised version, word for word. The signature, of course, wasn't his; it read—"From a worker who cares about this matter."

The newsboy casually remarked, "The deputy editor said the more of this stuff, the better. Anyone who can write it can copy a paragraph and send it to them, and they might even get a few pennies."

That night, Lewis spent all his money to buy a clean sheet of paper and a pen, and tried to write his first news story—according to Whitfield Street, a drunken coachman crashed his carriage into the window of a bakery…

The handwriting was crooked and the ink was smudged, but the following week, that small news article actually appeared in the corner of an anonymous tabloid.

What followed was a shilling falling out of the delivery slot...

Lewis lay in bed lost in thought, and before he knew it, he had fallen asleep.

He was jolted awake by the piercing sound of a metal bell.

Six o'clock in the morning.

The bell of the cheese cart downstairs rang as loudly as ever, accompanied by the clanging of wooden wheels rolling over the stone pavement, waking up the tenants along the street one by one.

Lewis sat bolt upright, jumped out of bed as if pricked by a needle, and practically tumbled and crawled to the broken table. He picked up the basin containing the tattered soap and rough-edged rag from the corner of the table.

He hurriedly went downstairs, fetched some cold water, and splashed a handful on his face, making his teeth chatter.

Within minutes, Lewis changed into his most presentable outfit, the "drowning narrative" suit. The greatest benefit he gained from wearing it was that he felt a strange sense of pride whenever he put it on.

He took out the business card from his pocket and glanced at it. The few lines of text were still calm and sharp, making one's heart tighten.

Lewis took a deep breath, carefully tucked the business card back into the inner pocket of his coat, then ran down five flights of stairs, rushed out onto the street, and hailed a horse-drawn carriage.

From Whitfield Street, head straight for Soho, then cross Charing Cross, and make your way to Whitehall.

Lewis shivered as he got off the carriage and looked up at the stone building at number 4 Whitehall Street.

It was exactly 7:30 a.m., and the sky still had the characteristic gray-blue hue of early morning.

The entrance to Scotland Yard was deserted, with only one gas lamp still lit.

Lewis dusted himself off, took a deep breath, and mustered his courage to step forward.

The young officer on duty was leaning against his desk, yawning. When he saw someone come in, he habitually looked up and asked, "Who are you looking for?" Lewis straightened his back and replied in a strong voice, "Sir Arthur Hastings."

Upon hearing the name, the officer paused, his pen momentarily still.

He glanced at Lewis up and down, seemingly trying to figure out who this gentleman who had an appointment with Sir Arthur was.

But rules are rules, and he still opened the thick register and dipped it in ink.

"Name?"

"David Lewis."

He tried his best to make his English pronunciation sound less stilted.

Although his hometown of Kent is not a region with a strong accent like York, Lancashire, or Cornwall, the Kent accent, with its drawn-out vowels, lingering tones, and blurred final consonants, still carries a distinct rural flavor for true upper-class gentlemen.

Lewis was often ridiculed when he argued with people: "You can tell from your accent that you're a poor parishioner from the countryside and haven't received a formal education."

But in reality, Lewis's concerns at Scotland Yard were largely unnecessary.

After all, Scotland Yard is different from other departments in Whitehall. It's a melting pot of country bumpkins, and if you work at Scotland Yard without an accent, you'll seem out of place.

The officer quickly jotted down the name, then looked up at Lewis with neither respect nor contempt in his eyes, simply stating routinely, "Sir Arthur hasn't arrived yet. Generally, he handles official business first upon arrival, and reception will have to wait... the earliest it will be is nine o'clock."

Nine o'clock?

A full hour and a half!

Lewis was somewhat annoyed upon hearing this.

He wanted to appear to be very familiar with Sir Arthur in front of the receiving officer, but he never expected that his prior investigation into Arthur's work habits would lead people to believe that he was just one of countless people who wanted to ask Sir Arthur for favors.

Lewis's heart sank, but he quickly forced a smile: "Nine o'clock? I know it's usually nine o'clock, but I thought... he would come early today."

The officer didn't take Lewis's words to heart at all. He continued, "You can go out for a walk and have breakfast, or you can wait in the lounge if you want. I've written your name down, and the Sir will send someone to call you when he's free."

"Thank you, thank you!" Lewis nodded repeatedly, his face ashen, but his legs were already moving out.

He thought he might as well go to the bakery on the corner that was popular with Whitehall civil servants and get something to eat.

But as soon as I stepped out of the door, I heard a heavy thud of horses' hooves on the stone pavement.

Lewis turned around instinctively.

A gentleman dressed in a dark black morning suit and wearing a shiny top hat is getting off the carriage.

He was neatly dressed and had proper manners; he was clearly the kind of gentleman who came from a respectable government office.

The gentleman strode into Scotland Yard and asked politely but urgently, “Excuse me, has Sir Arthur arrived? I have business with him. Do you remember me? I am Henry Blackwell of the Foreign Office.”

Henry Blackwell of the Foreign Office?
Lewis's eyes lit up immediately.

Tsk tsk tsk, officials from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs...

Sir Arthur's circle is so large that you can't even see the ceiling.

The officer on duty maintained the same attitude as before, seemingly neither becoming more friendly nor distant simply because the other party was from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs: "Sir Arthur hasn't arrived yet. Mr. Blackwell, if you're not in a hurry, you can wait in the lounge, or..."

