The Shadow of Great Britain

The most fearsome thing is not encountering eye-catching cases!

But if someone could inform him right after they occur—a headless corpse discovered in Whitechapel, a mysterious death in a backstreet hotel, a sailor found stuffed into a sack and sunk in the dock...

Then he, then he...

Then David Lewis would be the equivalent of having a hen that lays golden eggs!

Moreover, not only would he know about the cases immediately, but he might even be able to get into the crime scene!

Get into the morgue!

Even attend the preliminary hearing!

From now on, as long as David Lewis shows his face on Fleet Street, the deputy editors of all the newspaper offices wouldn’t kneel to invite him for a drink?

Excited heart, trembling hands, as Lewis thought about this, he felt invigorated.

He subtly sat forward a bit: "Since you’ve previously served in... uh... the government department over there in the East District, surely you still have quite a few friends there now?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow, seemingly not fond of the question. He didn’t answer, just took a sip of wine.

But Lewis saw this non-answer as even more intriguing than a response.

Lewis’s heart rejoiced; he hurriedly probed further: "I’ve heard that over in the East District... there’s a lot of cases, complex relationships, requiring seasoned officers to oversee. Especially the Magistrates’ Court over there, anyone who works there for a few years must be extraordinary!"

Arthur still did not directly admit, only looked at him with interest and smiled: "You’re quite familiar with the judicial system?"

"A bit familiar..." Lewis quickly waved his hand: "Writing news, after all, requires understanding some things. I’ve dealt with magistrates, patrolmen, clerks, of course, if it comes to relationships, I can’t compare to you."

Arthur didn’t expose him, instead, he appeared amused, smiling casually and saying: "The East District is indeed challenging. Anyone who stays there, regardless of their position, must have some skills."

Lewis felt his spirits lift.

Is this a half-admission?

He hurriedly sidestepped again: "Then were you responsible for interrogation in the past? Or are you more adept at... coordinating those patrolmen under you?"

Arthur ignored the keywords Lewis threw, opting instead for a different angle: "The security affairs in the East District work in parallel lines anyway."

He put down his wine glass, seemingly reminiscing: "The docks deal with the Port Authority, the river requires consultation with the Thames River Police, the streets are managed by the patrol department, while taverns, theaters, brothels rely on trusted veterans to keep an eye on them. As for the Magistrates’ Court..."

He paused here deliberately, leaving a blank space, causing Lewis’s heart to skip a beat: "Of course the Magistrates’ Court has its own rules."

This statement, vague yet perilous.

Lewis quickly interpreted in his mind.

Parallel lines, veterans keeping watch, rules of the Magistrates’ Court; isn’t this typical of what a leader would say?

Who among the workers below would spend idle time evaluating East District’s security with such platitudes?

He was immediately certain that Arthur used to work in the East District Magistrates’ Court, and not in a low position!

To further confirm, Lewis coughed, pretending to chat idly: "I’ve heard that the clerks in Tower Hamlets have to know Latin and speak some French, is this true?"

"Tower Hamlets?" Arthur responded with a laugh: "You’re asking the right person, I was employed in Tower Hamlets back then."

This statement hit Lewis’s head like a heavy fist.

Lewis’s eyes dazzled, but his mouth didn’t forget to flatter: "Oh... is it... Tower Hamlets, indeed, is a good place."

Arthur added with a smile: "Indeed, it’s a good place, except it’s a bit chaotic. But at least the people there respect me quite a lot to this day."

Respect him?

The people of the Magistrates’ Court still respect him today?

In an instant, Lewis developed a respectful demeanor toward Arthur, along with the Magistrates’ Court.

He felt that for the first time in his life, he might be truly close to a figure capable of changing his destiny.

Mr. Lewis, usually articulate, was so excited his cheeks reddened; he was trembling all over, even his speech wasn’t fluent: "Then... if I ever have something... want to understand about East District cases... uh... I wonder if you... can..."

Arthur knew what he wanted, yet pretended not to understand, smiling slightly: "Journalists, they need to run, see, and meet people more. Of course, if I happen to have something to help with..."

Arthur stopped mid-sentence, suddenly recalling something as he gently slapped his forehead: "Oh dear, we’ve been chatting for so long... I don’t even know your full name yet."

The tone seemed both annoyed and like a lapse in etiquette, making one feel attentively regarded.

Lewis almost instinctively sat up straight, his voice changing tone: "I, I am David Lewis, sir! David James Lewis! Don’t mind the common name, I, I... Flat five at 7 Witfield Street..."

He spoke faster and faster, ending with his address, as if fearing Arthur might forget it the next second.

"Number seven, fifth floor, the room on the far right!" He added: "The one facing the cheese warehouse!"

Arthur lightly raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth: "You live quite specifically."

He slowly pulled out a pen from his jacket pocket, then took out a small card he carried with him, moving unhurriedly, both gentlemanly and naturally, as if he wasn’t noting down the address of a one penny journalist, but recording the date Tsar Nicholas I’s national letter was delivered.

"Lewis... 7 Witfield Street..."

Arthur murmured as he wrote, ensuring each word fell accurately on the paper.

After finishing, Arthur lifted his head, afraid of making a mistake, asking once more: "You won’t suddenly move, will you?"

Lewis hastily waved his hand: "No, no! Absolutely not! I’ve paid my rent until next Easter! Besides, my landlady is a lazybones who wouldn’t bother finding new tenants for an extra one shilling. You can rest assured, I won’t change locations! If you ever want to chat with me, feel free to send a letter to this address."

He spoke so fast and eagerly, it even sounded like he was assuring a superior "I won’t resign."

Arthur gently nodded, folding the card well and putting it back in his pocket.

A joyous Lewis saw this, eagerly and cautiously questioned: "Now you know my name, might I have the honor..."

He surely wouldn’t miss this golden moment to turn a strange sir into an "acquaintance."

Arthur paused briefly, then smiled and lightly slapped his forehead: "See my memory, certainly, naturally."

"May I know your full name?"

Arthur calmly pulled out a business card from his inner pocket.

The card was printed with extreme precision, the paper thick, the ink calm, the edges neat and tidy.

He gently pushed the card toward Lewis: "Please accept."

Lewis held the card with both hands, thrilled as if grasping a ticket that could rewrite his destiny.

Sir Arthur Hastings

Junior Knight of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland

Knight of the Russian Empire Saint Anna Second Class Medal

Permanent Secretary of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland Police Commissioner Committee

Non-resident Royal Steward of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland Court

Chairman of the Board of Imperial Publishing Company

Address: 36 Lancaster Gate, London, Bayswater

"A brief introduction, Arthur Hastings, mainly an anonymous office clerk at White Hall, part-time handling misc tasks."