The heavy clouds above London slowly dissipated, leaving behind a few strands of thin sunlight, diagonally piercing through the worn eaves and streetlamp posts, casting elongated shadows.
The air carried a hint of coal smoke mixed with the damp rust sll, blended with the ink fragrance of newspapers and docunts, the coarse language of carriage drivers, and a trace of an invigorating moisture, a scent that appears only before major events unfold.
The front door of Scotland Yard stood tall and silent, like a slumbering old guard, quietly watching over the ruts and crowds along Whitehall Street.
The iron cast door knocker still carried droplets of water, occasionally rattling in the wind.
A carriage slowly ca to a halt at the entrance.
Before the driver could assist anyone in alighting, the carriage door was swiftly pushed open from the inside, and a gloved hand rested on the door fra.
The white shirt paired with a silver-gray bow tie complented each other, with a dark gold Scotland Yard badge faintly visible on the chest. Arthur’s attire was as restrained and impeccably neat as always.
He walked towards Scotland Yard’s main door wielding a cane, his pace unhurried, yet each step landed precisely on the brick surface of the paved path, causing the hearts of onlookers to skip a beat.
On duty at the door was a new recruit, just under three months in service, the buttons on his uniform still glinting with fresh polish.
Seeing an unfamiliar gentleman walking straight in without any greeting, the new officer instinctively blocked the passage: "Please hold, sir. Please present your visitor’s docunt or police letter."
Arthur paused, looked at the young officer, neither angry nor mocking, rely smiling as he asked, "New here?"
The young officer straightened up his posture: "Yes, sir, joined in March."
"Which departnt?"
"Investigations, sir."
"Oh? Handling scene records or following leads?"
"Mostly organizing leads." His voice held a slight arrogance, after all, this was one of the noblest and most prestigious departnts within Scotland Yard: "I handle primary archiving of complaint information and intelligence docunts and then pass them up for assessnt on whether to file the case."
Arthur nodded, maintaining a gentle tone, "That’s quite important. Was last night’s theft case at Victoria Pier assigned to your departnt?"
The young officer frowned, seeming a bit hesitant, "I, I’m not really sure... although our departnt did receive a letter from the pier station yesterday afternoon... but I haven’t looked at its details. Why do you ask?"
"Just a casual question." Arthur smiled as if rely a curious London citizen, "Who do you usually partner with?"
"Uh... I mainly assist Chief Bobby Campbell." The young officer hesitated, his gaze starting to show impatience, "Sir, are you from a newspaper? If you’re here for an interview, you need to use the eastern side entrance. Right now, it’s official duty hours, no trespassing."
Arthur remained unruffled, appearing to attentively observe a thriving young sprout.
He was about to inquire further when he suddenly heard the steady sound of boots stepping onto the brick pavent beside him.
"George." A sowhat old but resonant voice greeted him, "Don’t block the way."
The new officer started, and turned sharply.
He saw an old Police Superintendent, with grey hair and eyes akin to an eagle’s, erging from Scotland Yard’s main hall.
Wearing an old-fashioned dark tailcoat uniform with a slightly worn policen’s belt at his waist, his steps were leisurely but exuded a significant presence.
The man stepped forward, placing a firm hand on young officer George’s shoulder, without reprimanding or scolding, rely gave him a silent glance.
Then turned to Arthur, standing upright and saluting.
"Welco ho, sir."
Arthur nodded slightly, "Long ti, Evans."
While they exchanged words, a group of on-duty officers in the front hall raised their heads, so rubbed their eyes, so secretly touched their badges on their chest, while so were barely able to suppress the urge to rush over for greetings.
And the new officer George remained standing stiffly in place, his face flushed as if he were a coal briquette just drawn from the furnace. He slowly lowered his head, quietly stepping back a little.
Arthur, noticing this, rely lifted his cane slightly, smilingly patted George’s shoulder, and turned to Superintendent Evans, "This young man’s nice, he has potential."
Superintendent Evans’s mouth twitched, revealing a rare smile on his old face shaped by ti and storms.
"He’s quite good indeed." He joked, "Except he hasn’t learned yet that the gate of Scotland Yard never blocks the path of Sir Arthur."
Arthur chuckled, shaking his head, "It’s not his fault, the rules are the rules."
"The rules are for newcors," Evans led Arthur inside, his voice small but crystal clear, "And you are the one who sets them."
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