The Shadow of Great Britain

At this point, Blackwell took a gloomy gulp of wine. "I went to ask the supervisor. He said you’d only just arrived, you’re still young, you need to accumulate experience. Beckett got in through someone on the inside; putting his name on the list makes the process a bit smoother."

Here, Blackwell let out a short laugh. "Right! Put his name up there for the procedure, take your name down out of respect for rank. I’m not afraid of work. I can work through the night, I can help other departments dig out the original sources of forty‑year‑old treaties. I honestly used to believe that as long as you worked hard and had ability, even if you came from nothing, you could still get close to the circles of power. But what I can’t stand is that this place doesn’t give a damn what you actually do. The steps of White Hall are simply not built for people to move up. Sir, I’m not flattering you, but the fact that you’ve climbed to where you are today is nothing short of a miracle."

Though this sounded like Blackwell merely venting, what he said was indeed the reality of the situation.

Looking across all the departments in White Hall, the Foreign Office was, beyond any doubt, the most conservative office of them all.

Because in the Foreign Office’s eyes, diplomacy was essentially an extension of the Royal Family’s affairs.

Therefore, those handling state relations ought, by rights, to come from well‑bred, well‑placed families; birth being more important than talent was an unspoken rule of the circle.

Even when the Whig Party was in power and other departments were tentatively experimenting with recruitment by examination on a small scale, the Foreign Office still clung to its system of private introductions plus letters of recommendation. As a result, a vast number of posts in the Foreign Office were taken up by relatives of various members of the Nobility and politicians; it was utterly commonplace there to see brothers in the same office and fathers and sons in the same department.

Of course, the Foreign Office being bad didn’t mean the other departments were much better.

Even Sir Arthur Hastings himself, the poster child of bottom‑up advancement for countless low‑level Civil Servants in White Hall, owed his rapid rise through the Internal Affairs System in large part to the special nature of Scotland Yard.

First of all, since Scotland Yard was a newly established department, that special environment naturally gave Arthur much greater upward mobility.

Secondly, for those sons of great houses, the status of "policeman" was simply too undignified.

Back when Scotland Yard had just been set up—let alone now—you would never see any scion of the Nobility voluntarily apply to join Scotland Yard.

It was only under the combined effect of all sorts of coincidences that he became what he is today.

Precisely for that reason, the path he took to success really is not something ordinary people can replicate.

Even if others were given his opportunities, don’t forget, they’d also have to make sure that taking a bullet wouldn’t kill them.

Arthur, however, certainly wasn’t going to lay all his cards on the table.

But even without doing that, he still had plenty of ways to make others do his bidding.

After all, for people like Blackwell, once they saw things clearly, they would realize that Arthur’s ceiling was their ceiling.

Because in the vast bureaucracy of White Hall, of those truly willing to give them a chance and promote them into key posts, aside from Sir Arthur Hastings, you would be hard‑pressed to find more than a handful.

Arthur’s knife and fork paused for a moment on the porcelain plate. He slowly raised his head, looking at Blackwell with a half‑smile.

"If you’re really sick of the Foreign Office..." Arthur said, "then perhaps you should consider going somewhere else."

Blackwell froze. "Go... somewhere else?"

"As it happens, I’m short a secretary at the moment." Arthur picked up his napkin and wiped his hands. "You know I’m the Secretary‑General of the police professional committee, and the Secretariat of the committee is under my command. The remit, mainly, is external deployment, coordination between military and police, and the interlocking of fire contingencies and epidemic control. But... Henry, let me be blunt: if you come over, one man will have to do the work of three."

Blackwell didn’t catch it at first. "Secretary?"

"More precisely, Deputy Director of the Secretariat, a full‑time Third-class Clerk, formally on the Home Office establishment." Arthur paused. "But the Home Office’s pay scale isn’t as high as the Foreign Office’s. A Third-class Clerk’s annual salary starts at only ninety‑five Pounds, although there will be additional income such as a housing allowance."

Blackwell’s breath hitched for a beat; he almost lost his grip on his glass.

He looked at Arthur, suddenly unsure whether he ought to feel delighted or wary.

"You mean it?" he asked reflexively. "I thought... I thought..."

"You thought at most I’d second you to me on a temporary basis and have you lug files around?" Arthur raised an eyebrow with a smile. "Or did you think that if I refrained from dredging up your old mistakes, that would count as the height of my benevolence?"

Blackwell lowered his head, not daring to speak, a flicker of guilt crossing his face.

"Relax, I really don’t intend to rake up the past," Arthur said evenly. "At least, not yet."

"But a transfer at that level... it has to be approved by Sir Bickhouse, the Permanent Under‑Secretary at the Foreign Office..." Blackwell ventured cautiously. "And over at the Home Office, the Permanent Under‑Secretary Mr. Phillips has always had a rather... uh... poor impression of me..."

"Those two? You don’t need to worry about them." Arthur tossed his napkin onto the plate. "Once you’ve finished the job, you go straight back to the Foreign Office and hand in your resignation. I’ll give you a letter of recommendation; take it with you when you report to the Home Office. I’ll handle Phillips."

Blackwell’s eyes went wide. He stared for a moment, then blurted out a little too excitedly, "You’re serious?!"

"You’re saying that far too early." Arthur neatly laid his knife and fork side by side on the plate. "I said: after you’ve finished the job."