The Shadow of Great Britain

384: Chapter 228: The Brit’s Deadly Game (5K) 384: Chapter 228: The Brit’s Deadly Game (5K) Outside Whitehall, the street bustled with carriages and horses.

Arthur stepped out of the coffeehouse, followed closely by Bernie Harrison, who looked like a defeated rooster.

“Mr.

Hastings, what do you think of the proposal I just made…”

Arthur tucked the document into his coat and said, “Mr.

Harrison, as I’ve just said, though I personally would like to resolve things with you, it’s not up to me.

Your issue with Scotland Yard has to be brought up with Chief Rowan.

As for the document you just gave me, I need to carefully consider how to properly hand it over on your behalf.”

“Hand it over?” Harrison said, astonished, “Aren’t you interested in the Polish issue?

If not, why publish those articles in the ‘British’?”

Upon hearing this, Arthur finally understood why Harrison had come to him with the document.

He must have pegged Arthur as some sort of freedom fighter tirelessly striving for Polish independence, similar to Lord Byron who had gone to fight against Ottoman Turkey for Greece’s independence.

After all, such men were not uncommon during the grand 19th century, and this small island of Britain had always been particularly prolific in producing them.

However, it was quite clear that Harrison had mistaken his man.

Arthur removed his hat and brushed off the ash on its brim: “Mr.

Harrison, I am a policeman at Scotland Yard.

While I may just pass as an intellectual, an intellectual who has climbed to this position at Scotland Yard should have been enough for you to see through to my true nature, shouldn’t it?

Singing praises for a revolution is a job for poets.

As a policeman, my job is to quietly watch them from the shadows.

As much as I sympathize with the plight of the Polish people and am willing to shed a tear or two for their condition, what good would that do for them?

I apologize for my shortsightedness.

The furthest I can see is just to the East End of London.

The document you’ve given me is not as valuable as you think.

Maybe if Sir Peel is willing to accept it, it could help improve his dreadful impression of you.

As for any favors from me, please remember, you still owe me one.”

With that, Arthur gently patted Harrison’s shoulder and whispered in his ear, “Don’t think about running.

You won’t escape the eyes of Scotland Yard.

Mr.

Harrison, relax at home with a book or the newspaper; I’ll contact you when I need you.

I’ve heard from Mr.

Riddle that your company’s cosmetics are very well made, with a clever use of arsenic.”

Hearing this, Harrison went pale, trembling all over, his forehead dripping with sweat.

After a while, he managed to take off his hat and force a smile: “Then, until we meet again, Mr.

Hastings.

If you can help with the matter of the MP, I’m willing to offer a reasonable reward.

Three thousand pounds in a bank draft, be it from Rothschild Bank, Barings Bank, or the Bank of England, whichever is convenient for you.

That’s all I ask, and I do hope you’ll consider it.”

After finishing his speech, Harrison stiffly climbed into the carriage.

Somehow, he always felt as if he had been marked by a carrion-eating vulture whenever he spoke with this young man.

Those faintly red glinting eyes always made him feel as though his neck was already in a noose, and his life could be taken with a single word.

Leaning back in the carriage seat, it was only then that Harrison realized his shirt was drenched with sweat, sticking uncomfortably to his skin.

As the carriage started with a shake, he couldn’t help but curse under his breath, “Arthur Hastings, the finest policeman in all of Great Britain, the renowned pianist of London, the Electromagnetism madman of the Royal Society, is this all there is to him?”

Arthur watched as his carriage disappeared around the corner, taking a cigar from his case and lighting it: “Three thousand pounds…”

Agares leaned against the lamppost, grinning and squinting, “Oh, Arthur, why not think it over?

That money is nearly enough for three Freds.

Besides, although you’ve got a bit of a fortune now, all your assets have turned into shares of toll bridge companies on the stock exchange and parts of the ‘British.’ With these three thousand pounds, we could properly hire a few servants and get some cases of gold from Ruscelluna.

Oh, honestly, ever since I tasted that bottle from Wellington, I can’t find the taste in other wines.”

Arthur exhaled a ring of smoke: “Buying a few bottles of Ruscelluna family’s products is one thing, but Agares, to specifically ask for their d’Yquem brand is a bit too much.

Can’t you consider something slightly less, like Guiraud or Filhot?

They are also managed by the Ruscelluna family and come from the Sauternes region in France; the difference couldn’t be that great, could it?”

The Red Devil retorted with disdain: “How can they be the same?

First off, the price is different.

Secondly, the bottle given by Wellington was of the finest quality, made in 1815.

One sip is not only an encounter with the unique aroma of a noble rot wine, but there seems to be a whiff of the gunpowder from Waterloo as well.

How could they be the same?

Yet, such exquisite wine was wasted by that Jew; Arthur, what do you have to say for yourself now?”