## Chapter 231: To Hastings (4K4)
Days flowed by like water. As the world churned with change, and London trembled with unrest, 1830 gave way to 1831. The wheels of history, caked with mud and dust, rolled on.
A new year, a fresh start.
Arthur Hastings strolled down the London streets, his gaze fixed eastward. The city’s factory chimneys had multiplied, and public carriages, a trendy new mode of transportation, were rapidly gaining acceptance among the citizens. Not far away, the London Bridge train station, recently granted permission by Parliament, was under construction, a bustling hive of activity.
Arthur stood on the sidewalk, his umbrella held aloft. Black-grey raindrops slanted down, speckling his white gloves. A biting north wind whipped at his face, and his warm breath dissolved into a white fog.
Open-top public carriages, each capable of carrying seven to eight passengers, rattled past him, packed with company clerks and skilled workers, some clinging to the handrails, half their bodies hanging outside.
Yet, they remained indifferent. For generations, they had lived by the same rhythm, and they instinctively believed that the new year would bring a faster pace to London life.
And they would be proven right.
Since the Middle Ages, the concept of time had gradually taken root in the hearts of Londoners through their work. Pocket watches were no longer mere status symbols for the upper class. Their practicality had driven their adoption among the middle class.
Even among the poor, many with a keen business sense, poured their savings into acquiring a pocket watch.
For those with ample funds, a pocket watch might be an insignificant tool. But for London’s impoverished, a precise timepiece symbolized opportunity.
A new profession, known as “window tappers,” was flourishing in the slums of the East End.
This might sound confusing, but if you think of them as “wake-up service providers,” the modern world might understand better.
Every morning, starting at five o’clock, window tappers would roam the East End, armed with long bamboo poles, tapping on windows, reminding slumbering workers that whether they liked it or not, another day had begun.
The wake-up service cost a penny. For a working-class family earning two to three shillings a day, this service wasn’t exactly cheap. But it was more economical to pay a penny and avoid the consequences of being late for work.
Arthur leaned against a wall, his pipe clenched between his teeth, exhaling puffs of smoke.
The Red Devil, his shadow, crouched outside a shop window, his gaze flitting across the dazzling array of merchandise. He was plotting how to convince Arthur to buy him some trendy, novelty items to take back with him.
Suddenly, a familiar figure in a tailcoat appeared at the corner.
A young police officer, newly on the job, rubbed his numb fingers and pulled a document bag from his satchel. He handed it to Arthur.
“Chief, Sergeant Tony asked me to give this to you.”
Arthur accepted the bag, asking casually, “What is it?”
“Sergeant Tony said it came from the Post Office to the station. It’s probably mail.”
Arthur opened the bag. As the officer had said, it contained two letters, but the return addresses were remarkably distant. The letters were from Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.
Arthur’s lips curved into a smile as he saw the signatures at the bottom of the letters. “They’ve been gone for so long, I thought they were lost at sea. No news at all. Now I can finally rest easy.”
The officer was bewildered by Arthur’s words, but he didn’t want to pry into someone else’s private life. He simply inquired, “Chief, we’ve surrounded the house according to plan. Should we prepare to enter?”
Arthur waved his hand dismissively. “No need to rush. The suspect is trapped like a fly in a web. Let him enjoy a final night’s sleep before we send him to prison. It’s a good opportunity for me to see how my old friends are doing in a foreign land.”
The officer nodded, then whistled to the men at the end of the street.
The whistle drew several pairs of eyes.
The officer waved to them, and the men, who had already reached for their pistols in their coat pockets, shrugged, yawned, and leaned against the wall.
Arthur unfolded the letters, and as his eyes fell on the first envelope, Darwin’s voice seemed to echo in his ears.
