## Chapter 149: Why Always Hastings?
The Duke of Wellington and Sir Robert Peel watched Arthur rise from his chair in the Prime Minister’s office, the dual orders from the Prime Minister and the Home Secretary in his hands.
The Duke of Wellington rose and walked to the wine cabinet, retrieving a half-empty bottle of sherry. He poured a glass for Peel and himself.
He took a sip and nodded slightly at Arthur’s retreating back. “A promising young man, isn’t he? Only 20 years old, yet so insightful. It seems more university education is indeed necessary. The University of London, lacking funds and faith, can still produce such talent. I wonder when King’s College, founded by me and His Majesty, will see such exceptional young people.”
Sir Robert Peel smiled, raising his glass. “King’s College was established only last year. Its first graduating class won’t be ready until two years from now. You have a long wait ahead.”
Wellington suddenly asked, “Seeing young people always brings back memories. When I was 20, I was still a Lieutenant in the 12th Light Dragoons. Robert, do you know? I didn’t want to be a soldier at first. I loved playing the violin and only knew how to play the violin.
But my mother thought I was too clumsy, that I would only be cannon fodder when I grew up, so she sent me to the Military Academy of Pinerolo to study military command. Speaking of which, what were you doing when you were 20?”
“Me? That takes us back to 1809.”
Sir Robert Peel’s eyes were filled with fragments of the past. “I had just finished secondary school and university at Oxford. I graduated with good grades, first in mathematics and literature, so my father, to reward me for my outstanding academic achievements, spent money to buy me a seat in Parliament.”
The Duke of Wellington, upon hearing this, seemed to recall something. “You went to secondary school in Oxford? Oh, right, I think I heard you mention it before. Lord Byron was in the same year as you, right? You managed to beat him in literature, not an easy feat.”
Sir Robert Peel humbly replied, “I was simply better at exams. It’s nothing special. Besides, I only surpassed him in secondary school. When we went to university, he went to Cambridge, and I went to Oxford. After graduation, I joined the House of Commons and spent my days bickering with others, while he inherited his father’s title and went to the House of Lords, having more time to delve into literature. The gap between us had already become apparent at that time.
But you have such high praise for Lord Byron, which is truly surprising. After all, he wrote you into that unfinished ‘Don Juan’…”
The Duke of Wellington shrugged slightly upon hearing this. “If I were to constantly compete with him, I would have died of anger long ago. Compared to today’s ‘Times’ review of me, Byron was merciful.”
Sir Robert Peel asked, “What did ‘The Times’ say?”
The Duke of Wellington remained silent, simply pulling out the crumpled newspaper from his pocket and tossing it onto the table. “See for yourself.”
Sir Robert Peel unfolded the wrinkled newspaper and looked up, seeing the large headline – ‘The Iron Duke: Arthur Wellesley’.
“The Iron Duke? Not a bad nickname.”
The Duke of Wellington rolled his eyes and drained the sherry from his goblet. “Yes! If it weren’t for the content below, I would have really thought ‘The Times’ was still firmly kissing my ass.”
Sir Robert Peel, upon hearing this, was taken aback for a moment, then his gaze shifted to the content of the newspaper.
– According to this newspaper, the Duke of Wellington, unable to bear the protests of the enlightened public, has changed the window panes of his home multiple times this month. The frequent additional expenses have drained the Duke’s finances. To cut costs, he has rediscovered the wisdom he used to defeat Napoleon, using several specially designed iron windows to build an impenetrable defense for his Aspley House, ‘London No. 1’, near Knightsbridge.
– The Duke of Wellington, Field Marshal of the Eight-Nation Army, Conqueror of the World’s Conquerors, Nemesis of the French Tyrant Napoleon, his will is like iron, his command is like iron, his determination to oppose parliamentary reform is like iron, his stubbornness is like a piece of rusty iron. Now even the windows of his house are made of iron!
– May those Tory members who follow closely in the footsteps of the Iron Duke always have a cloth ready at hand to wipe away the saliva of public scorn from his iron body, lest his beautiful red uniform become stained with rust.
The Duke of Wellington caught a glimpse of the newspaper out of the corner of his eye and couldn’t help but feel a surge of anger. “Robert, look at this. What did I tell you before? ‘The Times’ is a third-rate newspaper that blows with the wind. When you are in a stable position, it comes fawning over you. But once it senses something is wrong, it immediately transforms into a reform fighter and starts waving the flag for the Whigs.
In this regard, it’s even worse than ‘The Guardian’. At least ‘The Guardian’s’ views are consistent and don’t make sudden drastic shifts. They still have some face. From a military perspective, ‘The Times’, which deserts its allies in battle, is far more infuriating than ‘The Guardian’, which is a clear-cut enemy!”
Sir Robert Peel, with a touch of humor, tossed the newspaper into the trash can. “So, you now know why ‘The Guardian’ doesn’t sell as well as ‘The Times’?”
