The Shadow of Great Britain

214: Chapter 145: The Gentleman Who Escaped from the Asylum 214: Chapter 145: The Gentleman Who Escaped from the Asylum In Wheatstone’s music store, Arthur looked at the two phonographs on the counter and doffed his hat to Wheatstone in greeting.

“Thank you for your cooperation, good citizen.”

Wheatstone simply propped one hand on the counter and covered his forehead with the other, “I hope you won’t have another opportunity to salute me in the future.”

Arthur was not upset by Wheatstone’s rudeness; instead, he responded quite calmly, “On that point, I think you might be inconsiderate.

I believe we’ll meet again soon, if not at the Royal Society, then right here in the music store.”

“Fine, fine,” Wheatstone waved his hand dismissively, “So, Mr.

Hastings, now that you’ve got the phonographs, what about the gun loss issue?”

“Gun loss?” Arthur raised his head slightly as if struggling to recall.

Wheatstone looked at him suspiciously, “You’re not thinking of going back on your word, are you?”

Arthur simply said calmly, “I am unaware of how you came to know about the loss of firearms at Scotland Yard.

But let me be straightforward, Scotland Yard has a very strict internal management protocol and each of our officers is quite meticulous in managing their firearms.

Thus, it’s absolutely impossible for such an incident as losing a gun to occur.”

At this, Wheatstone’s mouth hung open for a while without closing, “How on earth did you manage that?”

“What are you referring to?”

Wheatstone said, gesturing, “I mean that thing…

that ability to tell barefaced lies.”

Arthur spoke as if he had amnesia, “Mr.

Wheatstone, your words make no sense.

I estimate that you must be ill, do you need me to drop you at Bethlem Royal Hospital on my way back?

You might not know, but I am a very caring person.”

At these words, sweat began to form on Wheatstone’s forehead.

Every Londoner knew what Bethlem Royal Hospital was for, a place that doesn’t treat anything but mental illnesses.

He waved his hands hastily, “No, no, I just didn’t sleep well last night and I’m a bit nervous, nothing serious.

I won’t trouble you with my health, Mr.

Hastings.

Safe travels, I won’t be seeing you out.”

Arthur nodded, “Then Mr.

Wheatstone, please look after yourself, we may need you in the future.”

Having said this, Arthur turned to leave but saw a young man standing outside the door with an umbrella in hand.

That young man’s appearance seemed somewhat familiar.

But before Arthur could remember who he was, the man had already pushed open the door of the music store and barged in.

“You!

I’ve finally caught you!

I knew you would come back!

Sigma, you won’t escape from my grasp today!”

“Sigma?” Arthur studied the man’s face for a moment before he remembered who he was.

This was none other than William Thackeray, the Cambridge student who had been irritated by Eld in the music store.

And the so-called Sigma, was it Xu Zhimo?

However, it wasn’t entirely his fault for mispronouncing Xu Zhimo’s name like that, since such pronunciation would indeed be tricky for a genuine British gentleman.

Had it been a less busy time, Arthur might have stopped to chat with the man, but presently he clearly had no such leisure.

Arthur spoke, “Sir, you might have mistaken me for someone else.

I am neither σ (Sigma) nor α (Alpha), I have no relation to those Greek letters, and at the same time, I’m not interested in using σ to calculate averages or α to determine angles.

So now, if you would please step aside, I’ve got some urgent matters to attend to.”

However, Thackeray was not to be dissuaded; the arrogant young man kept his gaze fixed on Arthur, and a look of unwillingness appeared on his haughty face.

“You…

Do you think I want to look for you?

Damn it!

How should I tell you this!

Maybe I shouldn’t have believed you and your impertinent friend’s nonsense.

After I got back to school, I searched all the literary societies, but none of them had someone named Sigma, and not even in past student records could I find such a strange name.”

Arthur consoled him, “It’s okay, it’s normal not to find it, it’s not your fault.

If you had found it, I’d have to start doubting the reality of the world.”

Upon hearing this, Thackeray simply clenched his fists.

After holding back for a while, he turned red and asked, “So, you’ve been deceiving me from the start?

That poem, it’s actually your work?”

“No, no, no.” Arthur was always honest in these matters, “I merely borrowed it, or you could call it plagiarism, or even theft if you will, whichever you prefer.

You’re happy with that, aren’t you?

Thackeray, I know you dislike my friend, which naturally extends to disliking me as well.

That’s fine, I understand, it’s perfectly natural.

But now that I’ve admitted to plagiarism, you should be satisfied, right?

If so, please excuse me, I’m really in a hurry.”

But rather than calming down, Thackeray felt even more slighted by Arthur’s words.

This young man with a strong sense of self-respect trembled and pursed his lips, “You are scorning me!

Do you think I would embezzle the honor that rightfully belongs to you?

Oh, I’m sorry, Mr.

Sigma, but you are mistaken.

