The Shadow of Great Britain

The fog outside had not yet dissipated. The sound of hooves in the morning in London Bloomsbury was faintly heard through the window glass, like echoes transmitted through water.

In the ward of the free general hospital, only a dim wall lamp was lit, and the shadow of the glass bottles in the medicine cabinet was stretched long by the lamp wick.

The ward was surprisingly quiet, with only the faint sound of wheels from a cart rolling over the wooden floor in the distant corridor.

The iron bed creaked softly as Arthur turned over.

He slowly opened his eyes, his eyelids heavy, as if two slabs of stone pressed against them.

Arthur’s eyelashes trembled slightly, a faint gray-green circle shading his eye bags, looking like either he had stayed up all night or had just recovered from a fever.

This sickly demeanor, however, lacked the natural collapse of a true illness and was instead attributed to the makeup artistry personally taught by the Parisian Sleuth, Francois Vidocq.

First, distilled water was used to blend talcum powder and lead powder onto the cheeks, giving the skin that bloodless pallor while ensuring it didn’t crack.

Then, glycerin moistened the eye bags, and water steeped with sumac bark lightly tinged the lower rim of the eyes, crafting a fatigued look of light purple and gray-blue shades.

Of course, the finest touch was the diluted rouge water, using a brush to draw two indistinguishable cough marks from the sides of the nose toward the corners of the lips, accentuating the unbroken traces of capillary leakage after frequent coughing.

Under the dim wall lamp’s outline, everything appeared so fitting, such a perfect finishing touch.

If it weren’t for the duties of the Police Commissioner Committee consuming Sir Arthur Hastings’ energy, even putting him back in the 21st century now, he could still make a name for himself in the world of beauty blogging with these skills.

After all, this legend of Scotland Yard, trained by Vidocq, not only mastered the Bastille makeup from his teacher but also developed and innovated on it, incorporating the style from Newgate Prison, becoming the quintessential master of 19th-century pure prison makeup.

Just that, possibly due to the thick layer of powder on his face, Arthur lay motionless in bed.

He merely stared expressionlessly, straight up at the ceiling.

After a long while, this good-natured gentleman couldn’t help but furrow his brow and say, "Agares, could you move that damned mirror away from my sight?"

The Red Devil stuck to the ceiling laughed heartily upon hearing this, wobbled the red shadow, and with a snap, tossed the copper mirror he held onto the bedside table, subsequently pulling out a full-length mirror matching Arthur’s height from his sleeve.

"Do you know how happy your ghostly appearance makes me?" Agares critiqued Arthur in the mirror, "Only thing wrong is the lying place. If you ask someone to get a coffin now, it should still be in time."

Arthur, hearing this, didn’t reply and simply closed his eyes again.

The Red Devil, seeing Arthur ignore him, threw the full-length mirror and moved to the bedside himself, "This look of yours... tsk tsk tsk, Secretary General of the Police Commissioner Committee, Chairman of the Board of the Empire Publishing Company, the legend of Scotland Yard, the star of Buckingham Palace, having to rely on makeup and feigned illness to win a little girl’s sympathy, oh... my dear Arthur... you really are a despicable thing!"

Arthur wasn’t angered by these words, instead calmly responding, "Isn’t that what politics is all about? All politicians are actors, it’s just that some are better at it than others. Faking illness is of course not glorious, but compared to those parliamentarians who only pave the way with money, this is quite decent."

As soon as Arthur’s words fell, the door of the ward was gently pushed open.

Accompanied by the click of heels on the floor, Disraeli walked into the room.

"Thank God! Arthur, you’re awake?"

Disraeli, hatless with hair a bit tousled by the morning wind, quickly strode to the bedside and gazed down at Arthur’s pallid face, exclaiming, "You look worse than the day you were laid in a coffin."

Disraeli helped Arthur sit up, supporting him while muttering, "I heard you fainted at Piccadilly Square and were sent to the hospital unconscious. God, do you know what I thought when I heard the news? I thought you had someone shoot you again!"

"I don’t think I’ve done anything lately to deserve getting shot at, have I?" Arthur barely managed a smile, "Don’t worry, Benjamin. It’s just the old issue, my heart threw a small tantrum again, but it’s past now."

"You say that so lightly," Disraeli gave him a look, "Take a look, just look! How have you been wrecking yourself these past few years? Not even thirty years old, and you’re almost catching up with my grandfather in hospital visits."

Just as Disraeli was about to say more, he suddenly furrowed his brow, his gaze shifting slightly towards the direction of the ward window.

He heard the sound of hooves.

Initially, it was just a few distant echoes, very light, almost inaudible, like the sound of water flowing in the morning fog, seemingly indistinguishable from the carriages that often frequented the street corner.

But soon, the dull sound of hooves gradually became orderly, the sound of iron hooves on the ground, the rubbing of saddles, became increasingly clear.

Disraeli slightly furrowed his brow, stood up, walked to the window, and drew half of the curtain aside.

At the street corner, accompanied by the sound of wheels rolling over cobblestones, a convoy of carriages arrived slowly.