The Duke of Wellington muttered, “What good does it do me knowing? Those stupid fools who are marching don’t know! They probably don’t understand that their actions are handing the country over to these guys. Ha! If I step down, then I will have fulfilled their wishes. Anyway, I’m too lazy to continue managing this mess. This gentleman, Arthur Wellesley, is withdrawing from this open field.”
…
4 Whitehall Street.
Charles Rowan, the Chief Commissioner, sat in his chair, his hands folded over his mouth. He stared at the empty meeting room, his unchanging face revealing no emotion.
The door to the meeting room was gently pushed open, and the Deputy Commissioner, Sir Richard Mayne, carrying documents, walked into the meeting room, suddenly stunned.
He scanned the meeting room, then looked at Rowan, pressing his brow and asking, “Charles, isn’t today the police meeting? Why are you the only one here?”
Rowan’s gaze drifted to Mayne. He chuckled, leaned back, and collapsed into his chair. “Yes! I’m also wondering why I’m the only one left. Who is the higher authority, the Metropolitan Police or the Metropolitan Police East London District? Since the LPS is directly under the Home Office, why is it still under the name of Scotland Yard and receiving pay? Who is the highest commander of Scotland Yard, Charles Rowan or Arthur Hastings?”
Mayne, upon hearing this, probably understood what was going on.
He gently placed the documents on the desk, walked to Rowan’s side and asked, “Did he get an order from the Prime Minister again, like that time with the murder and body theft case?”
“Oh! This time it’s not like that.”
Rowan snorted. “This time he’s even more skilled, with dual orders from 10 Downing Street and the Home Office. It’s as if the entire Great Britain revolves around him. Since the Prime Minister and the Home Secretary think the orders should be sent directly to the most promising young Superintendent of Scotland Yard, why not simply remove me and let him take charge of Scotland Yard? Why bother with all this extra effort?”
Mayne, upon hearing this, grinned and comforted him with a kind voice. “Charles, enough already. How can he control all the factions in Scotland Yard? Cavalry, infantry, all those old soldiers, only you, a current Army Colonel, can make them listen.”
“Yes! Cavalry, infantry, they all listen, but our London University graduate doesn’t listen.”
Rowan looked up at Mayne and asked, “Just a few hundred people marching, do we need to deploy so many police officers? This is like they’re invading London from the Thames! I thought it was the French!”
Mayne helplessly replied, “Just wait until this period passes. The Tories are probably only going to last a few months. Once Wellington’s Cabinet collapses, you can do whatever you want to him. Besides, even if you don’t touch him, the Whigs can’t let a young Superintendent who’s close to Peel sit here peacefully, can they?”
Rowan nodded, agreeing with what Mayne said. “That’s right, Richard, you’re absolutely right. A twenty-year-old kid, just because he’s close to Peel, is about to turn Scotland Yard upside down. To show the Whigs some sincerity, all of us old-timers who were brought to Scotland Yard by Peel have to be careful.”
Mayne also understood the subtext in Rowan’s words. He smiled, then casually pulled out an invitation card hidden in the documents.
“Charles, even if you hadn’t mentioned it, I was going to bring it up. Viscount Palmerston sent me an invitation to a dinner party and asked me to ask if you’re interested in joining.”
“Viscount Palmerston?”
Rowan, upon hearing this name, seemed to recall something. He leaned back and took a sip of tea. “Ha, I wasn’t planning on getting involved with him. When he was working at the War Office, everyone who knew him said he was like a whip-wielding foreman when he went crazy. It’s definitely easier to work for Peel than for him.”
Mayne didn’t get angry at this. He bent down and put his arm around his old partner’s shoulder, whispering, “You’re not going? Charles, my old pal, I have to remind you. Don’t say things like ‘there’s plenty of time’, that’s all a lie. In reality, all you have is ‘out of sight, out of mind.'”
Rowan’s face was shrouded in shadow, and he seemed to be struggling a bit.
Mayne, seeing him like this, didn’t continue to persuade him. He calmly picked up the invitation and documents again and turned to leave.
However, before he could walk out, he heard Rowan’s voice suddenly ring out. “Time, location?”
Mayne turned around, his smiling face meeting Rowan’s slightly narrowed eyes.
“This Sunday, Almacks Restaurant, Viscount Palmerston’s private banquet. You can bring your wife. But it’s best not to, because you know, Charles, Almacks Club is full of charming upper-class gentlemen and lively beautiful ladies.”
Rowan, upon hearing this, picked up his teacup and looked out the window. “Almacks Club, truly upper-class. I never thought that someone like me, with a rough background in both the military and the police, would have the opportunity to enter such a high-society social venue. Viscount Palmerston, ha, the Cupid from Ireland, that nickname is truly fitting.”
(End of Chapter)