SGB Chapter 337

## Chapter 337: A Bite of the Hand That Feeds?

**Chapter 337: A Bite of the Hand That Feeds?**

Bang, bang, bang.

The acrid scent of black powder smoke hung heavy in the air, accompanied by the sharp crackle of several gunshots. The Liverpool docks, bustling with laborers hoping to catch a break, were filled with the usual cacophony of voices. At first, the din easily drowned out the sounds of gunfire.

But when Dumas and Louis drew their own pistols and returned fire, the pedestrians on the cobblestone streets finally realized something was amiss.

Panic quickly spread through the crowd. People scattered in all directions, transforming the scene into a chaotic mess.

Arthur and his companions huddled behind the carriage, their revolvers spitting fire.

Arthur surveyed the scene, his gaze sweeping across the throngs of fleeing people, but finding no sign of the attackers. “Did anyone see who fired the shots?” he asked urgently.

Dumas, his jaw clenched, peeked out from behind the carriage. “One of them was wearing a brown fedora, a red jacket, and straight-leg trousers. He had a couple of men with him, both holding guns!”

Arthur followed Dumas’s directions and soon spotted the culprits hiding among the fleeing crowd.

He counted their shots silently, then roared, “Six shots! They should be out of ammo. Charge and take them down!”

The group prepared to storm the attackers, but as Louis stepped forward, a bullet ripped through his top hat.

The near miss sent a shiver down the Emperor’s spine. “Damn it! They have revolvers too! More than one bullet!”

Just as Louis was about to unleash his fury, Dumas, seizing an opportunity as the crowd dispersed, took down the lead attacker with a well-placed shot.

Meanwhile, the men from various Liverpool departments who had been tailing Arthur drew their own pistols and rushed to assist.

“Mr. Hastings, are you alright?” they shouted, firing their weapons as they approached.

Beep, beep, beep!

Amidst the chaos and shouts, the shrill sound of a police whistle pierced the air, followed by the pounding of hooves.

The local Liverpool magistrate, alerted to the commotion at the docks, was arriving with his mounted police.

The attackers had assumed their target was just Arthur and his entourage. However, they had underestimated the Liverpool authorities’ dedication to protecting Special Inspector Hastings. They had deployed a significant number of plainclothes officers in the vicinity of his hotel.

Realizing their assassination attempt was doomed, with Arthur and his group closing in, the leader of the attackers gritted his teeth and pulled out a match from his pocket, tossing it into the horse trough nearby.

“Hastings! You government-serving bastard, go to hell!”

A deafening boom echoed through the docks.

The wooden trough exploded in a fiery blast, scattering the bullets hidden inside. The shrapnel shattered the nearby hotel walls and windows, sending shards of glass flying.

Several pedestrians caught in the blast were wounded, screaming as they crumpled to the ground. Even the leader of the attackers, eyes wide with shock, convulsed twice before collapsing like a broken kite.

Arthur and his companions, though further away, were not entirely unscathed. The carriage door was riddled with bullet holes. Dumas, thrown off his feet by the blast wave, lay on the ground. Louis and Heine, while less affected, were covered in dirt.

Arthur, however, was the most unfortunate. Though the bullets missed him, a small stone propelled by the explosion struck his eye, leaving a bleeding gash that burned with fiery pain.

But despite his own injury, Arthur was more concerned about Washington Irving, the American embassy secretary. If he was hurt, the incident would escalate beyond a domestic matter, becoming an international incident.

He was already juggling the demands of the High Court, the Customs Department, the Central Health Committee, and the Liverpool authorities. He didn’t want to involve the Foreign Office.

Especially not with Palmerston, the Viscount, as Foreign Secretary. The aristocratic playboy from Ireland was not a man to be trifled with.

“Mr. Irving, are you alright?”

“Goodness, what a shock!” Irving exclaimed, his eyes wide as he surveyed the carnage. “Mr. Hastings, you should be more concerned about yourself than me! How is your injury?”

