Chapter 3: Piercing Scotland Yard

After parting with Eld, Arthur strolled slowly toward Scotland Yard, following the usual patrol route.

He was oblivious to the street vendors who occupied the roadsides, only reluctantly asking them to leave when store owners protested vehemently.

This was the philosophy of life Arthur had learned after half a year at Scotland Yard.

The Greater London Police Department was responsible for an area with an unparalleled population of one and a half million people, of whom one-tenth were directly or indirectly involved in itinerant retail.

The prisons in the vicinity of London were already overcrowded, so it was impossible for Arthur to incarcerate everyone.

And although the Royal Navy could navigate all the seas, could defeat the invincible fleets of the Dutch and the Spanish, and had covered Napoleon's ships in dust during the Battle of Trafalgar, they also lacked the ability to deport all of London's hawkers to Australia.

To catch or not to catch, that was the difficult choice Arthur had to face throughout his six months.

Luckily, he no longer had to confront this dilemma from now on.

Agares, like a defeated rooster, hung his head low and followed Arthur step by step, completely dispirited.

Arthur noticed his friend's unusual mood and asked, "Agares, what's wrong? Look at that sour face; you look just like a defeated Frenchman."

"Arthur! You're making me go see whales with you at sea, what kind of face am I supposed to put on? Should I be smiling?"

Having said that, Agares went and squatted in front of a fish stall. He glanced disdainfully at the half-dead herring bubbling on the slab, then covered his forehead and sighed.

"What virtues must I have accumulated to have fallen to this state? For the next few years, am I to dine only with these slimy little creatures of repulsive appearance?"

Far from feeling any sympathy for Agares's complaints, Arthur actually wanted to correct the devil's misguided values.

"Agares, to speak like that is to show disrespect for the history of this country. For a long time, the Royal Navy depended on what you call 'ugly little things' for nourishment.

In his efforts to enforce mercantilist policies and encourage the development of fisheries and shipbuilding, Henry VII enacted the 'Fish-Eating Order,' which mandated the consumption of fish during Lent and fasting days every year.

Under Elizabeth I, the fish-eating days were expanded to three days a week. Eating fish was the responsibility and obligation of every subject under the king."

Agares, infuriated, somehow produced three torches and, hopping around, performed juggling acts akin to a circus clown's ball tricks to provoke Arthur.

"Using British law to execute a duke of Hell, Arthur, you sure wield great authority! I simply won't eat; what can you do about it?"

Arthur shrugged, "According to the law, the lightest punishment for not adhering to the fish-eating days is to be put in the stocks for six hours, but your attitude is extremely serious; thus, I propose a ten-day imprisonment. However, that's all in the past. Now whether you eat or not, nobody cares."

"Nobody cares? Then why bring it up?"

Arthur earnestly replied, "Since you called me an outstanding graduate of the University of London this very morning, I intend to demonstrate my excellent academic prowess. Although it's usually of no use in the day-to-day work at the Greater London Police Department, I think it's only fair to give you some explanation so as not to disappoint my main sponsor."

"I don't need such an explanation from you! If you really want to make things right, then use that clever brain of yours to think of other alternatives besides floating at sea."

"Unfortunately, Agares, it's all too late. If you had simply sent me to Oxford or Cambridge, or if I hadn't encountered an economic downturn at graduation, I might have had other options.

But now, my only path lies at sea. Agares, this is the bed you've made for yourself."

"Oh! My dear Arthur." Agares pleaded in a low and obsequious tone, "Is it too late to apologize now?"

Arthur, pointing to the badge on his hat, asked, "If apologies were useful, what would we need the police for?"

"Damn it! So you've made up your mind? If that's the case, why not take off that disgusting uniform? Hasn't this week's salary already been distributed?"

Arthur replied, "It's called finishing what you start, standing the last watch. As long as I haven't officially submitted my resignation, I am still a member of the London Metropolitan Police."

"Oh, Arthur…" Agares picked up a handkerchief, pretending to wipe away tears, "I almost believed your nonsense. What in the world do you plan to do, you damned scoundrel?"

Arthur glanced at him, "I've been sick of this place for half a year, am I supposed to just leave without any fuss?"

"Oh! That's more like it!" Devil expressed an excited smile, "What do you plan to do? Set Scotland Yard on fire, or stab your damn boss?"

"Neither."

"Then what do you plan to do?"

"I plan to stab through Scotland Yard and then light a fire under my boss's ass."

"Isn't that the same thing?"

"No, Agares, you don't understand, it's not the same at all."

Arthur suddenly stopped in his tracks, standing at a busy street corner.

Behind him was the noisy, filthy East End of London, where a rotten stench permeated the air.

But the world before him had changed drastically.

Rows of tidy houses and clean streets, Gothic spires, and resplendent medieval buildings mingled with intricately designed modern houses, beautiful reliefs, and dark, strange fences complementing each other, while the neighborhood around Parliament Square bustled with ornately decorated carriages and well-dressed gentlemen and ladies.

In less than three miles, the very essence of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland was concentrated, with the Houses of Parliament representing the legislative body to the east, the administrative offices lining Whitehall to the north, the Supreme Court of Great Britain to the west, and to the south, the symbols of the Anglican Church: Westminster Abbey and St. Margaret's Church.

All this starkly contrasted the dark filth behind him, dazzling the eye.

And Arthur's destination today was situated right there.

His gaze drifted through the dense crowd to the north.

4 Whitehall — Headquarters of the London Metropolitan Police.