Before the officer could finish speaking, Blackwell was already nodding, his tone carrying the weariness characteristic of someone who had served as Sir Arthur's secretary: "Understood, then I won't bother you any longer."

He just turned to leave.

Just then, the sharp-eyed Lewis swiftly stepped in front of him.

Lewis had a smile on his face, a smile that was brighter than a gaslight at night.

“Mr. Blackwell, is that so?” He respectfully removed his hat. “It is quite a coincidence that I am also here to see Sir Arthur Hastings.”

Blackwell paused, clearly not used to being struck up with by strangers.

Seeing that he didn't speak, Lewis, as if afraid of missing the opportunity, took the initiative to invite him: "Since we both have to wait until nine o'clock, how about... we have breakfast together? I know a bakery nearby, and their bread is often featured in the newspaper."

Blackwell frowned slightly, seemingly trying to figure out who this person was.

However, considering that his future was still in Arthur's hands, he dared not be too disrespectful to this man whose relationship with Arthur was unknown: "Okay... alright."

Lewis's eyes lit up at the suggestion: "Please, Mr. Blackwell! Let me offer you a cup of hot tea!"

Lewis was about to lead Blackwell outside when he suddenly felt the wind direction at the door change.

Immediately following was a chorus of greetings from the front hall.

Good morning, sir!

Good morning, sir!

"Weren't you out on fieldwork yesterday? Why are you here so early today, Ridley?"

Ridley King.

Chief of the Fifth Division of the Police Intelligence Service of the Metropolitan Police of London.

The officers of lower rank than him stood up, saluted him, and greeted him.

Meanwhile, the veteran police officers of his rank, who had seen it all, started making fun of him.

"Redley, you don't look well. What case yesterday got you like this?"

"Judging by the way he walks, he definitely didn't go to the crime scene. He most likely got scolded by Rowan or Chief Minister Maine."

"You didn't get into another argument with those guys from the City Police Department, did you?"

Perhaps because of his morning grumpiness, or perhaps because of some other unpleasant thing, Ridley didn't even feel like arguing with them, and only said one thing: "Stop talking nonsense."

Then, without even glancing at them, he walked straight to the desk and asked, "Has Sir Arthur arrived?"

The officer on duty looked like he'd seen a ghost today. He stood up and said, "Report! Sir Arthur hasn't arrived yet."

Ridley's jaw tightened even more, as if he wanted to explode in anger, but he was worried that getting angry now would make people think he had a problem with Arthur, so he could only hold back: "I'll go have breakfast first. When Sir Arthur arrives, send someone to my office to let me know."

After saying that, Ridley turned and walked toward the door.

His pace was always swift, with an attitude of "whoever tries to stop me is doomed."

And to be honest, at this time of day, there really weren't many guys in Scotland Yard who would dare to stop him.

However, Lewis didn't see it that way. Like a cat that had smelled blood, he immediately swooped in again.

“Mr. Kim… Mr. Kim!” He quickly took off his hat and extended an invitation to Ridley: “What a coincidence, we… we were just about to go have breakfast too!”

Blackwell intended to maintain a gentlemanly demeanor as a foreign official, but Lewis half-pushed and half-pulled him forward.

Ridley stopped.

He tilted his head and glanced at Lewis with a subtle, impatient look that seemed to say, "Why am I being stopped by a stranger?"

However, when he saw Blackwell next to Lewis, Ridley, who knew the Foreign Office employee, ultimately held back.

"Who are you?" Ridley's tone was indifferent, but not rude; it was merely a perfunctory inquiry.

Lewis immediately straightened his back: "David Lewis, sir! I also have an appointment with Sir Arthur today."

The word "appointment" is ambiguous, but that's exactly the effect Lewis wanted to create.

It wasn't exactly lying, just a penny reporter's specialty—misleading.

He wanted others to think he belonged to some secret circle of Sir Arthur Hastings.

Ridley clearly also noticed the word "appointment".

The scrutiny in his eyes sharpened for a moment, but quickly faded, not because he believed it, but because it didn't matter.

"Hmm." He nodded, indicating that he understood, but showed no interest whatsoever.

Lewis, however, took this as some kind of approval and quickly continued, "Since Mr. Kim is also going for breakfast, how about... we go together? The bakery nearby has a great reputation among the Whitehall civil servants, and their tea is also..."

Ridley raised his hand as if pressing down on the air; the movement was brief and swift, yet colder and sharper than a complete rejection.

"No need, I eat very quickly, it's not appropriate for me."

Ridley's raised hand remained suspended in mid-air, as if he were about to take another step forward.

at this time……

Lewis's pupils suddenly contracted.

A feeling that was extremely familiar, yet I couldn't quite place where I'd seen it before, suddenly popped into my head.

He stared intently at Ridley's profile, at the sharp lines of his jaw, the icy gaze, the air about him that seemed to want to interrogate the very fabric of his being...

A thought exploded in his mind...

"Ah...you...you..."

Ridley had already taken half a step, his long coat swaying gently at his knees.

Just as he was about to step out of Scotland Yard, Lewis suddenly blurted out, "Aren't you... the officer who led the raid on Huang Chunju Street last time? I... I remember you."

The air in the hall seemed to have been sucked out instantly.

Ridley stopped in his tracks.

His entire body remained still, as if nailed to the floor.

Then, he slowly turned his head.

"You...remember me?"

(End of this chapter)