Arthur, though visibly shaken, remained composed, having anticipated such a scenario. However, he was surprised by the attackers’ audacity in launching such a brazen attack in broad daylight.

He pulled out a handkerchief to cover his eye, even managing a wry joke. “This is nothing, just a scratch. The attackers put on a good show, but in reality, they’re no match for London’s roughest. At least, when I first joined Scotland Yard, the East End thugs actually managed to keep me bedridden for a few days.”

Irving, witnessing Arthur’s calmness, even his ability to light a cigarette, finally relaxed. “Just as I said, Arthur Sigma is Hastings. I’m not surprised. Who else could write ‘The Hastings Chronicles’?”

Agareus, resting a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, dipped a finger in the blood on the handkerchief. The Red Devil shook his head, a wry smirk on his face. “I told you, Arthur, you never learn. It’s not like they need to kill you, but they wouldn’t mind if you did die.”

“Mr. Hastings!”

As the Red Devil finished speaking, the Liverpool officials, seeing the attackers’ demise, rushed forward.

But as they neared, they noticed the blood on Arthur’s cheek. No one dared speak first, fearing they would be blamed.

Amidst the silence, the Liverpool police finally arrived.

The magistrate dismounted, hurrying to Arthur’s side. “Mr. Hastings, are you…”

Before he could finish, Dumas interrupted with a sarcastic sneer. “Sir, as you can see, the assassination is over. Instead of inquiring about our well-being, perhaps you and your men should focus on cleaning up this blood-soaked street.”

Irving, having recovered from the shock, echoed Dumas’s sentiment. “Now I understand how Spencer Perceval met his end in the Westminster Palace hall. If the Prime Minister could be assassinated, what chance does a Special Inspector in Liverpool have?”

The magistrate, flustered by their comments, stood speechless, his face flushed.

Arthur, chuckling softly, offered a conciliatory remark. “It’s not that bad. I’m in better shape than the Prime Minister. At least, judging from today’s events, these assassins were not very bright. They fired at me from thirty yards away. If they were smarter, like John Bellingham back in the day, they would have waited until they were right next to me before firing at my chest. Then I would be on my way back to London in a box this afternoon.”

The magistrate, sweating profusely, replied, “Mr. Hastings, it was a lapse in our security. But you know, our police force is stretched thin. Liverpool is a vast city, and sometimes mistakes happen.”

Arthur nodded. “Yes, that’s why Sir Robert Peel insisted on creating Scotland Yard. He felt it was too much to expect local magistrates and Bow Street Runners to handle London’s security alone. I’ll keep your concerns in mind. Out of gratitude, I’ll be sure to report this incident accurately.”

He then turned to the silent onlookers, the men who had been trailing him. “Gentlemen, what are you waiting for? Go back and report to whoever sent you here. I’m not feeling well today, so I won’t be visiting them. Whether they come to see me is up to them.”

…

On the second floor of the Golden Lion Inn, Arthur’s room.

Arthur surveyed the table, covered with six pistols: four flintlocks and two revolvers.

The flintlocks, expertly examined by Dumas, were identified as a double-barreled Howdah flintlock pistol made by the British East India Company’s Ordnance Board, a spiral-barreled flintlock pistol made by the venerable Venetian arms manufacturer Pietro Beretta, and two others, likely from an unknown gunsmith, with percussion caps.

As for the revolvers, Arthur, though not as knowledgeable about firearms as Dumas, recognized them as Colt’s creations.

A 16th-century invention, the revolver, while not exactly new, had previously been either a matchlock or a flintlock.

But with its percussion cap firing mechanism, rifled barrel, and conical bullet cartridges, there was no other revolver in the world comparable to the Colt.

Dumas, casually picking up a revolver, remarked, “They did a pretty sloppy job. The assassination attempt itself was bad enough, but using a revolver? They practically shouted out where they got the guns. Colt’s production lines aren’t established yet, so every revolver is practically handmade by him and a few artisans. If we just find out who recently placed an order, the identity of the assassins will be clear.”

