The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1718: Chapter 68: Different Politicians, Different Hamlets

The carriage jolted violently, tilting to one side, with the axle and beam breaking with a cracking sound.

Disraeli was nearly thrown out of his seat, flailing his arms wildly like a herring being thrown from water trying to maintain his balance.

He fell onto the floor, one side of his coat hanging loose, rubbing his backside while trying to stand up.

”Damn it!”

Arthur was in as much of a predicament as Disraeli; during the collision, the silver-plated cane lay beside him. If he hadn’t reacted quickly, he might have been skewered by the cane wedged in the seat gap.

Just as Arthur was gathering his wits, he was alarmed by Disraeli’s lament.

”My carriage! My new carriage!”

Disraeli abruptly pushed open the door and leapt out.

The leading horse had already half-knelt down, its iron hooves deep in the mud. The surrounding weeds were crushed by the wheels, revealing mottled, slippery roots and earth, and the left side of the carriage bore a head-sized dent. A dying female deer lay by the roadside, and with its bloodied head, it was clearly the culprit.

Disraeli’s face turned pale, his lips trembling uncontrollably.

Arthur got out and glanced around, trying to soothe him: ”Come now, Benjamin, it’s fortunate no one got hurt.”

”Come now?” Disraeli’s voice trembled: ”Do you know how much this carriage cost me? Three hundred seventy pounds! I advanced half my manuscript fee, and borrowed the other half from Alexander. The leading horse was given to me by Mrs. Sikes as congratulations for winning the election—a fine hunting horse! If I had bought it myself, it would have cost another hundred pounds. Right after receiving the carriage, I’ve hardly ridden it a few times before it’s...”

The more Disraeli thought, the angrier he grew; he couldn’t resist kicking the dying doe, but whether it was because the road was too slippery or he wasn’t steady, he missed and nearly fell into the mud.

Arthur reached out and steadied him: ”Take it easy, Benjamin. You almost ruined thirty pounds’ worth of clothing.”

Disraeli panted furiously, glancing down at the deer, his pupils suddenly contracted.

”Wait...”

He bent down, brushed aside the grass on the dead deer’s belly, revealing a bullet hole embedded in the fur, the edges charred, with remnants of gunpowder burns.

”The deer wasn’t killed by the collision!” Mr. Disraeli, usually so suave and gentle, uncharacteristically roared: ”It was shot! This is a deer that someone injured before it fled onto the road. In other words, this carriage accident wasn’t an accident but a murder! A deliberate murder against a carriage in its prime!”

Arthur gazed at the bullet hole in the deer’s belly, clutching his chest uncomfortably: ”Oh...”

Coachman Andrew also jumped down from the carriage: ”The deer was indeed startled. No wonder I thought I heard gunshots from the woods earlier. Sir, should we confront the hunter?”

”Confront?” Disraeli was livid, rolling up his sleeves, shouting: ”I demand not only compensation but also a public apology published in a newspaper! A hunter firing a gun without securing his target is more unforgivable than a parliament member voting without being sworn in!”

Just as he finished speaking, a brown-and-white hunting dog emerged from the woods, sniffing its way along the bloodstains on the ground, heading straight for the doe’s corpse.

”Damn beast!”

Enraged, Disraeli kicked it with a flying kick.

The unsuspecting hunting dog yelped and crashed into a pile of fallen leaves by the roadside.

But the subsequent second brought the sound of approaching hooves from afar.

Through the mist in the woods, the silhouettes of four or five riders gradually appeared.

Leading them was a middle-aged gentleman in a dark green deer-hide cloak riding a dark brown hunting horse, none other than Viscount Palmerston.

And to his right, Viscount Melbourne, in a gray-blue hunting robe, still seemed half-asleep, as if he was not riding but being carried by his horse to the location.

Behind them, several huntsmen in hunting attire rushed to keep up, clearly arriving in pursuit of the hunting dog.

Palmerston first looked at the fallen hunting dog, then swept a glance over Disraeli’s mud-stained boots and his flushed, agitated face, his eyelid twitching slightly. Though no one spoke, seeing the chaotic scene, he could surmise what had happened.

He looked down at Disraeli, then shifted his gaze to Arthur, smiling politely.

”Ah, Sir Arthur Hastings, I never expected to encounter you in this forest. You should have notified me ahead of your visit to Hampshire.”

Arthur hadn’t anticipated running into two old acquaintances here.

But on second thought, that wasn’t too surprising.

Palmerston’s estate, Brodrands Manor, was apparently nearby, and he had long served as the local sheriff and honorary officer of the militia, wielding substantial influence in Hampshire.

During the first election after the 1832 parliamentary reform, this former Foreign Secretary had willingly moved his electoral district from Cambridge University to South Hampshire, successfully becoming the first Member of Parliament for the newly established district.

In other words, Hampshire was Palmerston’s stronghold.

Palmerston glanced at the mud-caked, frustrated Disraeli with hair clinging to his forehead, teasingly inquired: ”It seems you’ve encountered some trouble, need assistance? Mr. Disraeli?”