The Shadow of Great Britain

32: Chapter 29 St Giles Church 32: Chapter 29 St Giles Church The twilight sun set, and the stars had just appeared in the sky that was still a pale blue, not yet turned dark.

Arthur and Eld stood at the entrance of the Royal Theater on Drury Lane in West London, surrounded by elegantly dressed upper-class gentlemen and ladies of distinction.

The constant flow of carriages blocked the road so firmly that Arthur and Eld were stuck amid the wide skirts of charming ladies, the air permeated with the sting of perfume.

Back to back, they shifted outward little by little, advancing two steps and retreating one, occasionally turning their heads to check their surroundings to avoid being pushed back by the insane crowd, resembling dancers performing the Flamenco.

Their odd behavior, combined with their ordinary attire, occasionally drew disdainful looks from the surrounding servants.

Arthur cursed, “Eld, what’s with today?

Was it always this congested here before?”

Eld was also frustrated, his feet screeched from the ladies’ high heels.

“Damn it!

I know the tickets for the Royal Theater are always hard to snag, but does it have to be like this?

There must be some famous artist performing today, look at this crowd, they’re practically pouring in like mad!”

Arthur sighed, “We shouldn’t have come to see a play, and if we did, we shouldn’t have taken this route.

If I’d known it would be like this, I should have just gone home after dinner at the dock.”

Eld retorted, “It’s not like I planned this.

Damn!

Today’s a bust.

With the Royal Theater jammed like this, those who couldn’t get tickets surely won’t just head home; they’ll likely try their luck at other theaters in the West District.

Our trip today was in vain.”

Eld had barely finished speaking when Arthur, lifting his hand, pointed at the Royal Theater’s entrance billboard and exclaimed.

“Damn it, Eld!

I know why it’s so congested today!

Damn, it’s that violin master from Apennines, Niccolo Paganini, performing at the Royal Theater today!”

“I don’t care who he is!

Even if he were the Tsar Nicholas Pavlovich of Russia, he’d still have to let me out today!”

Usually at this time, Agares would pop up to scoff a few times.

But today, he stood eagerly on Arthur’s head, gazing into the Royal Theater’s hall.

“Hey, Arthur!

Look at those hands that can play the violin, how about you get them for me?”

Arthur, exacerbated by the crowding, retorted, “I might as well get you a couple of pig knuckles!”

Eld, confused by the noisy environment yelled, “Arthur, what did you just say?”

Agares disdainfully glanced at both of them, “You two don’t appreciate music, this is art.

Look at yourself, so crude, you’re almost as bad as Baal.

Arthur, you just got paid a few days ago, isn’t the Police Superintendent’s weekly salary one pound and fifteen shillings?

Plus, with the refund from your ship ticket, you should be able to afford a ticket to the Royal Theater now, right?

Go buy me one.”

Arthur, annoyed, responded, “You wish!

The usual tickets for the Royal Theater can sell for three to five pounds, and tonight, with a master like Paganini performing a solo, I’d probably have to save up for half a year just to afford one.”

Upon hearing this, Agares couldn’t help but shake his head regretfully, “That’s too bad, missing this one, who knows when there will be another chance.”

It took Arthur and Eld a great deal of effort, but they finally squeezed out of the surging crowd.

Standing in the open space, they bent over, hands on their knees, panting uncontrollably.

Eld said with relief, “I thought I was going to get trampled to death by them.”

Once Arthur caught his breath, he straightened up, hands on hips, and said, “Let’s call it a day.

I’m going home.”

Eld, too, lost his interest and waved goodbye, “Take care, no need to see you out.

Maybe next time, I’ll take you to a play again.”

After waving goodbye, Arthur continued down the street, heading east.

It must be said that tonight, due to Paganini’s performance, the nearby theaters were also doing quite well.

To maintain order at the scene, even Scotland Yard had deployed a considerable number of officers with civilization canes patrolling the area.

Beyond that, there were also numerous sheriff teams, employed by the wealthy from the West District, patrolling around.

The houses here were clean and imposing, the nights brightly lit, the roads wide and tidy, the theaters bustling with noise, and everything seemed well-organized.

Here, you rarely saw dirty children, nor could you find pickpockets with shifty eyes, not even rats unbound by human restraints commonly visited this place.

Gazing at everything in front of him, Arthur couldn’t help but mutter with his pipe in mouth, “If only the Greenwich District were the same as this.”

He strolled joyously through the streets of the West District, feeling that the future was full of hope.

But as he prepared to cross Oxford Street, he suddenly stopped in his tracks.

In front of him lay the only dark island in the brightly lit West District of London.

Everywhere else in the West District was as bright as day, only the darkness before him declared that night had fallen.

It was St Giles Church, like a mold spot on an apple, seeping into the marrow of the West District of London, reminding the wealthy residing here that poverty still existed in the world.

The narrow, muddy streets were filled with the stench of feces and urine, the already cramped space crammed with mazelike arrangements of rudimentary but tall houses.

This place had once been the luxurious residence of those who possessed wealth; from the carvings and façade decorations on many house exteriors, one could still discern its former glory.

But now, this place was simply a dwelling for the homeless, the wandering on the streets, and the unfortunate souls steeped in evil.

The ancient stonework, covered in dust and mud, created a peculiar sense of eeriness with the surrounding environment.

Some walls had already collapsed halfway but had been patched up with random stones and old newspapers filling the gaps.

The gables that hailed from the late medieval era were so broken down they were difficult to recognize, their surfaces made wet and stained by London’s severe weather and toxic industrial emissions.

Through the wide-open doors, one could faintly see the dark, unlit staircase inside, its plastered walls covered in black palm prints everywhere, the huge handrails and carved balustrades missing large parts, which squeaked eerily with the wind.

And by the light cast from the swaying oil lamps hanging in the staircase corridor, one could see a filthy drunk lying on the ground, wearing a torn felt hat, with blood on his head, and hugging a wine bottle in deep sleep—a clear sign that he had just fallen down the stairs not long ago.

Arthur, looking at everything before him, was reminded of East End of London where he worked.

Under the dim and murky night sky of St Giles Church, Arthur’s face was completely obscured, only the red glow of his pipe flickering in the pitch-dark surroundings could be seen.

The red glow lingered for a while, and as a cloud of thick smoke dispersed, he finally made up his mind to leave.

But before he could take a step, he heard curses and the sound of beating near his ear.

“Damn you, hand over your wallet!”