Heine chimed in, “Yeah, I thought assassination was a high-class business, requiring meticulous planning, a skilled sharpshooter, and a hidden motive. But what did we see today? So many shots fired, yet not a single one hit its mark. The only thing that hurt Arthur was his bad luck. How did he even get hit by a pebble?”

Just then, Louis entered the room. “Arthur, according to Field Sergeant, three attackers, two dead, one wounded. But the wounded one’s in bad shape. Alexander shot him through the right chest. He’s not dead yet, but he won’t last long.”

Arthur, clutching his handkerchief to his cheek, asked, “Is he willing to talk?”

Louis shook his head. “The employer must have paid them handsomely, or offered them something they couldn’t refuse. He won’t say anything. But that doesn’t stop us from investigating. We found something interesting on him. Take a look at this.”

With those words, Louis tossed a pocket watch towards Arthur.

Arthur deftly opened the lid, revealing a portrait of a beautiful blonde woman. Below the image, her name was inscribed in elegant script: Agnieszka.

“Hmm… that’s not a common name in England.” Arthur read aloud. “Agnieszka, is that how you pronounce it?”

“Yes.” Louis nodded slightly. “A very common Polish name. And those three assassins, they looked pretty Eastern European.”

“Polish?” Dumas exclaimed. “You mean the assassins were Polish? What reason would they have to go after Arthur? I’d find it more believable if you said it was the French.”

Louis sighed. “If you’re referring to Poland, the country that no longer exists, then I agree, they have no reason to do this. In fact, they should be grateful to him. Arthur recently saved their national treasure, the pianist, Frédéric Chopin. But we’re not talking about Poland, we’re talking about Polish assassins. Assassins, they do the job for money. There are plenty of Polish refugees in Britain, some of them looking to make a quick buck. It’s not surprising that some of them would turn to crime.”

Heine questioned, “But those assassins clearly didn’t intend to live. They detonated the explosives without hesitation. What kind of money could make someone do that?”

Louis nodded. “Maybe they weren’t making money for themselves. Maybe they have families in Britain? Sacrificing their own life for their family’s well-being, that’s a deal many people would take.”

“Ah…” Dumas, as if struck by a sudden realization, exclaimed. “That explains it. No wonder they botched the assassination so badly. The Poles have no grudge against Arthur, but they took the job and had to do it. So they came up with this win-win solution?”

Heine countered, “But if they didn’t kill Arthur, would the employer pay them?”

Dumas shook his finger. “You can’t say that. They dared to take on this job, knowing they wouldn’t survive, regardless of whether the assassination succeeded or not. They would have demanded the money upfront. Otherwise, who would take care of their orphans and widows after they died?”

Heine scoffed. “If that’s the case, then the employer is just as stupid. He paid them, but they didn’t get the job done. What’s the point of that?”

While everyone debated the perplexing case, Arthur remained silent.

He wasn’t as interested in the assassins’ psychology as Dumas and the others. He was more concerned about who had ordered the hit.

On the surface, the Liverpool authorities, with the potential to secure a lucrative £200,000 municipal construction project, had no reason to act so recklessly.

And Arthur remembered Agareus’ warning. Someone in London wanted him dead.

He didn’t have many enemies in London, but not too few either. But of those who could afford to hire assassins, he knew only two.

One was former MP Bernie Harrison. The other was Judge George Norton.

But Harrison, though stripped of his parliamentary seat, still had a thriving company. Arthur hadn’t shown any intention of pursuing him further. Why would he resort to such desperate measures?

As for Judge Norton, he was currently embroiled in a heated divorce battle with Viscount Melbourne. Did he have the time to hire three assassins to cause trouble in Liverpool? If his CPU was that powerful, capable of multitasking, he shouldn’t have been stuck in a dead-end job as a magistrate, relying on his wife to secure a position.

(To be continued)