The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1814 - 108: Hastings, the Public-Spirited and Righteous

I have lost my position, but not my faith. As long as His Majesty the King’s Government is still present, I remain its loyal servant.

——Arthur Hastings "Fifty Years of Life"

The rain continues to fall, the strands of rain entwined like threads, pouring down, washing the stone steps of Kensington Palace immaculately clean.

A pitch-black Brougham carriage slowly makes its way along the gravel path, its wheels rolling over the cobblestones in the pooled water, producing a steady sound as if synchronized with the Royal Family’s concerns.

The carriage comes to a stop, and before the driver turns to open the door, the passenger inside has already deftly put on his white gloves, covering his fingers entirely, his demeanor composed.

Then, with a click, the carriage door opens from the inside.

Boots lightly touch the damp stone steps, barely leaving a trace of water, followed by a silver-tipped cane landing with a sound neither too loud nor too soft, hitting perfectly in the grout line, as if sealing the fate of this royal drama.

The attendant waiting inside the palace gates for a long time seemed to awaken only at the sound of the silver-tipped cane striking the ground, hastily stepping forward.

"Sir Arthur!" The leading attendant, wearing a long coat trimmed with red and gold, had his hair plastered to his forehead by the rain, his leather boots drenched, but he paid no mind to himself, urgently raising a long-handled black umbrella over Arthur’s head. "We’ve been waiting for you for some time."

Arthur merely nodded lightly, half the play of light and shadow under the umbrella falling on his left shoulder, the other half left to the night and raindrops.

"Please follow me." The attendant whispered cautiously, leading Arthur through the garden corridor with dripping eaves. "Her Highness awaits you in the west drawing room."

At the corridor’s end, the warm glow of the fireplace faintly seeped through the thick wooden door’s cracks.

The attendant stopped at the door, about to knock, when a soft feminine voice sounded from behind.

"You may go back, I’ll handle it here."

Arthur looked towards the voice and saw a figure half-hidden in the columned arcade; it was Miss Flora Hastings.

Arthur halted and said gently, "Good evening, Flora."

Flora nodded slightly. "The Princess is disturbed, hasn’t eaten all evening, and ordered the maids to burn all newspapers and incoming letters. If later..."

Arthur listened and hesitated slightly. He remarked, "Burn all letters and newspapers? That doesn’t seem like the Princess’s usual behavior. I always thought she was quite gentle. What exactly happened?"

Flora lowered her head, her voice quieter than before. "You know, rumors inside the palace never cease."

Arthur didn’t respond, only quietly looking at her. This silence wasn’t overtly oppressive, yet instilled inexplicable unease.

It was a method he often used at Scotland Yard, placing the suspect in the center of an empty room while the interrogation officer sat in the shadows, with no clocks or open windows in the interrogation room, only occasional footsteps and dripping sounds. A mild silence naturally heightened one’s anxiety.

If the suspect withstood the wave of anxiety, Arthur typically sent in an amiable new interrogation officer. The officer in the shadows remained silent, while the newcomer engaged the suspect with smiling small talk. This combination heightened the suspect’s vigilance towards the silent one while making them more willing to divulge more to the "good officer," thus self-revealing information.

However, Flora was evidently not a suspect, nor did she possess the stress tolerance or psychological pressure akin to a murderer.

"Her Highness fears that someone might disrespect the Royal Family through newspaper rumors tomorrow... You know, many parliament members are equally unclean-mouthed; she merely wishes to protect her reputation."

Arthur slightly tilted his head, his expression hardly changing. "Oh? Which newspaper?"

Flora hesitated briefly. "It’s ’The Times’, perhaps also ’Morning Paper’, and..."

"Hmm... ’The Times’ and ’Morning Paper’?" Arthur quietly murmured, and after a moment asked again, "What have they written?"

"Someone wrote some highly irresponsible things," Flora said evasively. "They claimed Her Highness’s recent ailment was due to... certain scandalous rumors, and some false accusations regarding Her Highness’s private life."

The air paused momentarily, in the dark corridor, as only the distant sound of water dripping on the stone slabs could be heard.

Arthur slightly raised an eyebrow, smiling as he replied, "So it’s just a minor issue."

Speaking, he pulled out his pocket watch to check the time, then nodded to Flora. "’The Times’ and ’Morning Paper’ usually complete their printing between one and four in the morning, commencing delivery at five. At this point, their manuscript likely hasn’t been dispatched yet. I’ll drop by Fleet Street later to personally speak with their editor."

With that, he slightly bowed his head, giving Flora a hat-tipping salute, and decisively planned to turn away and leave.

And just at that moment, a voice suddenly called from behind Arthur.

"Sir Arthur Hastings, please stop!"

The voice was not loud but penetrated the rain curtain, making Arthur immediately halt his steps, as he recognized it was the voice of Sophia Matilda Hanover, the Princess.

The door opened a crack, the birchwood-burning fireplace casting her shadow on the door frame; she wore a plain white gown, draped with a gold-thread-embroidered shawl, the shawl’s tassels slightly swaying, indicating her hurried arising just now.