*Dear Arthur,*
*By the time you read this, it will likely be two months later, but given the abysmal state of the British postal system, I suspect it could be even longer.*
*As you know, the crew of the Beagle distinguished themselves during the pursuit at sea, prompting the Admiralty to deem them ready for a voyage. Coupled with the influence of the monsoon shift at the end of last year, after collective deliberation, the Beagle’s departure was ultimately brought forward.*
*Since leaving Plymouth Harbor in December, we have traversed the English Channel, visited Tenerife in Spain, and reached the Cape Verde Islands in Africa. After a brief resupply, we intend to sail across the Atlantic.*
*Along the way, we encountered a series of adverse weather and sea conditions, forcing us to turn back twice. But thanks to Captain FitzRoy’s insistence and the unified efforts of the crew, we finally crossed the Atlantic on our third attempt and officially arrived in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, a week ago.*
*Speaking of which, I must tell you about something interesting that happened. During our second return journey, we were caught in a storm with waves exceeding thirty feet. Eld was knocked overboard by a wave, but thankfully, perhaps God felt Heaven was already noisy enough and wasn’t in a hurry to summon him for service.*
*The lad clung desperately to the Beagle’s dragnet as he was swept overboard. Unfortunately, all his pornographic magazines, his livelihood, were swallowed by the sea.*
*He hung from the Beagle’s dragnet, cursing at the churning, dark Atlantic, with towering waves and lightning bolts as thick as pythons behind him.*
*My God! It’s a shame our ship’s painter’s paints and brushes were washed overboard too. Otherwise, if the painting were sent back to London, it would have become an immortal masterpiece. I even came up with a name for it while I was clinging to the mast. How about “Monkey and Sea?”*
*Hahaha, never mind, I’ll stop teasing. Eld will tear my hair out if he finds out. I must have eaten too much rotten food on the ship lately, my hair loss has been worse than usual. Of course, Eld, that scoundrel, is partly responsible for my hair loss.*
*It’s a good thing you didn’t come on board as a naturalist. Otherwise, you’d know what it’s like to live on a small ship with eighty men. It’s not too bad when there’s work to be done, but when there’s nothing, they come up with the most ridiculous games.*
*Everyone was relatively normal when they first boarded, playing cards and gambling on things like canned food. But a month later, gambling on cards and food wasn’t enough for them. Those fools started pulling each other’s hair and leg hairs. Eld had a run of bad luck for a while, and his entire leg was plucked bare, like a Greek marble column.*
*Although life on the ship was rather dull, the scientific explorations during our stops were quite enjoyable. We made our first foray into the Amazon jungle last week, witnessing breathtaking landscapes and flora and fauna unseen in Europe. Perhaps I’ll send you some scientific specimens I’ve prepared next time I write.*
*Hmm… actually, there’s something else I’m not sure if I should tell you. During our exploration in the waters off Argentina, we discovered six different species of birds on two adjacent islands. God’s creation is truly wondrous, isn’t it? Hehe, maybe I’m thinking too much. It seems a little too wondrous to me.*
*Whatever the case, God bless you, Arthur. Perhaps what you’re doing now needs God’s protection more than the Beagle’s scientific expedition.*
*Your friend, Charles Darwin.*
*February 25, 1831, written in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.*
Arthur looked at the letter in his hand, a smile spreading across his face.
He murmured, “Charles, this is just the beginning. But you’re right, perhaps I need God’s protection more than you do now. Only with his blessing will I have the strength to protect you when you return from your voyage.”
Arthur finished reading the letter and turned to the next page.
But before his eyes could land on the paper, the sound of chattering monkeys seemed to ring in his ears.
