The Shadow of Great Britain

It’s not a wavy line.

It’s not a blank space.

It’s a glaring ”X” that represents failure.

The conference room instantly fell into a deathly silence.

Chief Inspector Turner’s expression looked as if someone had hit him on the back of the head with a club: ”This can’t be... this... this can’t be...”

Brenan looked like he had seen a ghost too: ”Clearly, Allen performed the best... Sir... did you mistake the X and put it in the wrong place?”

No one could provide an answer.

Even more, no one wanted to agree with Brenan’s viewpoint.

Because in the Scotland Yard system, every officer knows: if Sir Arthur Hastings gave someone an X, it’s not an exam issue but a matter of fate.

...

The carriage moved slowly along the streets of London after sunset.

The evening glow was like a thin layer of gold dust sprinkled on the rooftops, and the afterglow that passed beyond the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral was framed into a still picture by the carriage window.

Arthur’s elbow rested on the armrest beside the window, his gaze falling outside, as if watching the street scene, or perhaps looking at a farther place.

The twilight grazed his profile, casting him wholly like a golden Sphinx.

The carriage passed over a gap in the cobblestone, gently jolting.

Sitting across from Arthur, Pinkerton was so unsettled by the jolt that his heartbeat was even more erratic; he couldn’t help but tense his back, even feeling as if the air inside the compartment was nearly being sucked away.

”When I was studying at the University of London, the school back then wasn’t as respectable as it is now.” Arthur suddenly spoke, breaking the silence. His tone was somewhat nonchalant, as if speaking to the street scenes outside the window or talking to himself: ”There was no college tradition, no decent school history; those gathered there included those rejected by Oxford and Cambridge, heretics, failures, ambitious individuals, and people like me... radicals who thought the old world should be overturned and rebuilt.”

At this point, the street lights in Arthur’s eyes lit up one by one, and the corner of his mouth seemed to move slightly, but couldn’t quite count as a smile: ”We wrote pamphlets, posted flyers, argued with people in cafes until we were red-faced. Some talked about parliamentary reform, others about religious emancipation, and some about complete republicanism. Back then, I believed as long as the logic was rigorous and the position just, things would definitely develop in the right direction.”

”But looking back now...” Arthur’s fingers lightly tapped on the window sill: ”Some things were absurd. To prove a political viewpoint, deliberately inciting street crowds, or insisting on standing at the forefront when unable to control the situation, thinking that was what accountability was.”

The carriage turned into a slightly narrower street, leaving the noise outside, only the soft grinding sound on cobblestones remained.

Arthur’s gaze still lingered outside the window, as if seeing his student days’ shadow overlapping with the scene of London streets: ”I was also very sharp back then, sharp enough to feel like I wasn’t on the same level as my peers, sharp enough not even to know what fear was.”

His voice dropped a little: ”Later, I paid some price for it. I was very stupid, and only at great cost did I understand things that smart people grasped from the start—human life happens only once. So, even if one wants the tea to boil, there’s no need to split oneself to be used as firewood; there are many ways to resolve issues, and being firewood, even if not the most foolish option, isn’t far off.”

Reaching this point, Arthur finally turned and met Pinkerton’s eyes: ”Allen, I realized it too late back then, because I’m slow-witted, but you’re much smarter than me. Precisely for this reason, I hope you don’t tread once more over the path where I’ve failed.”

Pinkerton’s Adam’s apple moved, he lowered his gaze: ”Uncle Arthur, I... I don’t quite understand what you mean.”

The moment he spoke, he could hear the stiffness in his own words.

Arthur did not immediately respond.

The carriage continued forward, the wheels made a monotonous, rhythmic sound on the cobblestone road. The street lights outside moved backward one by one, and the light and shadow flowed slowly within the compartment.

Arthur stared out the window for a few seconds, as if giving Pinkerton a final chance to recover.

But he ultimately didn’t wait for Pinkerton’s explanation.

He exhaled lightly; it wasn’t anger, but exhaustion from being overly drained: ”I had thought, at the very least, you would have asked.”

Arthur leaned back in his seat, raised his hand to press his brow, seemingly having finally lost patience: ”Allen, in the capacity of the Home Office’s Permanent Under-Secretary, I hereby inform you that your beloved father, who loves you, my lifelong sworn brother, Chief Inspector Tom Flanders, has officially accepted suspension of duties for investigation by the Home Office as of 2:50 this afternoon.”

Pinkerton abruptly lifted his head, his pupils constricting sharply in the dim light: ”What? Impossible, this can’t be! My father, he...”

Mid-sentence, he suddenly choked.

Because Arthur was looking directly at him.

Not that previous kind of vague gaze, but directly, unavoidably staring into his eyes.

That gaze left him unable to voice any defense.

”Why?” Pinkerton nearly asked through gritted teeth: ”Sir... why?”

A long silence, with the sound of wheels, street, and horse breathing all the more distinct.

Arthur watched the young man who couldn’t raise his head in front of him: ”You know the reason better than I do.”

The tone was very calm, yet left no room for negotiation.

Pinkerton’s agitated complexion gradually faded away.

Arthur did not avert his gaze.

”You answered beautifully in the exam today. Regulations, definitions, precedents, not a word wrong. You did not hesitate when responding to treason.”

Arthur’s words were like a blunt knife: ”Not because your memory is strong, but because you’ve long contemplated your own outcome.”

Pinkerton’s knuckles slowly clenched, his nails almost digging into his palm.

Yet Arthur had no intention of letting him off: ”You know what acts would be defined as treason. You also know what kind of acts hover right on that line.”

His body leaned slightly forward, hand pressing on Pinkerton’s shoulder, voice lowered: ”Allen, whether your father did such a thing, you and I both know very well. So, who do you think he is now suffering for?”