London, outside Westminster Palace, Scotland Yard had almost gathered all the available police force today to be in charge of security work here.
On the roads, one could see neatly dressed Scotland Yard policemen patrolling in groups, and near the palace gates were military police holding flintlock muskets with live ammunition. They, too, came from Britain's most elite troops—the Coldstream Guards.
As a Scotland Yard layabout deeply trusted by the higher-ups of both parties, Arthur, having dodged work for over a week, finally put in a legitimate day's work today.
Police baton, white gloves, dark navy tailcoat verging on black, tight white jodhpurs, and high riding boots—after completing the routine patrol, Arthur, bored to tears, took off his black top hat, revealing his slicked-back hair, and snapped his gloves to dust off the gray that had settled on the brim of the hat.