Although I wish to become famous, I would never do so by staining my own honor!”

Arthur was left utterly confused by his incomprehensible tirade.

Even Wheatstone, the social anxiety sufferer behind the counter, couldn’t help but comment, “Mr.

Hastings, it appears that we have a patient here who is more in need of Bethlem Royal Hospital than I am.”

Perplexed, Arthur asked, “Mr.

Thackeray, what exactly are you talking about?”

“What am I talking about?”

It was then that Thackeray realized his lapse in composure, he took a deep breath, attempting to calm his emotions, “Mr.

Sigma, I must first apologize to you.

In a bid to outdo you, I submitted your poem ‘Saying Goodbye to Cambridge Again’ to this year’s poetry competition at Cambridge University without your permission.

At the same time, I must also congratulate you, for your work won first place in the internal evaluation and successfully claimed the Chancellor’s Gold Medal.

Although I don’t understand why that poem is better than mine, you have won, and your mastery in poetry truly surpasses mine.

Maybe your friend was right, I’m indeed not suited for a career in literature.

I can neither catch up with Alfred, nor keep up with you.”

Upon hearing this, Arthur felt his scalp tingle and, scratching his head, he asked, “Wait, you’re saying ‘Saying Goodbye to Cambridge Again’ won the gold medal?

Although I think that poem is quite good, if compared with Mr.

Tennyson, especially with ‘Timbuktu’, it’s still lacking.”

The more Thackeray listened, the more stifled he felt, “I’m glad you appreciate Alfred’s talents, but his ‘Timbuktu’ was last year’s gold medal work.

As for this year, Alfred did not participate, so your medal is truly deserved.

To be frank, the reason I was in such a hurry to find you was to invite you to the award ceremony hosted by Cambridge next month.

After all, I can’t go on stage and receive your honor.”

“Go to Cambridge to receive the award?” Arthur held his forehead and said, “You might as well kill me.

If my classmates find out about this, I’m afraid I won’t be able to mix in alumni circles anymore.”

Hearing this, Thackeray asked in surprise, “Are you by any chance an Oxford graduate?”

Frowning, Arthur responded, “Mr.

Thackeray, though I do respect you, I must insist that you retract your personal attack on my life!”

“Ah…

So you have no connection with Oxford.” Relieved, Thackeray placed his hand over his chest, “Then it’s much easier…

Fortunately, you’re not an Oxford graduate.

If the school knew I let someone from Oxford win the poetry competition’s first prize, even if I wasn’t expelled, I’d be ostracized by my classmates for quite a while.”

“That’s right, I have nothing to do with Oxford,” Arthur stated emphatically, “It’s that friend of mine who is the true old Oxonian.”

Thackeray was momentarily taken aback, recalling their previous encounter; he suddenly felt a sense of relief and muttered, “That explains it…

he indeed has that distinctive, indelible Oxonian air about him.”

As he was pondering over Arthur’s words, Thackeray suddenly realized that Arthur, who had just been before him, had now vanished without a trace.

He hurriedly looked around, but Arthur was nowhere to be seen inside the store.

“This…”

Thackeray quickly asked Wheatstone, “Sir, where did the gentleman who was just standing here go?”

Wheatstone replied with a smirk, “He left through the back door.”

“What?!”

In his urgency, Thackeray thought to give chase but before he could step out the door, he saw a black horse-drawn carriage speed by outside the window, with Arthur sitting inside, doffing his hat in farewell through the window, “Till we meet again, Mr.

Thackeray.

Please send my regards to your friend, Alfred Tennyson.”

The carriage sped away, its wheels kicking up splashes of mud, disappearing into the end of the central street under Thackeray’s gaze.

Realizing he would never be able to catch up, Thackeray stood in the store, anxiously pacing in circles.

Suddenly, as if struck by a thought, he strode purposefully over to Wheatstone.

“Excuse me, do you happen to know the name of the gentleman who was just here?

He must have come to order an instrument from you.

Do you have his home address or even a work address?”

Considering Arthur’s recent behavior toward him and the ingenuous young man before him, Wheatstone replied maliciously, “Sir, don’t listen to that gentleman’s nonsense; he goes by Sigma.

Mr.

Arthur Sigma, his home address is at the Bethlem Royal Hospital on Liverpool Street in the Financial City.”

Though Thackeray was not an old-timer of London, he had still heard of this place.

He skeptically asked, “Bethlem Royal Hospital?

Isn’t that where they keep the mentally ill?”

Wheatstone stared intently into Thackeray’s eyes, patting him gently on the shoulder, “Sir, I heard you mention in your conversation that you are a Cambridge student who loves literature.

Then you should know, it’s quite normal for poets to have a bit of mental illness.

If Mr.

Sigma can write a poem that wins a gold medal and he doesn’t have some kind of mental illness, I’d say that is virtually impossible.”