The Shadow of Great Britain

The morning sunlight slanted through the narrow window of Whitehall Street, falling on the oak desk still carrying the scent of ink.

A copy of the unfolded London Gazette lay on the desk, its paper casting a faint yellowish-white hue in the light, with a rather mundane news item printed in neat lettering at the corner:

Whitehall, April 10, 1837.

Under the command of His Majesty’s Government, hereby announced: The establishment of the Police Commissioners Committee (Board of Police Commissioners) to inspect and report on the security situation and police discipline within the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland from this day forth.

Upon His Majesty’s gracious approval, the following appointments are made:

The Right Honourable Henry Hobhouse, PC (Privy Council Advisor)

Sir Arthur Hastings, Kt. (Junior Knight), O.S.A. (2nd Cl.) (Russian Empire ”Second Class Saint Anna Medal” Knight)

Sir Charles Shaw, Kt. (Junior Knight), K.T.S. (Kingdom of Portugal ”Tower and Sword Order” Knight), O.S.F. (Kingdom of Spain ”Saint Ferdinand Medal” Knight)

These three gentlemen, to serve as committee members of the Police Commissioners Committee, with Sir Arthur Hastings concurrently serving as the committee secretary.

By the command of His Majesty,

Lord John Russell

Home Secretary of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland

The morning light slowly shifted across the wall, reflecting onto a vintage floor-length mirror.

This was one of Arthur’s few personal belongings left at Scotland Yard over the years, its walnut frame darkened by time, yet the mirror itself remained clear.

After years, the mirror again reflected a familiar figure.

The figure in the mirror was tall, with a black woolen tailcoat glistening under the morning light, complemented by a white stiff collar and a dark red silk vest, resembling a cold blade sheathed.

Arthur raised his hand slightly, his fingertips smoothing along the lapel, ironing out each crease, while the silver cufflinks glinted with a chill, outlining his sharp, uncompromising jawline.

After a moment, he took a deep breath and deftly adjusted the pocket watch chain to a precise position.

Then, he slightly raised his chin, and the silhouette in the mirror instantly bore an indescribable majesty, silently declaring to the world: the Tsar of London’s police realm of yesteryears returns with an unstoppable stance.

Just as he was reveling in the mirror’s illusion, a chill silently crept into the room.

That shadow writhed at the mirror’s edge, transforming into a tall figure, its face blurred and eerie, with only its eyes showing a cunning, cold gleam.

Agares slightly leaned forward in the mirror, as if congratulating Arthur, yet his voice carried an unmistakable contempt and mockery: ”Ha... Sir Arthur Hastings, my dear Arthur, you’ve finally gotten what you wished for. Look at you, slicked-back hair, tailcoat, white gloves, even the angles of your chin seem stamped in place. Everything’s back, it’s all come back.”

Arthur merely glanced coolly at the mirror, as if Agares was but a trick of his own sleep-deprived mind from a sleepless night. He lowered his gaze again, fingertips flattening the last crease on his attire, while his other hand gently swept away the dust from his cuff.

”Agares.” His tone was steady, carrying an almost impatient calmness: ”If you’ve come just to laugh at me, then you’re certainly at leisure. Unfortunately, I don’t have the time for such idleness.”

He reached for his coat and draped it over: ”If you have something to say, then say it outright, don’t beat around the bush. If there’s nothing, then please step aside; this morning is the committee’s first meeting, and I have matters far more important than idle talk to attend to.”

Upon hearing this, Agares exaggeratedly raised his hands, shrugged his shoulders, and assumed the guise of a young lady offended, emitting two sob-like whimpers in the mirror: ”Oh, Arthur, my dear Arthur, what has become of you. Once, you were such an outstanding young man. I remember back then, you even had... a conscience...”

Too bad, his acting was poor, his voice as insincere as a third-rate actor in a theater, dragging, hollow, carrying a hint of wanting to clock out early.

But in just a moment, his crying tone vanished, replaced by a sinister grimace, mouth wide as if eager to swallow Arthur whole: ”Do you think I would plead with you like a girl? Beg for your glance, beg for a word with you? Don’t be delusional!”

He suddenly straightened up, shadow growing large to almost overlap Arthur’s figure: ”Look at yourself now, standing straight as a rod, pocket watch chain meticulously neat, as if the entire world must bow at your feet to satisfy you. Ha, what arrogance from a petty man.”

Arthur listened, unhurriedly pocketing the watch: ”Indeed! I’m a petty man in power. Now when thinking back, surely when you were thriving in Hell, you must have been graceful and cordial, words polite and courteous, never boastful before colleagues, presenting nothing but humility. Surely, you must have obeyed Baal to the letter, following rules diligently, never daring to cross the line. Agares, do you think I’m right?”

The shadow in the mirror abruptly faltered.

Agares’ eyes widened, expression like he had been stabbed in the chest: ”Hey, damn it, Arthur, didn’t we agree not to mention Baal from now on just a couple of days ago?”