## Chapter 96: The Sacred Oath of the Knights of the Round Table
**Chapter 96: The Sacred Oath of the Knights of the Round Table**
The air in Arthur’s office at the Greenwich Police Station was thick with the smell of rain and something else, something metallic and unsettling.
*Thump, thump, thump!*
A knock echoed through the room, breaking the silence.
“Come in.”
The door swung open, revealing the disheveled figure of Sergeant Jones. His hair was a mess, his shirt collar torn and stained with blood, and his eyes were swollen and bruised.
Arthur, who had been working at his desk, looked up, his jaw dropping in surprise.
“Clarendon, what happened to you?” he asked, his voice laced with concern.
Jones, clutching his aching shoulder, forced a smile. “Nothing serious, sir. You know how it is, sometimes we get unlucky. Just a couple of thugs who decided to ambush me in an alleyway.”
Arthur slammed his fist on the table, his anger flaring. He turned and grabbed the police baton hanging on the wall, his voice sharp with fury. “These attacks on officers are getting out of hand! I’m going to find those bastards and bring them to justice myself!”
Jones shook his head, his voice weary. “They were prepared, sir. They were all wearing masks. I’m guessing it’s because I’ve been catching so many grave robbers lately. They probably sent someone to teach me a lesson. If you go there now, they’ll be long gone.”
He paused, his voice softening. “It’s happened to every officer in this precinct, sir. Just this time it was my turn. It’s just a few scratches, I’ll be fine in a couple of days. Don’t worry about it.”
Arthur, though still seething, seemed to relent. He sighed, his voice laced with a hint of resignation. “Even though it’s common, we still need to file a report. We need to crack down on these violent attacks. Jones, you’re off duty for the next few days. Don’t even think about accompanying me to the Liverpool-Manchester railway opening ceremony next Wednesday. Stay home and rest.”
He paused, his gaze hardening. “I will get you justice for this attack. You’ve already proven your worth in the murder and grave robbery cases, and now you’ve shed your blood for Scotland Yard. I won’t let you down!”
Jones, touched by Arthur’s words, quickly stood to attention and saluted. “Yes, sir! I’m fine, sir. It’s nothing that will hinder my work.”
Arthur, his brow furrowed, walked over and patted Jones on the shoulder.
“Jones, I know you’re dedicated to your work. I’ve seen the results you’ve achieved in your patrol area. You’ve been here for four months, and you’re almost always out patrolling, busting theft cases with impressive efficiency.
Even Scotland Yard headquarters would be envious of your speed in solving cases. You find the criminals within days of the victims reporting their losses. You’re a valuable asset to this force, and I won’t allow anyone to harm you.
Go home and rest. I’ll file a report to headquarters explaining your injuries and absence.
And don’t hesitate to see a doctor. The police will cover your medical expenses. Now, obey my orders!”
Jones, relieved that his concerns were addressed, let out a sigh of relief. A flicker of cunning crossed his eyes. He thought he was hiding it well, but Arthur, with his crimson-tinged eyes, saw through his facade.
“Yes, sir! It is an honor to serve you!” Jones saluted again, before turning and walking out of the office. He gently closed the door behind him.
A faint click echoed in the room. As the door closed, shadows fell on Jones’s face, obscuring his features.
A sly smile spread across his lips as he muttered to himself, “The strongest voice in Scotland Yard? You’re just a naive fool. Don’t blame yourself for being so trusting, blame the world for being cruel. Your time as a Scotland Yard Inspector might just be ending next month.”
He straightened his crumpled collar, twisting his head from side to side, and humming a cheerful tune, walked out of the police station.
Inside the office, Arthur’s fingertips tapped rhythmically on the desk, mirroring the same upbeat rhythm Jones had been humming, the same rhythm that had resonated on the battlefields of Waterloo in the song “The Grenadiers March.”
Underneath Arthur’s tapping fingers lay a letter from Sir Peel. The content was simple, the message clear.
“The news of the change in the railway ceremony security detail will be announced by me to Scotland Yard on Tuesday evening. The focus of the Greenwich precinct will shift temporarily. Your immediate goal is to resolve this diplomatic crisis with France, a crisis that could potentially ignite domestic unrest.”
The tapping stopped abruptly.
Outside, the sky was dark with storm clouds, and the sound of rain drumming on the windowpane filled the air.
The dim light of the office made it impossible to see Arthur’s face, only his crimson eyes, lost in thought.
*Thump, thump, thump!*
Another knock on the door.
“Come in.”
The voice, gentle yet laced with a hint of deadly menace, echoed through the room.
The door creaked open, revealing Dennis, his appearance altered, accompanied by Arthur’s trusted lieutenants, Tom and Tony.
They walked in unison towards the desk, unable to see anything in the dim light.
All they could see were a pair of eyes, gleaming like crimson rubies.
The three officers held their breath, a sense of oppressive dread, as if coming from the depths of their souls, filling the air.
It was the smell of danger, the eerie quiet before a storm.
“Dennis.” The voice, though low, carried an undeniable authority.
“Yes, sir!” Dennis stood ramrod straight, as if the slightest hesitation could cost him his life.
“Can I trust you again?” The voice echoed again.
The words seemed ordinary, but they untied the knot in Dennis’s heart that had been building for four months. He trembled, saluting with the most impeccable salute he had ever given.
“Your will is my mission!”
A flash of lightning illuminated the sky outside, momentarily illuminating the room.
The flash of lightning revealed the glint of the Order of the Bath, the crimson eyes, and Arthur, leaning back in his chair, watching Dennis. A book lay open on the desk before him.
It was an old book, a relic from a second-hand bookstore, its yellowed pages hinting at a rich history.
Perhaps not every Englishman had read it, but its name alone evoked a sense of ancient memory.
“Never be tyrannical, never be merciless, never be treacherous. Grant forgiveness to a suppliant enemy, aid a woman in distress. Uphold the law of justice, never fight for money, for whoever violates this shall be punished by death.”
Agareus stood beside Arthur, his long, withered fingers resting on the title page of the book. The Red Devil pushed up his newly acquired monocle.
The title of the book, in bold letters, was “The Death of King Arthur.”
**(End of Chapter)**