The Shadow of Great Britain

The officer paused slightly at the mention of the name, his pen hesitating.

He looked Lewis up and down, seemingly assessing who this man, with the appointment with Sir Arthur, might be.

Nevertheless, rules are rules, so he opened the thick registration book and dipped his pen in ink.

"Name?"

"Da... David Lewis."

He tried to make his English pronunciation sound less impoverished.

Although his hometown of Kent County wasn’t like York, Lancashire, Cornwall with heavy accents, to those genuine upper-class gentlemen, the elongated vowels, drawling, and blurred consonants of the Kent accent still carried a noticeable rustic taste.

When arguing with people, Lewis often found himself ridiculed: "Judging by your accent, you’re clearly a country parish pauper without formal education."

But actually, Lewis’s concern was quite unnecessary at Scotland Yard.

After all, Scotland Yard is unlike other departments in White Hall. It’s a melting pot of bumpkins itself; having no accent would make you seem out of place here.

The officer swiftly noted the name, then looked up at Lewis without any respect or disdain, only as a matter of protocol: "Sir Arthur hasn’t arrived. Generally, when he arrives, he prefers to handle official matters first, scheduling meetings later... At the earliest, you might expect nine o’clock."

Nine o’clock?

A whole hour and a half!

Lewis couldn’t help but feel a bit frustrated at the words.

He wanted to appear familiar with Sir Arthur before the receiving officer, but never thought to investigate Arthur’s work habits ahead of time, causing them to perceive him as just another among countless individuals seeking Sir Arthur’s assistance.

A sinking feeling washed over Lewis, but he quickly forced a smile: "Nine o’clock? I know it’s usually nine o’clock, but I thought... today he might come earlier."

The officer hardly paid attention to Lewis’s words and continued: "You may take a walk outside, have breakfast, or you can wait in the lounge if you prefer. I’ve noted your name; once Sir is available, someone will call for you."

"Thank you, thank you!" Lewis nodded repeatedly, despite feeling humiliated, his legs already stepping outside.

He contemplated simply heading to that celebrated bakery at the street corner pursued by White Hall civil servants for something to eat.

Just as he stepped over the threshold, the sound of heavy hooves echoed on the cobblestone street.

Lewis instinctively turned around.

A gentleman dressed in a deep black morning coat and a shiny domed hat was stepping down from a carriage.

His attire was neat and his demeanor poised, clearly a gentleman from a reputable office.

The gentleman quickly entered Scotland Yard, speaking politely though hurriedly, "Excuse me, has Sir Arthur arrived? I have official business with him, you remember me, right? I’m Henry Blackwell from the Foreign Office."

Henry Blackwell from the Foreign Office?

Lewis’s eyes lit up.

Tsk, tsk, tsk, the Foreign Office official...

Sir Arthur’s circle is truly vast beyond sight.

The on-duty officer’s attitude remained unchanged, seemingly unaffected by the Foreign Office connection, neither warmer nor more distant: "Sir Arthur hasn’t arrived yet. Mr. Blackwell, if you are not in a hurry, you could wait in the lounge, or..."

Before the officer finished speaking, Blackwell was already nodding, with a sense of fatigue typical of someone who served as Sir Arthur’s secretary: "Understood, then I won’t disturb you."

He was just about to turn and leave.

At this moment, sharp-eyed Lewis swiftly stepped in front of him.

Lewis wore a grin, glowing brighter than the gas lamps at night.

"Mr. Blackwell, is that correct?" He respectfully removed his hat, "It’s quite a coincidence; I’m here to see Sir Arthur Hastings myself."

Blackwell paused, evidently unaccustomed to being approached by strangers so directly.

Seeing Blackwell silent, as if fearing the opportunity might escape, Lewis promptly extended an invitation: "Since we both have to wait until nine o’clock, why don’t we... have breakfast together? I know of a nearby bakery whose bread frequently gets featured in newspapers."

Blackwell frowned slightly, seemingly trying to determine the person’s background before him.

However, thinking about his own future being in Arthur’s hands, he dared not be too dismissive of someone whose relationship with Arthur was unknown: "Alright... alright."

Lewis’s eyes brightened upon hearing this: "Then please, Mr. Blackwell! I’ll treat you to a cup of hot tea!"

Lewis was about to lead Blackwell to walk out, suddenly sensing a shift in the draft at the entrance.

Immediately followed by a series of greetings in the lobby.

"Good morning, Chief!"

"Good morning, Sir!"

"Weren’t you on field duty yesterday? How come you’re here so early, Ledley?"

Ledley King.

Head of the Police Intelligence Department’s Fifth Section at the Royal Greater London Police Department.

Officers lower in rank than him stood up one after another, saluting and greeting him.

While those of equivalent rank, accustomed to big events, teased him.

"Ledley, you don’t look well; what kind of case has worn you out like this yesterday?"

"Look at that walking posture, bet it wasn’t at the crime scene, probably got scolded by Rowan or Chief Mayne."

"Didn’t you probably just argue with those people at the Financial City Police Station again?"

Perhaps due to waking up grumpy, or some other annoyance, Ledley didn’t even have the heart to spar with them, merely snapped: "Spare me the nonsense."