The Shadow of Great Britain

Do you think by raising the newspaper’s price now and paying the stamp duty as usual, the iron-faced Treasury won’t discover your problems?

If the Treasury didn’t equally disregard the Police Commissioner Committee’s Secretary-General, you’d be in trouble sooner or later!

You think Sir Arthur Hastings doesn’t retaliate against you because he’s kind-hearted and well-spoken?

Wrong!

It’s because he currently doesn’t have the capability!

Ledley sat in the carriage, rehearsing numerous times in his mind what he would say upon meeting the editor of the Sun, but somehow, no matter how he arranged it, it always seemed to have a hint of mocking Sir Arthur.

Of course, it’s not that Ledley doesn’t want to mock that fool.

It’s just that he similarly doesn’t have the capacity to mock the fool at the moment.

Ledley thought of this and couldn’t help but sigh softly. He flipped through the file that he just got from the archives department, cursing Arthur for being hypocritical in his heart.

Just in the office, Arthur repeatedly said, "It’s not impossible for Imperial Publishing to step in," on one hand, and "But I still trust your business abilities more," on the other.

But his rhetoric appeared so weak and powerless in the face of the Police Intelligence Department’s intelligence capabilities.

The Police Intelligence Department, as a security intelligence organization deeply influenced by Sir Arthur, naturally inherited all his good habits and bad ones.

And the British press, as a key observation target of the Police Intelligence Department, any newspaper with a bit of reputation would have a separate archive established.

The archive of the Sun clearly states: In 1833, the owner of the Sun, Patrick Grant, declared bankruptcy due to poor financial management, while another owner, Mordo Yang, took the opportunity to fully take over the Sun. Yang claimed his takeover was legitimate and lawful, while Grant accused Yang of using improper means. The two had a long verbal battle over it, even going to court, with the final ruling declaring Grant’s defeat. An enraged Grant seeing that he couldn’t regain control of the Sun, then pulled in investment from elsewhere to start the True Sun Newspaper, hoping to beat the Sun.

Although the archive doesn’t clearly state where Grant got the investment from, it notes that Charles Dickens once served as a resident contributor during the founding period of the True Sun Newspaper.

A newly founded small newspaper could actually invite Dickens as a resident contributor, the archival material reached this point, isn’t it clear who gave Grant the money?

The answer is on the surface!

If that group from Imperial Publishing went to 112 Strand Street to visit, they probably wouldn’t even pass through the door and would get kicked out by the Sun.

Thinking of this, Ledley felt increasingly relieved for having used his wits; otherwise, he would really be fooled by the old swindler.

But that said, even if Ledley knew, he couldn’t do anything about it, a higher official rank suppressing people is one thing, not to mention that individual is several ranks above him.

Plus, the most troublesome thing is, he holds leverage against Ledley.

As a Police Superintendent at Scotland Yard, and a member of the Police Intelligence Department, even though the police profession is not highly regarded in the upper circles, it steadily earns over 120 pounds a year in fixed salary and various allowances; even in the whole of London, this is quite a respectable and prestigious job.

Perhaps those stockbrokers and small shop owners can also earn this amount annually, maybe even more than Ledley’s income, but who can boss around hundreds of police officers like him?

Staying at Scotland Yard, he only has to lower his head in front of a few people like Sir Arthur and Minister Rowan; if he were to be swept out, not considering whether he’d be hanged for sodomy charges, even if he had a dignified internal retirement, where else would he find a job with such high income?

After all, policemen aren’t like magistrates, military officers of the land and sea forces, or the legitimate civil servants of White Hall; policemen don’t have a pension fund to rely on.

Ledley’s carriage rocked as it stopped in front of the Temple Tavern on Strand Street.

He pushed open the carriage, glanced at the Temple Tavern’s sign and flyers attached by regulars to the windows, clearly stating—University of London students and dogs are not allowed inside!

Ledley saw this and smiled knowingly, striding into the tavern regarded as a forbidden delicacy by King’s College students.

The tavern door slammed shut behind him with a clang, the copper bell jingling, isolating the street’s chatter.

Ledley shook the raindrops off his coat, removed his hat, and nodded familiarly at the bartender at the counter: "Two cups of Porter, send them to the table by the window."

That table was near the fireplace, the warmest spot in the Temple Tavern, and on rainy days, regulars liked to reserve this good spot in advance.

The person sitting there was precisely Ledley’s target for this visit—the Sun’s owner and editor-in-chief, Mordo Yang.

Yang was already old, but the stubbornness typical of Scots was still etched in his bones.

He wore an old black wool coat, a silver pocket watch chain hung down from his vest pocket, he held half a cigar, smoke swirled around his nose.

Yang saw Ledley yet didn’t even bother to get up: "You’re late, Officer Jin."

"Doesn’t your newspaper always like to write ’Late-night delayed visitors’?" Ledley placed his hat on the table, sat down, smiled at him: "I’m merely matching your style."