## Chapter 127: The Hyde Park Murder
**127. Chapter 127: The Hyde Park Murder**
London, Bayswater, 36 Lancaster Gate.
Night had fallen, the stars twinkled outside, and the lights were ablaze inside.
In the spacious dining room, a rectangular, milky-white dining table was set, with Darwin and Elder seated on opposite sides in mahogany chairs. Arthur sat at the head, flipping through a book.
He muttered, “Benjamin Disraeli, could he be the same Mr. Disraeli who wrote *Vivian Grey*?”
Elder’s face was buried in a freshly printed copy of *The Lady’s Secret Gazette*. He read while asking, “Why? Is he famous?”
Darwin, who was intently studying a natural history magazine, heard this and said, “Arthur mentioning it reminded me. I think there was such a figure in the British literary world in recent years. Only, Mr. Disraeli’s reputation doesn’t seem very good. For the past few years, attacks on him have been seen in various literary magazines every now and then.”
“Attacks?” Elder’s face slowly emerged from the newspaper, “What did he do? Extramarital affairs? Illegitimate children? Or some other dirty, messy relationship?”
Arthur glanced at him, “The things you mentioned are precisely the areas where literary artists are hardest to attack. Remember Paganini we saw at the Royal Theatre? That guy was a notorious playboy, his biggest hobby was spending money in brothels all over Europe, but his fans didn’t care about such things, they even praised him for being romantic and passionate.”
As Arthur spoke, Alexandre Dumas, who had been happily cooking in the kitchen, suddenly jolted.
Fortunately, no one else noticed his discomfort. Elder continued to ask, “So what exactly did Disraeli do?”
Arthur picked up *Vivian Grey* in front of him and displayed its cover to Elder.
Elder glanced at it, only to find that the author’s name was clearly written as: Anonymous.
Elder scratched his head, “Is this Disraeli out of his mind? He wrote a book but still chose to remain anonymous. Doesn’t he want the royalties?”
Arthur said, “That’s the crux of the matter. Mr. Disraeli’s original intention in writing this book wasn’t to make money, but to attack a former friend in the publishing industry.
Writing a book to stab a friend in the back is already shameful enough, but Disraeli’s behavior of using a pseudonym to satirize him is something that the literary and publishing worlds cannot tolerate.
So when his true identity was revealed, he immediately became infamous in the British literary creation field. From then on, he seems to have stopped publishing new works for a long time.
I thought he was too ashamed to show his face, so he emigrated abroad. Now it seems Mr. Disraeli is just laying low. Once things calm down, he’ll be back in action.”
Arthur’s words had just finished when Alexandre Dumas, wearing a white apron, placed a few plates of fragrant rice on the table in front of everyone.
Arthur looked at the rice grains, shining with a golden oily sheen, each distinct, and the diced tomatoes and fat-lean sausages interspersed among the rice, giving it a touch of color. He raised his hand and fanned it gently, a soft, savory fragrance immediately filled his nostrils.
He couldn’t help but look up at Dumas, giving him a thumbs-up, “I didn’t expect you to have this skill. When you said you were going to cook, I thought you were joking.”
Dumas snorted arrogantly.
“You can’t blame you for thinking that. After all, you Brits are always making jokes about the things you eat. But I must solemnly declare to you, even in France, you may not be able to taste such exquisite skills.”
Dumas’ words had just finished when Arthur saw the Red Devil standing behind him, licking his oily fingers, nodding in agreement, “Try it, Arthur, the fat man didn’t lie.”
Dumas sat down, took a bite of his creation, then contentedly said.
“Besides literary creation, my greatest talent is making food. Or to put it more bluntly, writing is just a means to achieve my life goals. I have two major life goals: one is to taste all the delicacies in the world, the other is to let everyone taste them too. The first goal can be achieved through writing alone. But the second goal requires a republican revolution.”
Arthur, hearing him brag so much, took a bite with a mix of doubt and curiosity.
He chewed the rice grains, savoring the lingering aroma and aftertaste.
It must be said, this rice dish is really good. If I had to describe the taste, it’s like egg fried rice with oyster sauce and diced ham.
But where did Dumas get oyster sauce these days?
Arthur pondered for a moment, wiped his mouth with a napkin, then looked at Dumas calmly, “It’s oyster, you added oyster.”
Dumas, hearing this, exclaimed in surprise, “I told you, you must be an old Frenchman lurking among the Brits.”
“Oyster?” Elder instantly caught the keyword, he hurriedly asked, “Did you remove the leech eggs?”
“What leech eggs?” Now it was Dumas who was bewildered.
Darwin kindly explained, “It’s the black stuff around the outside of the oyster shell.”
Arthur added, “It’s bouncy, it tastes like pudding.”
Arthur’s words had just finished when he saw Dumas’ face turn green, he dashed up the spiral staircase in one step. Needless to say, he must have gone to the bathroom.
And Elder, seeing this, couldn’t help but change his expression, “Look! Look! Even the French can’t stand this!”
With that, he followed in Dumas’ footsteps.
Arthur glanced at their backs, then shrugged helplessly at Darwin, “Didn’t you say it was fine as long as it was cooked?”
Darwin smiled and nodded, “Yes, it’s fine as long as it’s cooked.”
“Then why don’t you eat it?”
Darwin calmly wiped his mouth, “Who would eat that thing unless they’re about to starve to death?”
Just as he finished speaking, there was a knock on the door.
“Who is it at this late hour?”
Arthur picked up his white teacup, leisurely stood up, walked across the path, stepped on the velvet carpet, and opened the double white door.
He had just opened the door when he was blinded by the bright light emanating from a hand-held kerosene lamp.
Before he could make out the person, he heard a surprised voice.
“Ah, Inspector Hastings?”
Arthur slowly opened his half-closed eyes, and only then did he see the person clearly.
It was Charles Field, the young police officer who had been seconded to the Greenwich Police District to assist him in solving the murder and theft of the corpse.
Arthur saw him and couldn’t help but smile, “Is this your patrol area? What’s the case at this late hour that you’re visiting?”
Field looked a bit nervous, he nodded repeatedly, “Inspector Hastings, you probably don’t know this yet. Inspector Clemens… is dead…”
“Dead?” Arthur was taken aback for a moment, then quickly asked, “When? Where?”
“Just… just this evening, Inspector Clemens was found hanged from a tree at the northeast corner of Hyde Park. The details of the case are still under investigation, that’s why I’m visiting each household in the neighborhood so late. By the way, Inspector Hastings, did you notice anything unusual this evening?”
(End of Chapter)