The Shadow of Great Britain

This is a group of diligent and motivated young people, but while they have many strengths, they also have quite a few flaws.

When a surgeon is in consultation, they might spend half an hour describing your condition, while the injured person only needs five words: "I broke my leg."

In a sense, a one penny journalist is like a surgeon—they can take something that can be explained in a few lines and elaborate it into half a column’s length. This is only natural, as they are paid by the word count. If they can’t find enough words, they must rely on imagination and fabrication.

For example, if there’s a need to mention a delegation visiting Sir Arthur Hastings for a specific purpose, they would write it as—the delegation visited the honorable Secretary-General of the Police Commissioner Committee, Sir Arthur Hastings, at the Royal Greater London Police Department, 4 Whitehall Street.

They love redundant elaborations and are even fonder of gossip and murder cases, because these types of news often allow for far more space than political commentary, and readers tend to feel that the more redundant these stories, the better, something other types of news can’t compare to.

It’s no surprise that one penny journalists enjoy gossip, but...

Arthur’s pipe wobbled gently in his mouth as he squinted and glanced over those eye-catching sentences in the report again.

Especially this one—when the piano piece reached the section where Don Juan is dragged into hell, a strange cheer erupted from the audience.

He murmured it a few times, then flicked off some ash from his pipe.

"Strange cheer... ha, they even wrote this down."

This is highly intriguing.

The concert at Buckingham Palace ended last night.

There were reporters present at that concert, it’s true, but Arthur remembered the names on the reporting list very clearly, because there were only two: The Times and the Chronicle Morning Paper. Both newspapers sent their most trusted resident reporters to cover the concert, and the list was also reviewed by the Palace Minister’s Office.

Yet, this Sun column clearly came from a one penny journalist. Anyone who’s spent time on Fleet Street could see it from the rhythm of the sentence structure.

However, this very one penny journalist managed to write up last night’s program order so accurately, even capturing details like Liszt’s performance reactions without error, suggesting the article was not entirely fabricated.

Either he got the program from someone, or someone told him the information after leaving the event.

Arthur placed the pipe horizontally on the armrest, tapping the report with his fingers: "He... has a source."

Knock... knock...

The knocking was light, a rhythm with a half-second hesitation between the knocks.

Arthur sipped his tea unhurriedly, clearing his throat: "Come in."

The door opened slightly, Letley’s head peeking in first: "Sir, did you call for me?"

Arthur noticed Letley’s expression of "I’m sure I didn’t do anything wrong" and calmly said, "Aren’t you coming in to sit?"

Arthur gestured to the chair opposite him: "Sit down, how about a glass of sherry?"

"No, thank you, sir." Letley sat upright, instinctively straightening his back and placing his hands obediently on his knees: "It’s still work hours."

Arthur laughed and asked, "Then how about a cup of tea?"

Letley glanced at Arthur, then at the Sun newspaper on the coffee table, beginning to have doubts in his mind—something’s off with the knight’s demeanor today.

Normally, while Arthur wasn’t a particularly stern person, today he not only smiled warmly and gracefully but also voluntarily poured tea...

The teapot was silver, with a narrow spout, the sound of pouring water as gentle as a trap.

"You’re in a good mood today?" Letley cautiously asked.

"Of course, I’m always in a good mood." Arthur said while pouring him tea, nodding towards the newspaper: "After all, it’s rare for a London newspaper to write something I admire."

"Admire?" Letley paused for a moment, then immediately lowered his head to look at the newspaper.

But soon, after reading the content, Letley finally relaxed.

I knew something was off; turns out there was no prior explanation. There we go, back to the usual sarcastic tone.

This feels right!

Letley pretended to be clueless and asked, "Sir, did you just say... admire? But aren’t these all insults in the newspaper? What’s there to admire?"

"Insults?" Arthur lifted his head, speaking lightly: "Letley, you’re mistaken. Smartly written insults aren’t insults; they’re satire. Look at this title, ’To the Fire-Playing Piano Genius.’ How clever! These people have learned how to phrase their words to absolve themselves. They can rub Liszt into scandal, yet subtly slander Her Majesty the Queen and the Prime Minister. When someone investigates, they can innocently say, ’Oh... you overthink it, we’re just discussing music.’

Letley gave a couple of dry laughs, holding his tea without daring to drink: "Sir, you... wouldn’t be planning to recruit this author to our side, would you? I remember last month you criticized our crime bulletins as inadequate."

Arthur laughed aloud: "I’d indeed wish for someone from Fleet Street’s one penny journalists to be willing to work for Scotland Yard. But, these people would probably rather starve in the streets than be restrained, after all, isn’t it freedom they’re after in this line of work?"

"Then, are you..." Letley probed.

"Professional habit." Arthur held his pipe in his mouth, leaning back: "I just want to know who he is."

Letley paused but ultimately didn’t dare to ask how this bad habit formed: "That scope is way too broad, to really investigate, we might have to start with the Sun’s printing plant."

"Printing plant?" Arthur shook his head, "The printing plant is the most useless place, full of nothing but lead smells. If you want to investigate, check the Sun’s copydesk sheets, especially clarify who the column editor is."

Letley was visibly hesitant.

He held his notebook, silent for a few seconds, before finally saying softly: "Sir... frankly, this kind of task doesn’t seem quite like what we’re supposed to be doing, does it?"

But it wasn’t really Letley’s fault for hesitating, after all, in Britain, unless absolutely necessary, no one would want to offend Fleet Street.

Arthur raised an eyebrow, not speaking, merely lifting the silver teapot again to pour Letley more tea.

Letley looked at the cup about to overflow, feeling more and more uneasy, yet he continued his sentence despite the pressure: "What I mean isn’t not to do it, but to check the Sun’s internal copydesk sheets, we’d probably have to weave through several connections. Those Fleet Street editors are all slippery. If we really want to extract information, it might actually be better to have your contacts from Imperial Publishing step in. After all, they have close dealings with those editors, it’s convenient for drinking, while if our people appear, they’ll certainly be alert."

Arthur, after listening, not only wasn’t angry but actually laughed.

"Letley," he said slowly, "do you know why I like you?"

"Because... I speak frankly?" Letley’s hairs stood on end.

"Exactly." Arthur nodded, with an upbeat tone: "You’re right, Imperial Publishing could indeed help me inquire, but they can’t help me judge. If you need, you can contact them. Finding out who wrote the article isn’t difficult for me. But getting that guy to tell the truth once found—that’s not something Imperial Publishing’s cultural folks are good at. This time, your main task lies in the latter part."