The Shadow of Great Britain

158: Chapter 115 The King’s Speech (Combined) 158: Chapter 115 The King’s Speech (Combined) In the midst of a downpour, a thick wall of water formed, cutting off the connections between people, so much so that companions less than a meter apart could not touch each other’s hearts.

Beneath the Wellington Triumphal Arch rested London’s smallest police station, so tiny it was often the butt of jokes.

Yet today, it boasted the most substantial police force of the Greater London Police Department.

More than 300 officers had been temporarily conscripted from nearby areas and assembled here.

The mud-caked roads featured barricades piled one atop another, while several carriages remained parked under the arch—these were weapons on loan from the Tower of London’s armory, arranged by Officer Tony following Arthur’s instructions; shields bearing traces of rust.

The mud mixed with rain on the surface of the shields revealed that these antiques must have been stored for some time—they might have been made in the 16th or 17th century, during medieval times, or even the Renaissance.

No one could be certain of their true age; perhaps only the lineage of ravens bred and multiplied in the Tower of London knew their detailed origins.

With the help of several officers, Arthur stepped on the roof of the carriage and leaped onto the platform, hastily constructed from wooden boxes that morning.

Behind him loomed Wellington Arch, nearly fifty meters tall.

Above the arch, a majestic statue of the Duke of Wellington on horseback stood against the sky, its dark and somber presence a heavy weight amidst the gloomy clouds.

Rainwater repeatedly washed over the bronze statue, torrential like a waterfall, splashing onto Arthur’s shoulders, but failing to shake him in the slightest, not because he could withstand the force of the rain, but because he saw signs of wavering in the eyes of many officers below.

He knew they were reluctant to undertake this task; perhaps to them, patrolling in the pouring rain would have been preferable to this.

But in such a critical moment, someone had to take a stand.

Scotland Yard had to be fully prepared for its first security suppression task since its establishment.

Arthur’s gaze swept over the eyes of everyone present, his own eyes slightly reddened, uncertain if it was due to Agares or the rain seeping in.

The shadow of the Red Devil danced behind him as Arthur’s penetrating voice cut through the veil of rain, vibrating the eardrums of every officer present, willing or not.

This deafening voice, stirring their souls, poured directly into their ears.

“My colleagues, every upright officer of Scotland Yard, I am pleased to see you here.

Braving the heavy rain, undaunted by the muddied roads, by the arduous tasks, by the distant journey, you have been drawn from various jurisdictions to this place.”

“With the courage and responsible attitude you have always shown, you have once again proven why the Greater London Police Department deserves the public’s trust, merits affirmation by the Cabinet and Parliament, and is worthy of every shilling you earn.”

“I, Arthur Hastings, stand before you today just as you see me: a pair of white gloves, a tailcoat uniform, without a police baton or flintlock pistol, carrying only a Civilization Cane.”

“I’m not ordering you as the superintendent of Scotland Yard for East London, but as a former beat cop who once worked the front line for a year.

I would like to talk to you about our past, present, and future issues—those we have already encountered or are about to face!”

With a bellow from Arthur, he clenched his fist and threw a vehement punch into the air, his strong arm piercing the curtain of rain, and the thudding sound seemed to splinter the very air itself.

Suddenly, a clap of thunder split the gloomy skies of London, and all was plunged into darkness, save for the lightning-illuminated figure of the Duke of Wellington’s statue and the glowing red eyes under the shadow of the statue.

Arthur’s silhouette appeared to merge with that of the Duke of Wellington; it seemed that the man standing under the Triumphal Arch was not Scotland Yard Superintendent Arthur Hastings, but the gallant Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, charging across the fields of Waterloo.

The few retired Army superintendents who had followed Arthur got goosebumps and couldn’t help uttering profanities—not as insults, but as an expression of their emotions.

“Holy Shit!”

Every officer present took a deep breath, their panicked hearts gradually calming.

Their gazes were fixed on Arthur, and they had never been so attentive, even when praying in church.

Despite the torrential rain and sound of water rushing, they could no longer hear those distractions; all they could hear were their own heartbeats and Arthur’s voice contending with the thunder.

“We’re not any thugs or accomplices; we’re just a group of former cobblers, blacksmiths, carpenters, coachmen, thatched roofers, fitters, construction workers, bakers, unemployed laborers, and landless farmers!”

“We come from all over the country, from all walks of life.

Among us are English, Scots, Welsh, and Irish, but at the end of the day, we are all citizens and public of Great Britain!”

“The words in the ‘Police Ordinance’ aren’t bloody nonsense: ‘The police are the public, and the public are the police.’ This statement isn’t meant to give you pie in the sky or to make the public let down their guard around us!”