At Scotland Yard, the real issue was never about who was right or wrong, but rather who remained standing in the end. Although it wasn’t my ho, I truly left everything there when I was young.
—— Arthur Hastings "Fifty Years of Life"
Arthur didn’t sit down right away; instead, he remained standing by the window: "I’ve been thinking, Chief, how exactly you managed to endure these two and a half years. The minister’s position hasn’t been easy during these years; not only do you have to endure the contempt from above, but also the dissatisfaction from below. Yet your backbone is indeed much tougher than most people."
Rowan didn’t respond. He simply switched the hand holding his cigar and continued smoking.
"I read this morning’s newspaper." Arthur finally sat down and casually took a cigar from Rowan’s box: "There was a fire at the West Indies Pier. Reports say a few drunk n accidentally set the warehouse ablaze while smoking. But my friends told that at least three officers were assaulted at the scene of the fire, with the attackers using sharpened shovels and hamrs."
He paused a little as he said this and looked up at Rowan: "This isn’t a coincidence. We both know this isn’t a coincidence."
Rowan bowed his head, pressing the cigar’s tip into the ashtray, still silent, still waiting.
"I’m not saying this to challenge you," Arthur said, his voice softening: "But I’m genuinely curious how you view the current attitude of the Ho Office toward Scotland Yard."
Arthur’s question was exceptionally polite, but Rowan let out a cold snort, placing his teacup on the table: "Do you think I didn’t see your purpose in coming here today? You’ve been probing since the mont you stepped through the door."
Rowan’s tone wasn’t fierce, but every word carried weight: "Arthur, I know you’re unsatisfied at the Foreign Office over there, and that you’ve seen a lot of novel things in Paris. But you must understand, we’re in London, not the old royal city of Bourbon. The ground beneath your feet was established by Sir Robert Peel at Scotland Yard, not the Great Paris Police Hall under Joseph Fouche."
Arthur lit the fire and chuckled to himself: "I indeed saw many things in Paris. You know, the Police Chief in Paris is directly appointed by the King, with the French Ho Office rely cooperating. Their magistrates and undercover teams can mobilize an entire street’s police force at any mont, and if they wish, they can even enlist the power of the National Guard. For them, tracking a union leader and arresting a few radicals is as easy as leading a dog."
He paused, the tone suddenly becoming sharp: "And what about us? Even signing an arrest warrant requires the magistrate’s approval, every budget item must be presented with a report at the doorsteps of the Ho Office for several hours, and once they’re appeased, we have to face the cold shoulders at the Treasury."
Rowan’s face darkened as he tapped his fingers lightly on the table, remaining silent.
"You’re still in your position, many things are difficult for you to say, I can understand this... but..."
Arthur leaned forward, his voice rising with power: "I, am, not, satisfied! Did you hear ? I’m not satisfied! Not just as a London citizen’s dissatisfaction, but also as a retired officer who fought on the frontline at Scotland Yard. I carried three injuries at Scotland Yard; one left bedridden for a week, another had shrapnel open my eye, and the last had lying in a coffin! The honor I fought desperately to protect has been trampled into the mud like garbage! I’m dissatisfied with the long-standing apathy of the Ho Office toward Scotland Yard, dissatisfied with them viewing us as replaceable, exploitable tools, and even more dissatisfied with them crediting London’s stability to parliantary reform while saying nothing about who rushed into the assembly halls at three in the morning to make arrests, who faced ard rioters on the street without taking a step back, and who the hell faced stones, knives, and bullets, yet still stood with a uniform and a baton till the final mont of their lives!"
Upon hearing this, Rowan slapped the table hard, the aura of a Peninsular War veteran seed to return to him: "Do you think after the Cold Bath incident, there’s no fire in my heart? There’s never a shortage of individuals with tempers in this world, but rather a shortage of problem solvers! Cali was comndable, there are no cowards at Scotland Yard, but you must understand, we’re police officers, not the Army Departnt, if we were to open fire whenever we encounter a riot, then what do you think is the purpose of establishing Scotland Yard? If you still hold yourself to the moral standards of a police officer, then tell , what’s Article Six of the Police Instructions!"
Upon Rowan’s questioning, Arthur wasn’t angered; instead, he replied thodically: "Only when persuasion, advice, and warnings fail can the police use necessary physical force to encourage the public to abide by the law or restore order."
"Then stand down, Officer Hastings!"
Yet Arthur didn’t rise; he rely sat upright as if he had returned to three years ago, back to the conference room where countless police etings had been held, an assembly full of senior officers nervously awaiting reports.
"Sorry, Rowan." Arthur leaned against the chair’s back, one hand on the armrest, the other holding a cigar: "Officer Hastings who would follow commands and stand down died back in 1832, just like Officer Cali who was buried last year."
Rowan stared at him, and at that mont, it was as if the smoke from the cigar obscured the fire in his eyes, or perhaps sothing deeper had pressed it down.
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