The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 784: Chapter 370: The Military Flag of Britain

The ceiling of Scotland Yard’s grand hall was lofty, with excellent lighting, and the light that streamed through the ornate glass skylights cast mottled shadows on the ancient wooden floor.

At the end of the hallway, perhaps, stood a majestic staircase, leading passersby up and down between the various office floors, interrogation rooms, and archives.

Along both sides of the corridor, several robust, pristine marble columns rose, bearing the weight of the years. Their surfaces were polished smooth and steady, each carving seemingly inscribing tales of the past.

This building, commenced in the 15th century, had witnessed the entry of James VI of Scotland into England, observed the fierce battles between Cromwell’s New Model Army and the Royalists, and had also seen the 1665 London Plague and the Great Fire, which in 1666 burned for four days and nights, destroying 87 churches, 44 company buildings, and 13,000 residential homes.

And as history slowly churned forward, it would continue to witness similar events unfolding here, time and again.

The air was thick with the scent of ink and aged paper, mixed with a hint of wooden furniture and the aged aroma of burning tobacco.

Occasionally, hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor—these were Scotland Yard’s detectives from the Criminal Investigation Department and staff members responsible for delivering domestic security intelligence, leaving behind vivid scenes of tense and orderly work.

At the second-floor railing of the hall, a young officer leaned on the banister, overlooking the bustling scene below. His right hand, clad in white gloves, rested on a court sword bestowed by the King, and in his left, he held a pipe, his gaze between his eyes seemingly out of focus, as though lost in thought.

The usual hubbub of Scotland Yard was absent today, save for the hustle of footsteps; Arthur’s ears weren’t assaulted by any excess noise.

Knowing glances were exchanged, as no one wished to speak more than necessary. The tense atmosphere spreading from the upper echelons of Britain had fermented over several days and finally permeated here.

In such moments, even the most courageous men felt ungrounded, all wishing someone would stand up and say something—even if it were just mindless prattle, at least those words might bring some comfort to the ears.

Not only did the officers hesitate to engage with Arthur, but even those sergeants and assistant commissioners who were of a similar rank as him preferred to keep their distance.

“Metropolitan Police Manual,” the first rule: police should not hold any political stance, nor let personal likes and dislikes influence law enforcement.

But, though that was the policy on paper, once caught in the whirlpool of a well-established system, who could really ensure they kept their own counsel?

Over ninety percent of senior officers at Scotland Yard had retired from the Army, and that alone spoke volumes about their political inclinations.

Unfortunately, Arthur was the exception to that ninety percent.

Worse still, the selection of Britain’s new Prime Minister was pending, and naturally, the ministerial positions were empty.

At such times, each department was virtually waging its own battle. Apart from routine administrative tasks, one should hardly expect support or assistance from other departments.

Firstly, everyone feared taking on responsibility.

Secondly, if one misaligned themselves in such times, they would surely be in trouble once the new Cabinet members were announced.

No controversial statements, no radical actions. It was better to do nothing than to make mistakes; that was the mindset most people had at the moment.

However, Arthur obviously didn’t think so, having made commitments both to the Duke of Wellington and to Mr. Bentham.

Whether to people or to the Devil, he seldom made promises.

But once he had made a choice, he would absolutely fulfill his prior agreements to the letter.

Arthur looked up and saw two familiar figures entering the hall.

His police secretary, Mr. Louis Bonaparte, and the head of the Eighth Ghost Team at the Police Intelligence Department, sharpshooter Thomas Plunkett.

Arthur casually removed his hat and waved at them. The two quickly understood and followed him up the stairs to his office.

As the door closed behind them, Plunkett hardly settled into his chair when Arthur began to speak.

“Thomas, I apologize. I should have provided you and your brothers more training time, but things don’t always go as we expect. As you see, London is fraught with danger, and this is exactly what we, as police, wish to avoid.”

Plunkett seemed prepared for Arthur’s words, seasoned as he was by numerous battles. Familiarity with killing did not mean he indiscriminately shot anyone; he had his own concerns and limits.

After a moment of silence, Plunkett suddenly spoke, “Sir, I appreciate you and am very grateful for the promotion to my current position, which gave me higher rank and a respectable salary. I’m willing to do anything for you, but there’s just one thing I must declare beforehand.”

Arthur poured a cup of tea, “Yes, Thomas, go ahead. I’m listening.”

Plunkett swallowed, glanced at Louis beside him, and couldn’t help but stand up and salute Arthur, “Sir! I’m sorry to say that we, who retired from the 95th Regiment, will never shoot at an old man.”