SGB Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Piercing Scotland Yard

After parting ways with Elder, Arthur slowly sauntered towards Scotland Yard, following his usual patrol route.

He paid little attention to the street vendors encroaching on the sidewalks, only reluctantly offering a polite warning when shopkeepers protested vehemently. This was a life philosophy Arthur had learned after half a year at Scotland Yard.

The area under the jurisdiction of the Metropolitan Police boasted a staggering population of one and a half million, with a tenth of them directly or indirectly engaged in itinerant retail.

The prisons around London were already overflowing, so Arthur couldn’t possibly lock everyone up.

And the Royal Navy, though capable of sailing the seven seas, defeating the Dutch and Spanish fleets, and crushing Napoleon’s navy at the Battle of Trafalgar, had no capacity to deport all the London street vendors to Australia.

Arthur had been faced with this agonizing dilemma for the past six months—to arrest or not to arrest.

Thankfully, he wouldn’t have to confront this predicament again.

Agareus, with his head drooping like a defeated rooster, trailed behind Arthur, utterly lacking in spirit.

Noticing his friend’s subdued mood, Arthur inquired, “Agareus, what’s wrong? You look like a defeated Frenchman with that sour face.”

“Arthur! You’re sending me to sea to watch whales, and you expect me to put on a happy face? Should I be laughing?”

Agareus, after uttering these words, went to a fish stall and squatted down. He gave a disdainful look at the half-dead herring bubbling on the counter, then sighed, covering his forehead.

“How much virtue have I accumulated to deserve this fate? For the next few years, I’ll be forced to eat these ugly, slimy little things?”

Arthur’s response to Agareus’s complaints was not sympathy but a strong desire to correct the devil’s flawed worldview.

“Agareus, that’s disrespect for the history of this country. For a very long time, the Royal Navy relied on the ugly little things you’re talking about.

To promote mercantilism and encourage fishing and shipbuilding, Henry VII enacted the “Fish Act,” mandating the consumption of fish during Lent and other fasting days.

By the time of Elizabeth I, the scope of fish days had been expanded to three days a week. Eating fish was the responsibility and obligation of every subject under the King.”

Agareus was furious. He conjured three torches from somewhere, performing a juggling act like a circus clown, brandishing the flaming torches at Arthur.

“Using the laws of Britain to chastise the Duke of Hell, Arthur, how audacious of you! I won’t eat it. What can you do to me?”

Arthur shrugged. “According to the law, the minimum punishment for not eating fish on fish days is six hours in the stocks. But your attitude is extremely serious, so I propose a ten-day jail sentence. But that’s all in the past. Now you can eat or not, it’s up to you.”

“You don’t care? Then why are you bringing this up?”

Arthur answered earnestly, “Because you just called me an excellent graduate of the University of London this morning, so I’m going to showcase my excellent academic knowledge. While this is usually irrelevant in the daily work of the Metropolitan Police, I feel I owe you something to avoid disappointing my main sponsor.”

“I don’t need that kind of explanation from you! If you really want to give me an explanation, use that clever little brain of yours and think of other options besides floating at sea.”

“Unfortunately, Agareus, it’s too late. If you had sent me to Oxford or Cambridge, or if I hadn’t encountered a recession after graduating, maybe I would have had other choices.

But now, the sea is my only path. Agareus, this is all your fault.”

“Oh, my dear Arthur,” Agareus pleaded in a humble tone, “Is it too late for me to apologize?”

Arthur pointed to the badge on his hat and asked, “If apologies were effective, what would we need police for?”

“Damn it! You’re really determined? If that’s the case, why don’t you take off that disgusting uniform? Didn’t you get paid for this week already?”

Arthur said, “This is called being thorough, standing my last post. As long as I haven’t officially submitted my resignation, I’m still a member of the Metropolitan Police.”

“Oh, Arthur…” Agareus feigned wiping tears with his handkerchief, “I almost believed your lies. You despicable little scoundrel, what are you planning to do?”

Arthur glanced at him. “I’ve been disgusted by this place for six months. Am I just going to leave so easily?”

“Oh! That’s right!” The devil grinned with excitement. “What are you going to do? Set Scotland Yard on fire, or stab your damn boss?”

“Neither.”

“Then what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to pierce Scotland Yard and light a fire under my boss’s ass.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“No, Agareus, you don’t understand. It’s not the same at all.”

Arthur suddenly stopped, standing at a bustling street corner.

Behind him was the noisy, filthy, stench-filled East End of London.

But the world in front of him was a complete transformation.

Clean, orderly houses and streets stood side by side, blending Gothic spires and glittering medieval buildings with meticulously designed modern houses. Ornate carvings and black, curious railings complemented each other. Near Parliament Square, there were ornate carriages everywhere, along with well-dressed gentlemen and ladies of the upper class.

Within a radius of less than three miles, the essence of the entire United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland was concentrated. To the east lay the Houses of Parliament, representing the country’s legislative body. To the north was Whitehall Street, lined with administrative offices. To the west stood the Supreme Court of Great Britain. To the south lay Westminster Abbey and St. Margaret’s Church, symbols of the Anglican Church.

It was a stark contrast to the darkness and filth behind him, dazzling and overwhelming.

And Arthur’s destination today lay within this area.

His gaze pierced through the throngs of people towards the north.

4 Whitehall Street—the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police.

(End of Chapter)

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