The Shadow of Great Britain

The afternoon sun brightened the stone bricks of Fleet Street, and sacks filled with malt were piled at the entrance of the Old Cock Tavern at No. 22. A few lazy printing apprentices leaned against the bags, smoking and chatting idly.

"The Sign of London’s ’Old Cock Tavern’"

Perhaps it was still early, but the tavern wasn’t very crowded inside. Looking around, there were empty tables everywhere, and the oak floorboards were glistening under the sunlight. A few sun-warmed flies buzzed around the windows, occasionally resting on a small notice board with price lists.

The idle bartender leaned against the counter, yawning as he flipped through the order lists delivered at noon. Every now and then, he lazily shouted out the window, "George, deliver three barrels of Porter to No. 16 St. James Street! Their club’s stock is running low!"

"Fleet Street’s ’Old Cock Tavern’ Restaurant" drawn by British artist Philip Norman in 1886

Bang!

The heavy door half opened and half closed in the wind as a man wearing a black top hat and a travel cloak walked in.

As soon as he removed his hat, the bartender recognized this regular customer; it was Mr. Arthur Hastings from "The British".

At the sight of Arthur, the bartender immediately stood up straighter, put the order list aside, and greeted with a smile.

"Mr. Hastings!" He leaned out from behind the counter halfway: "I thought you’d wait until before Christmas to be willing to come back from Paris!"

Arthur removed his gloves and casually slapped them on the bar: "I couldn’t help it; I was missing the dust of Fleet Street."

"You really are..." The bartender replied with a smile: "Look at the gentlemen of London, which one is like you, running back to this godforsaken place in London, and it’s only just August?"

"I didn’t want to return so soon, but..." Arthur pouted, looking rather helpless: "Johnny, you know I still have a position in White Hall."

"Isn’t that easy to solve?" The bartender chuckled: "Which of those clerks in White Hall hasn’t paid someone to cover for them at least once? I’ve heard from some reporters and editors at ’The Observer’ that there are quite a few ghost jobs. Compared to them, you’re exceedingly diligent."

"Those were the days before the parliamentary reforms," Arthur half-joked: "Now White Hall’s investigations are much stricter than before. I don’t rule out that in other departments, people might still do such things, because in departments like the Treasury or the Lord Chancellor’s office, salaries start at 200 pounds and up. But in the Home Office, especially the policing system, you can count on your fingers how many are willing to pay for someone to take over."

"Perhaps." The bartender shrugged, jokingly adding: "But you’re definitely one of them."

Arthur gave a gentle smile, not arguing, which was a tacit acknowledgment.

However, while he was among the few in the policing system who could afford to pay someone to cover their duties, for Arthur, it wasn’t about financial capability, but rather about relinquishing power.

Since joining Scotland Yard in 1829, hadn’t he been striving to keep the policing system firmly in hand?

Now that his dream had come true, why would he hand it over to someone else to enjoy?

He glanced at the deserted tavern and asked, "Has Diz arrived?"

"Are you here for Mr. Disraeli?" The bartender slapped his forehead and laughed: "I should have known. He wouldn’t come to the Old Cock just to find a quiet place to read. Head up the stairs, he’s in your ’The British’ exclusive chamber."

Arthur nodded, buttoning his hat again: "Then I’ll head up."

"Take care." The bartender nodded to him: "You and Mr. Disraeli, please wait a bit, the refreshing beer will be here shortly."

Arthur softly thanked him and turned towards the stairs.

The wooden stairs leading to the second floor were a bit old, and each step creaked softly.

He hadn’t walked far before he saw a private room door slightly ajar, and a somewhat faded note stuck on it, reading — ’The British’ Exclusive Meeting Room · No Entry Without Invitation.

Someone had scribbled underneath it — Unless you’re bringing scandal.

Arthur gently knocked on the door twice and, without waiting for a response from inside, pushed it open and went in.

The chamber wasn’t large but was private and quiet.

Two slanting skylights let in a soft light, an old desk was placed under the window, with some newspapers and a stack of freshly written manuscripts scattered on top.

Disraeli, with a vest open by a button, lay slouched against the chair back, legs propped on the desk, puffing on a cigar.

"My dear Arthur, you finally decided to return." Disraeli put down the manuscript in his hand: "I thought you had such a smooth trip in Paris that you planned on acquiring the French opera houses while you were at it."

Arthur took off his hat, draping his coat over the chair back: "Benjamin, is there a need to mock me like this? I was in Paris on business; the tasks of eating, drinking, and other indulgences were mainly handled by Eld and Alexander."

"Didn’t you join them for any fun?"

"Occasionally."

"Isn’t that enough?" Disraeli rolled his eyes: "You, Mr. Carter, Charles, Alfred, and the others disappeared once summer arrived. You were either in Paris living it up or in Brighton enjoying seaside leisure. And me? I could only be trapped in the ink-smelling pile of ballots, battling with Whig Party members."