The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1795 - 100: Miss Quinn of Yellow Chrysanthemum Street (Part 2)

Arthur...

Hastings...

Sir!!!

"Good evening, Ledley." Arthur nodded slightly while cutting the veal on his plate, "I hope you don’t mind, but I waited for you for half a day without seeing you, so I started eating alone."

Time froze at that moment.

Ledley froze for a moment, then felt as if he had been pressed from a warm soup into an icy river.

The warm and comfortable pearl necklace suddenly turned into a rope tightening around his throat.

The heel of his shoe scraped the floor, and losing his balance, he fell straight onto the ground.

Ledley’s mouth hung half open, but not a single syllable could escape, his delicately made-up face as pale as a freshly painted wall.

Arthur neither got up nor asked questions, he simply glanced at Ledley, as if looking at a mundane sugar-boiled carrot on the table: "Alright, it seems you don’t like me calling you Ledley here. So, Miss Quinn, do you need me to help you up?"

The muscles on Ledley’s face twitched slightly.

He wanted to stand up, but his legs felt as if they were filled with lead, leaving him awkwardly seated on the carpet, the hem of his dress billowing out like a tangle of fabric on a stage play’s accident scene.

His brain worked quickly, trying to deploy the Police Intelligence Department’s crisis management procedures to handle the current situation. But it was useless, as that system was designed to deal with radicals, agitators, and terrorists, not to handle him being trapped in a room by an old boss on Yellow Chrysanthemum Street in women’s clothing.

His throat tightened, but he managed to squeeze out a few syllables: "How... how did you find this place?"

Arthur sliced another piece of steak, chewing leisurely, as if this meal was his real task of the day: "Miss Quinn, if I didn’t even know this, why would Scotland Yard hang my portrait on their wall?"

"How could you... how dare you..." Ledley gritted his teeth, finally struggling to his feet, one hand on the wall, the other clutching his skirt hem tightly.

"How dare?" Arthur dabbed his mouth with a napkin: "Are you asking how dare I show up here, or how dare I eat your serving of lamb ribs?"

Pausing there, Arthur picked up his wine glass and swirled it: "By the way, you do have pretty good taste when it comes to ordering."

Ledley was tongue-tied, his face alternating between red and white, not knowing whether he should blurt out a threat, call for help, escape through the window, or simply faint on the spot.

However, seeing Arthur’s calm and leisurely demeanor, it really seemed as if he wasn’t mocking or despising, just... dining.

And that was what collapsed Ledley’s world the most.

"Honestly, I quite admire you." Arthur took a sip of wine, "You manage to complete your work so well and still have time to develop personal interests."

"What exactly do you want?" Ledley finally exploded, his voice nearing a break, yet forced to lower his pitch due to anger and fear: "Do you want to report me? Force me to resign? Or perhaps hang me on the gallows..."

"Calm down." Arthur set down his wine glass, "If I really wanted to destroy you, you wouldn’t have had the chance to put on that dress. Miss Quinn, I said I..."

"Stop calling me that name!"

"But the boss told me... regular customers always call you that. Not calling you so makes me seem quite unprofessional."

"Are you a regular customer, Sir? Is this a place where you should be?!"

Seeing Ledley’s emotions nearing the breaking point, Arthur dropped the teasing. He sighed lightly, pushing his plate aside.

"Alright, no more jokes." Arthur’s tone turned gentle, with his usual calm and caution, "I only came here tonight to confirm one thing."

Ledley’s eyes flushed, anger and shame mixed in his trembling voice: "Confirm what? Whether I like wearing dresses? Whether I’m a ’Sodom degenerate’ destined to be hanged at Treben Square?"

Arthur was startled by his words: "How did you know I came for that?"

Ledley nearly fainted upon hearing this.

"What... what do you mean?"

Arthur didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he took out a stack of files from the briefcase beside him, in typical Police Intelligence Department archival style: no heading on the cover, just a line written in pencil at the bottom left corner: T.G.

He tossed the file on the table, gesturing for Ledley to take a look.

But Ledley didn’t move, just glanced at it sideways and immediately turned his head away: "What’s there to see? I delivered the file myself, I was even meticulous enough to check every line for spelling errors. Now you bring this here to scare me, what kind of tactic is that?"

"It’s not to scare you." Arthur spoke calmly, "I just discovered something new."

Ledley didn’t move, but his expression changed noticeably.

"That young Thomas Gath..." Arthur leaned against the windowsill and said, "He’s not just a royal bastard indulging in drinking, gambling, and whoring. Recently, there have been suspicions of him appearing on some guest lists at places he shouldn’t. Some parties that even you might not dare attend."

Ledley sneered: "You mean, the men’s club?"

"I didn’t say that." Arthur said expressionlessly, "But I know that in 1835, just appearing in certain places on Beech Alley or Pope Head Alley at midnight was enough to make you lose everything. Of course, I’m still not sure, so I need you to get close to him, observe him, and confirm if he really might have... that inclination."