*Greetings to Oxford, greetings to Cambridge, and finally, greetings to my best friend, Arthur Hastings, and my beloved alma mater:*
*Whew! We’re finally at sea! Now everyone will see what true Royal Navy strength is! In a few years, in the twilight of my life, I’m sure I’ll be grateful for this experience! Arthur, watch and learn, when I return to London, you might have to call me Sir Eld!*
*…*
*Damn it! Arthur, I know the Royal Navy’s fate is to die at sea, but is my fate coming too soon?*
*This goddamn Atlantic is a bitch! You weren’t there when I almost got swept overboard, so you probably can’t imagine how high those waves were, one after another, just like a pack of mad dogs.*
*I used to envy those old bastards in the Royal Navy, how they could earn so much money after decades at sea.*
*But now I see that all that money was earned with their lives. The bloody Admiralty couldn’t even provide us with a bigger ship. The Beagle looked like an ant in those waves! Only a few months out at sea, and almost every sailor on board is injured. Even my leg is badly hurt.*
*Damn it, the ship’s pale ale ran out the other day, and I don’t even know what to do tonight.*
*…*
*I traded a piece of ivory with the natives in Cape Verde the other day, and I thought I got a good deal. But now I realize it was the stupidest trade of my life. No cards to play at night, I’m going crazy with this life.*
*…*
*Hahaha, I sold the ivory in Bahia! I knew I was a genius! Arthur, when I finish this voyage and return to London, maybe Scotland Yard should consider me for a procurement position.*
*…*
*Damn it! Arthur, I got scammed by two hookers in Rio de Janeiro! They didn’t leave me a penny of the ivory money! Damn, I thought that kind of scam was exclusive to London. Why does Brazil have this industry? Damn, those little bastards better not let me catch them, or they’ll be sorry. Ugh, Arthur, I wish you were in Brazil, with your skills, you could definitely get my money back.*
*…*
*Arthur, I’m so screwed! I saw a twenty-foot python in the Amazon jungle today. I used to think Greek myths were all lies, but now I see that Medusa’s son might be alive in the Amazon rainforest. Do you think anyone would pay a fortune if I brought one back to London?*
*…*
*Arthur, I have to warn you, Medusa’s offspring seem to have bad tempers. Maybe I should have brought Alexander with me when I left. My little frame would be swallowed whole, but Alexander’s size might give him a fighting chance. Do you think there’s a possibility that Alexander would agree to be tied to a tree as bait, and we could split the spoils after capturing Medusa? What do you think?*
*…*
*Hahaha, those idiots say there are cannibals in the Amazon jungle. What century is this? People still believe that kind of nonsense.*
*…*
Arthur’s eyes scanned Eld’s letter. The Classical Literature major was clearly not as logical as Darwin, writing whatever came to mind, without the rigor of the Classical tradition, but with the whimsy of the Romantics.
However, the most worrisome thing for Arthur was where Eld had stopped writing.
Following the usual sequence and causality of his writing style, something must have happened after Eld mocked the cannibals.
The only question was whether the cannibals preferred grilled or sashimi, and whether the London University graduate would end up in Heaven or Hell.
Arthur shook his head, trying to clear his mind.
While he didn’t mind offering a prayer for Eld, if anything had actually happened, Eld would probably have been digested by now.
He tucked the letter into his pocket, put away his umbrella, and walked towards the house at the end of the street, braving the morning mist.
The undercover detectives waiting for him immediately placed their hands on the flintlock pistols in their pockets.
There were a few knocks on the door.
The door of the house at the end of the street swung open, revealing a middle-aged man in slippers and pajamas, his eyes slightly swollen.
Arthur sized him up and asked, “Mr. Bernie Harrison?”
The man was taken aback for a moment, then slowly nodded.
Arthur pulled a pale yellow piece of paper from his pocket and held it up.
“Arthur Hastings, head of the Criminal Investigation Department, Greater London Police. Based on a search and arrest warrant issued by the London Magistrate’s Court, you are suspected of violating a felony murder charge and attempting to bribe the coroner to alter the autopsy report. To safeguard the lives and property of Londoners and promote judicial fairness, I declare you are now officially under arrest. You have the right to remain silent until the Royal Society’s second toxicological analysis of the body is complete, but anything you say will be used as evidence against you.”
(End of Chapter)