The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1561: Chapter 8: The Executive Deputy God of Scotland Yard

The morning in London was shrouded in clouds, the air filled with damp mist, and the streets carried the scent of soil leftover from a rainy night.

The building of Scotland Yard stood quietly at the street corner, like a sleeping beast waiting to awaken with the sunrise.

In the depths of this building, along the corridor of the third-floor side hall, Superintendent Laidley King casually swung his police cap in hand, with his uniform jacket draped over his shoulders, and hummed a tune he heard last night at the tavern.

If Chief Charles Rowan or Deputy Chief Richard Mayne were to see him like this, they certainly couldn’t believe that this roguish-looking man was the usually serious and upright head of the London Police Intelligence Bureau’s Section Five, Laidley King.

But indeed, this was Laidley when he wasn’t in the presence of his superiors.

Laidley, this slippery eel, had been mingling at Scotland Yard for years and had long mastered the art of maneuvering through intrigue and scheming. A smiling face could serve him well in any situation; however, in his office, on the territory of Section Five, he was the only king.

Laidley King took out his key, expertly unlocked the door, and stepped into his office.

However, when his gaze fell upon his desk, his steps abruptly halted, and the smile on his face instantly froze.

On his chair, the one he regarded as the ”irrevocable Iron Throne,” sat a person!

No, that person wasn’t just sitting; he even had his legs crossed, comfortably leaning against the chairback quilted by his wife’s own hands.

Held between his long fingers was a burning cigar, from which pale blue smoke curled upwards, casting a hazy outline against the morning’s dim light.

The air within the office suddenly became stagnant.

Laidley’s gaze turned cold, his brow furrowed, his heart tightened, and a surge of anger began to rise unchecked within his chest.

This office has always had only one owner, and that was him, Laidley King!

This chair, aside from him, the true king of Section Five, was off-limits to anyone!

”Damn it!” Laidley’s voice exploded in the room like a thunderclap, carrying unabashed anger: ”Where did this scoundrel come from? Daring to sit in my chair? Get up and stand straight!”

Saying so, he stepped forward, his expression livid, unbuckling his police knife and striking its sheath heavily on the floor.

He seemed ready to rush forward and give a sound thrashing to whoever dared offend his authority.

Yet, the figure in the chair remained utterly still, seemingly unaffected by Laidley’s outburst.

That person merely raised his hand slowly, bringing the cigar to his lips, inhaling deeply before gently exhaling a puff of white smoke.

That steady and languid aura created a subtle contrast to the tense atmosphere in the office, producing a comical effect.

Laidley’s brow knitted tighter and tighter, this blatant disregard inflating his anger even more.

This damn fellow! How dare he act so brazenly in his office?

He suddenly reached out, ready to grasp the person’s shoulder and yank them out of his chair.

However, just as his fingertips were about to touch that shoulder, the person finally moved.

The figure slowly turned around.

A cold and familiar face appeared before Laidley, with eyes deep and sharp like blades, carrying a faint hint of mockery, while a subtle, enigmatic smile played on his lips.

Laidley’s breath caught, his fiery anger replaced by shock, his whole body seeming frozen in place.

He was stunned, as though a bucket of cold water had been poured over him, dousing all his anger in an instant.

”Laidley, morning.”

It’s him!

The man who was once the most dazzling, the most formidable figure at Scotland Yard!

The founder of the London Police Intelligence Bureau, the Göttingen University Supervisor and National Special Representative, Cultural Counsellor of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland to Russia, the Deputy God walking the grounds of Scotland Yard, Sir Arthur Hastings!

That man sat calmly in his chair, looking down at him, like a lion having just returned to its territory to inspect, quietly surveying those who hadn’t yet grasped their identity.

Laidley swallowed, his mouth opened, yet no sound came out.

But the very next second, his expression altered dramatically.

His fury transformed instantly into respect, shock quickly shifted to a fawning smile, all previous hostility vanished into thin air, replaced by a glowing exuberance.

”Oh my God... Sir!” Laidley stiffened his back and saluted with an impeccably perfect posture that could be inscribed into internal training manuals. His overly bright smile beamed with flattery and surprise: ”You... you’re back? Why didn’t you notify me earlier, so I could prepare to welcome you!”

As he spoke, he swiftly turned, striding towards the corner of the office, and opened the cabinet where he usually kept his cherished spirits, deftly fetching a bottle of top-quality whiskey he had stored away years ago, moving with such practiced ease that it seemed as if his earlier rage had never existed.

”How can there be no drink upon your return?” Laidley beamed widely, expertly popping open the cork while preparing to pour the drink with enthusiasm.