The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1834 - 116: We Only Know the "Lecherous Thief," Not This Elphinstone

All the officers are simple-minded, born to be dutiful. However, if anyone intends to disrupt and harm the country, we will not let a single traitor pass.

——Arthur Hastings, "Fifty Years of Life"

Covent Garden Market at dusk was still echoing with the noise of the day, while the night’s lights had begun to twinkle, the air filled with the mingled scents of roast meat, beer, damp cobblestones, and cheap perfume.

Fruit stall owners were counting the remaining peaches and plums, while drunkards wailed and gambled with dice at the nearby pub entrance. The flower girl’s voice was hoarse, yet she didn’t forget to hum a few tunes, occasionally picking up a rose to wink at the gentlemen passing by.

A few young butchers just off work from the meat shop were stuffing their aprons into their waistbands, walking in small groups towards the theatre, discussing neither Mozart, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, nor Bach, but the leading lady’s ankle and the barmaid’s apron buttons.

At the chaotic street corner, carriages with pale white curtains were quietly parked beside the Covent Garden Theatre’s side entrance.

It was much quieter there than in the market. Three or two well-dressed gentlemen stood guard outside the main entrance, discussing in French or German how the male soprano’s vibrato performance fared. Meanwhile, several ladies were already seated in the carriages, busy using the dim gaslight to take out their makeup kits.

At a nearby corner, obstructed from view, two men wrapped in brown-gray thick wool coats were shivering in London’s cold night wind.

They had no shelter from the wind, no canopy to keep off rain, only leaning against a burnt-out gas lamp post, looking like two rats swaddled in burlap sacks, stamping their feet while shivering and huffing warm breath into their palms.

"I swear," the older one muttered softly, "another half hour in this damned place, and my kneecaps will crack. Damn it, let those office-bound bastards stand here for two hours, too. I’d like to see how many pieces their knees have!"

As he spoke, he tucked his scarf further up his neck, trying to block the chill creeping in.

The younger man beside him also tightened his coat, not daring to take sides, only muttering softly: "Maybe... the superiors have their difficulties too. After all, tonight’s mission is quite... special. We’re here to ensure the Princess’s travel safety."

"Shut your damn mouth, Hoot!" the older man retorted without turning his head: "Special? You really buy their sanctimonious bullshit? You really think the upper brass is concerned about national security? Ha! Once you get an office desk, you’ll know what special means. A stove under the seat, a cigar in the mouth. If by then, you still choose to stand at street corners in the cold wind, I’ll admit you’re truly special!"

Startled by the yell, Hoot’s face flushed red. He wanted to retort but feared provoking his "good brother" Officer Colly further, thus lowering his head, pretending to be fully engaged in picking dirt from under his fingernails.

The atmosphere grew tense for a moment but soon Officer Colly’s cursing resonated again in Hoot’s ears.

Colly rubbed his hands briskly, attempting to warm his ears with his palm’s warmth: "I’m freezing to death... Is this work even meant for people? As I see it, to become a policeman these days, you might as well lop off your nose and ears. Damn it! Before Sir Arthur Hastings led us to achievements, we patrolled the front lines. After Sir Arthur led us to achievements, we still patrol the front lines. Doesn’t that make our merits void?"

Officer Hoot, hearing this, timidly suggested: "How can it be void? Didn’t I get promoted by one level? My annual salary increased by ten to twenty pounds."

"Stop bringing up what’s best left unsaid! No one’s going to treat you like a mute if you keep quiet." Colly shot him a fierce glare: "You got promoted, but I didn’t! Hey, I really realized, Colly, you rascal, ever since your promotion to Chief of Police, your value’s gone up, huh! You really think that after wearing three stripes, we’re on the same level?"

Colly opened his mouth, seemingly wanting to argue, but under Colly’s glare, the words lumped together like two frozen stones and just clammed up: "I... just got lucky..."

"Ugh!" Colly spat a frosty spit onto the ground, freezing into a layer of frost: "Lucky? I’m telling you, Hoot, you can fool anyone else, but not me. Be truthful, did Sir Arthur write you a recommendation letter?"

Hoot, hearing this, panicked at first but quickly remembered his brother’s lessons, shamelessly denying: "Where is this coming from? Who told you such nonsense?"

"Still playing dumb with me, are you? I’ve been mentoring you ever since you got into Scotland Yard. You think you can hide what’s on your mind from me?" Colly swore: "Damn it, little bastard, so it turns out, you’ve pocketed the benefits Sir Arthur gave me!"

Hoot stood there speechless, his face flushing red, as though someone had stripped his pants in public: "Brother Colly, don’t be mad, that recommendation letter was actually from my brother..."

"You’re still bringing up the recommendation letter? Hoot, tell me, don’t you feel shameless?" Colly seemed fully in his element, his scolding cascaded down: "Keeping the good stuff to yourself and acting all virtuous after a promotion, you really think we’re a bunch of fools, us old policemen! Back in the day when I was chasing thieves down Pigeon Lane, you were still shining shoes for the instructors at the police academy!"