The Shadow of Great Britain

"Wilcox's body has been found?"

The middle-aged chief inspector tightened his brow upon hearing these words, "Do you mean to say, it wasn't us who acted?"

The officer nodded, "Exactly, someone beat us to it."

The middle-aged chief inspector stood up and began pacing slowly around the office, murmuring to himself, "Who could it have been? The buyer? An enemy? Or perhaps a rival in the same line of work?"

The officer lowered his voice and asked, "Should we initiate a public investigation? We haven't yet dealt with the body."

"No need."

The chief inspector shook his finger, "Scotland Yard has already attracted too much attention, everyone's eyes are on us. If news of a police chief's murder comes out now, it could only escalate matters and who knows what chaos might follow."

"So, should we conduct an internal secret investigation? We've confirmed the last person who saw Wilcox was Dennis Lloyd, a constable from the Greenwich District. If needed, we could start from him and then trace backwards."

"Let's not move on him for the moment, you first dispose of Wilcox's body cleanly. Make sure no traces are left. By the way, have you cleared up Wilcox's social relations? It won't cause any trouble, will it?"

The officer took out the file tucked under his arm and placed it on the office desk.

"Here is his file, Wilcox's parents both died early on, and he enlisted in the Army at the age of fourteen. After retiring, he joined Scotland Yard as a police chief, and he had a wife but got divorced soon after. The couple had no children."

The chief inspector's mouth twitched into a smirk, "A very simple social relation, I like people like him. Cruel, violent, brawny with a simplistic mind. Apart from being slightly vindictive, he doesn't have any major flaws. Can be disposed of anytime after use without any worries about repercussions.

After you dispose of the body, come and tell me. I will initiate an investigation within three days, framing him with a crime of fleeing due to guilt.

At that time, I'll pin all the internal firearms and stolen items trafficked out of Scotland Yard over the past six months on his head—it's quite fitting for such a scapegoat.

The equipment procurement list for this fiscal year will be finalized soon. A perfect opportunity to make up for any shortfalls.

With the prior commendable deeds of Officer Arthur, I doubt the Parliament and the Home Secretary will obstruct the budget request of Scotland Yard too much."

The officer hesitated a bit upon hearing this, "But... wouldn't Sir Peel get suspicious? Those are dozens of guns, and the value of the lost goods is incalculable. Although we've been meticulous, if the Home Office decides to dig into it, we might still get exposed, right?"

"The Home Office won't dig into it."

"Why?"

The chief inspector glanced at the officer, scoffing, "Sir Peel has barely managed to turn Scotland Yard's reputation around. Do you think he would tolerate a scandal about the London Metropolitan Police losing a large quantity of firearms and stolen goods?"

"Just by revealing such a scandal now, all his previous efforts would be wasted, and he'd face strong backlash from the public opinion.

The members of the Whig Party in the House of Commons have been looking for a chance to impeach him; he wouldn't allow such a thing to happen.

Don't be deceived by Sir Peel's gentle and kind appearance; his mind is much deeper than anyone's.

He will surely get suspicious, and he might even investigate, but definitely not in an overt manner under the Home Office's name. We just need to be a little careful and can easily evade them.

Ideally, he'll completely ignore the matter. That way, he continues being the Home Secretary, and we continue our police work—it's better for everyone."

The young officer was still somewhat afraid, his wavering eyes darting around, which the chief inspector noticed.

But he neither criticized nor scolded him.

Instead, he simply patted the young officer's shoulder and said, "Jones, you must understand, no one can be Home Secretary forever, the position could change hands at any time. But you, you are meant to work at Scotland Yard for a lifetime.

Are you really satisfied with your weekly salary of twelve shillings? Do you actually like your rundown home?"

"Summer is coming. Take this, go buy a beautiful dress for your wife, get some new toys for your kids."

With that, the middle-aged chief inspector produced his wallet, folded ten crisp British Pounds diagonally, and stuffed them into the young officer's jacket pocket.

"You are a very outstanding young man, you deserve much more, and I am very optimistic about your future.

Now Wilcox was dead, oh, wait, I should say he had fled out of guilt.

But no matter what, there would be a vacancy for a captain in the Greenwich District. Jones, you understand what I mean, you really shouldn't screw this up."

The young officer shuddered when he heard this.

However, feeling the heft in his pocket, he immediately stood at attention and saluted, "Yes, sir!"

The middle-aged inspector nodded with satisfaction, "Now go back to work. Once you have dealt with the body and come back to report, your promotion documents should also be drafted."

The young officer clenched his fists, struggling to contain his excitement, but he couldn't help revealing a faint, almost imperceptible smile.

Just as he was about to leave, suddenly, he seemed to remember something.

He pulled a bloodstained playing card from his trousers pocket and placed it on the table.

"Right, sir, I found this on Wilcox's chest, it might come in handy."

The middle-aged inspector picked up the playing card; it was a pierced heart Jack.

He leaned back in his chair and held the playing card up against the window, sunlight illuminating its surface.

The color of the hearts, vivid and dripping.

"Hmm...interesting."

...

In Scotland Yard's confinement room, Tom and Tony were locked in the same room.

Both were lying on the ground, looking up at the pitch-black surroundings, even breathing felt oppressive.

"Tony, do you think we're done for this time?"

"Who cares, getting a chance to beat that old bastard Wilcox, I think it was worth it."

"But weren't we the ones who got beaten?"

"Shut up, Tom! It's all your fault, I told you to put a sack over his head, and you couldn't even do that right! Messing that up was one thing, but when I told you to club him from behind, you couldn't even do that?"

"Tony, that's so heartless of you! I broke the stick, what else could I have done? Wilcox was tough like iron, I should have used a hammer instead of a stick."

"It's because you hit the wrong spot! If you had aimed for the back of his head, anyone would have passed out. But you hit his back! Now look, Wilcox is fine and we got beaten and locked up!"

Hearing this, Tom felt a bleak future ahead, "God! Save me, I was just trying to atone, I wanted to do something for Arthur, but why would you punish me like this?"

Tom had barely finished speaking when the iron door of the solitary cell screeched open.

Light flooded the pitch-black cell, illuminating Arthur's sturdy figure and his shining Bath star epaulettes.

Tony, lying on his side facing away from the door, waved his hand impatiently, "Is it meal delivery? Just leave the food on the floor; we'll get it ourselves."

Meanwhile, Tom looked astonished at the smiling Arthur in front of him, and in a daze, he nudged Tony's butt.

"Tony, Tony."

Tony snapped irritably, "What is it now?"

"You better see who's come."

"Who else could it be, surely not Arthur?"

Tom felt his mind was not very clear, and he murmured, "No, not Arthur, it's... It's God."