The Shadow of Great Britain

When Mr. Lewis first stepped into Arthur’s office, he immediately felt the air was colder than outside.

It wasn’t merely the temperature; there was a chilling atmosphere that made one feel isolated, helpless.

As a distinguished bureaucrat in the United Kingdom police system, Arthur’s office was surprisingly small, much smaller than Lewis had imagined.

Yet, the small room was quite full of items; an antique ebony desk stretched across the window, its corners adorned with barely visible silver lines. Two visitor chairs wrapped in deep green leather were near the fireplace, their backs polished by time. Above the fireplace hung a copper map of London’s law enforcement districts, densely lined, resembling an invisible web spun across the city.

"London Metropolitan Police Headquarters Jurisdiction" (letters in the figure represent various police district codes, such as R for Greenwich Police District) produced in 1837, currently housed in London Image Archive.

A mirror hung on the wall further inside.

The frame was dark oak, reflecting the shelves crammed with blue police books, parliamentary records, and several unopened letters.

Although Lewis didn’t know why, the mirror’s presence made him distinctly uneasy, a feeling he couldn’t even explain to himself.

But if Sir Arthur Hastings, the office’s owner, were to explain, Lewis would soon understand why this mirror made him uncomfortable.

The mirror itself wasn’t peculiar, but its angle was.

It wasn’t facing the door but angled to reflect the area in front of the desk.

This meant that the person behind the desk could see all the visitors’ movements in the mirror without turning or lifting their head.

Only someone with a strong need for control, who disliked exposing any vulnerable spot like their back, would prefer such a mirror placement.

Lewis stood at the doorway, not daring to place his hat on the desk, merely clutching it tightly with both hands.

He was no stranger to offices.

He had seen the chaotic offices in Fleet Street and Strand Street newspapers, and those filled with manuscript sheets in publishing houses.

But this office seemed to be an organic fusion of order and chaos; everything looked so neatly arranged, yet appeared so chaotic.

Despite the quiet, every object seemed to be coldly observing.

Whether it was the ebony desk, the angled mirror, or the copper map of London’s law enforcement districts, they seemed to remind visitors, "You are now standing in a place where lies are unacceptable."

Lewis swallowed, knowing he was here by Sir Arthur’s special invitation, yet the longer he stood in the office, the more he suspected he’d committed some grave mistake worthy of inquiry.

He found himself unable to sit or stand comfortably until he heard a very light click at the door lock.

Lewis turned quickly.

Arthur stood at the door, gloves in hand: "Sorry to keep you waiting; the Home Office sent people over today, otherwise the morning meeting wouldn’t usually last this long. Please sit, Mr. Lewis."

Lewis did so almost instinctively, instantly putting his hat on his lap as if he were a child afraid of causing trouble.

"Mr. Lewis." Arthur poured himself a cup of tea: "I’ve only truly realized today, your writing skills are even better than you mentioned last night."

"Re-really? Sir, you flatter me..."

Lewis gave a nervous chuckle. Since discovering Arthur’s true identity and witnessing how Ledley deferred to Arthur in the bakery, he couldn’t quite interact with Arthur naturally anymore.

In just one night, the young man who drank merrily with him at the Green Restaurant became an unattainable character in Lewis’s eyes.

Arthur seemingly noticed Lewis’s apprehension, thus refrained from further compliments, instead adding some milk to his tea before slowly picking up the teacup from the tray, smiling as he continued: "I’m in the publishing business myself, you know, and many in the industry say that One Penny Journalists’ writing lacks compared to permanent reporters. But I disagree; permanent reporters have their strengths, yet One Penny Journalists have their own advantages..."

Arthur gently swirled his teacup, smiling as he continued: "You have one skill, in all of London, running faster than other permanent reporters; as soon as London’s winds blow, you catch the latest news, even if permanent reporters write prettier, they may not match your quick reflex. However..."

Arthur placed the teacup back on the tray, a crisp sound echoed as the cup base collided with the silver tray, almost reminding Lewis to heed his next words.

"You run fast, write fast; I’m not surprised, that’s the diligence expected of you. But writing accurately... that’s another matter."

Lewis’s breath caught for a moment.

At last, he understood why he had a bad premonition; all along, his "falling narration" had already been seen through by Sir Arthur.