thefictionvixens Chapter 1922 - 152: Miss Fiona, Where Did Sir Arthur Go? Is He with Miss Hastings?
Chapter 1922 - 152: Miss Fiona, Where Did Sir Arthur Go? Is He with Miss Hastings?
Night hasn’t fallen yet, but London’s sky has grown dark, streets enveloped in a layer of damp gray light, accompanied by the patter of drizzle, making the entire city seem as if it’s soaked within an ocean.
Rainwater gathers into small streams within the crevices of the cobblestones, reflecting the dim glow of gas lamps, dripping drop by drop onto eaves, awnings, and carriage shafts, emitting a broken ticking sound. A coachman, draped in an oilcloth cape, sits atop the carriage, silently smoking a pipe, while the mane of the horses has long been drenched, clinging to the skeleton marked neck.
Few pedestrians remain on the streets.
A few delivery boys hurriedly wrapped in burlap bags dash towards the alley entrance, with a few potatoes softened by rainwater left in the wicker baskets slung over their shoulders. As they run, they curse the stench from the East District sewers, complaining about the rain that has lasted three hours, lingering overhead unwilling to leave.
An elderly woman lifts her skirt cautiously crossing a puddle, muttering to herself, whether in prayer or cursing.
A drunkard hides at the church doorway behind her, leaning against the iron railing, sleeping in a disordered manner, rain dripping from the edges of his worn-out top hat onto his stubble.
Amidst the dim and murky rain mist, several unmarked black carriages silently drive into the crossroads of Kensington Church Street and High Street, heading towards the Russian Cafe hidden in the alley of Philimo Square.
"Engraving of the South Facade of Kensington Palace and Surrounding Areas, 1724"
The first carriage halts first, slowly leaning against the curb.
The coachman, with brown leather gloves, flips down skillfully and opens up a black umbrella with steel spikes.
The carriage door lightly clicks, immaculate black boots step onto the cobblestones, splashing water in the small puddles.
The meticulously tailored black wool police officer uniform, cloak waving in the roar of the gale, the badge on the tall helmet shimmering under the gas light. He takes the umbrella from the coachman with his left hand, his right hand resting on the hilt of the Sword of Honor at his waist, looking around, his movements akin to a commander surveying a battlefield, steady, sharp, without any superfluous expression. Raindrops slide off the umbrella edge, which he deliberately avoids, not letting a single drop fall on his shoulder epaulets.
Royal Greater London Police Department Police Intelligence Bureau Division Five Chief, Superintendent Laidley King.
The second carriage closely follows, polished boot tips stepping out from the door first.
The officer exiting holds a short ebony cane, with a cigar unlit in his mouth as he peeks out of the carriage.
As he steps off, he easily takes the cigar out, seemingly afraid that the tobacco scent would overshadow the smell of the nocturnal rain, with his scarred brow raised, not appearing unfamiliar with the cold rain in this district, on the contrary, he seems to enjoy it.
Royal Greater London Police Department Police Intelligence Bureau Division Four Chief, Chief Inspector Brayden Jones.
The third carriage has windows covered with thick dark green velvet curtains, only lifting a corner once the wheels completely come to a stop.
From inside the carriage, first emerges a left hand donning deep gray suede gloves, then a right hand gripping a saber steadily extends out, a saber that looks aged, with an agate embedded at the guard, through the rain mist, the letters T and P etched on it can be vaguely discerned.
His physique is heavier than average, clad in a gray-blue wool storm cape, underneath the tall helmet reveals a weather-beaten face, tight-lipped. He does not open an umbrella but rather plants the saber firmly on the ground, the crisp sound striking on the chilly street, like declaring some control over the district.
Royal Greater London Police Department Deputy Director of Police Intelligence, Superintendent Thomas Plunkett.
Thomas strides towards the brick-red building at the end of Philimo Square when the fourth carriage slowly arrives.
This carriage is darker in color than the previous ones, nearly obsidian, the coachman cloaked in a dark red raincoat, face obscured beneath a heavy cloak hood, facial features indistinguishable, only the exceptionally upright posture holding the reins, and the Scotland Yard emblem wrapped around the whip are visible.
The carriage hasn’t fully stopped, yet the door is already opening outward from within.
First emerging is a gloved hand in pure white, the glove’s edge stitched with fine gold thread, not a part of the Scotland Yard’s regular uniform, but an inner lining of an old-style custom garment. The hand lifts slightly, seemingly assessing the direction of the surrounding gusts before slowly gripping the door edge.
Then, a towering figure steps out from inside.
Draped over his police uniform coat is a dark blue double-breasted overcoat, the collar standing high, burying most of his face in the shadow, only exposing the brow and eyes above the nose bridge. Rain strikes his hat brim, sliding down to his nose tip, causing him to irritably lift his head.
Royal Greater London Police Department Chief of Police Intelligence, Chief Inspector Charles Field.
The officers nod at each other silently, no small talk, no excess words, only the cloak brushing against long boots in the wind and rain, and the subtle sound of the hilt gently knocking against the metal fastener.
They walk slowly through the narrow cobblestone path of Philimo Square, raindrops splashing on umbrella surfaces and coats.
The gas light at the cafe entrance is already lit, a thin mist on the brass lampshade, the steps in front freshly wiped, rainwater yet to accumulate.
Beneath the porch, two plainclothes officers have been waiting for quite some time now.