The Shadow of Great Britain
Chapter 140 - 140 98 Gorgeous Gray

140: Chapter 98: Gorgeous Gray 140: Chapter 98: Gorgeous Gray London, Tower Hamlets.

Dusk had arrived, and the setting sun cast its glow on the yellowish wastewater flowing from the tannery, gilding it with a golden edge that stretched to the horizon, giving the illusion of a road of gold leading to the heavens.

As night gradually fell, the little taverns in the brick alleys of Whitechapel began to buzz with life.

They were packed with merchant sailors seeking fun, dockworkers, or the brick kiln stokers from nearby brickworks, among others.

The air was thick with the sour stench of sweat, the steam from freshly baked food, and the sounds of rowdy patrons boasting and beer glasses clinking, interspersed with the occasional angry retorts of the female servers being harassed.

The female server pointed at the sailor’s nose and cursed loudly, “You uncultured beast!

Dare to pinch me again, and see if I don’t chop off your hand!”

The drunken sailor belched, leaning back in his chair, so inebriated he couldn’t even muster the strength to stand.

He looked up at the ceiling, but his mouth was still keen on getting the better of the situation.

“Sweetheart, don’t be mad.

Where did you buy that bottom?

It feels so hard, even harder than a rock.

This tavern is really something, offering watered-down beer that’s less invigorating than seawater, and baked bread and bottoms that are as hard as each other.”

Upon hearing this, the female server’s face turned red with anger.

She raised her tray, ready to smash it onto the sailor’s head, but before she could act, someone stepped in front of him, it was the tavern’s new owner—Judd Martin.

Mr.

Martin, with a round face and a mercenary smile, pressed his hand on the tray the female server had lifted.

He spoke in a hushed voice, “Annie, that’s enough, we still have business to do here.”

Annie complained with a sense of grievance, “But Uncle…”

Martin scolded, “No buts.

Things are not the same as back home.

To make a living in London, one must put up with some hardships.

We’re not some nobility, too precious to touch.

If you really don’t want to work here, find yourself a good husband early, and I’ll spend money to hire someone else.

Do you know how much money I spent to get this place and apply for the liquor license?

My girl, please be good, it’s not easy for your uncle to make money, and I beg you, please don’t ruin my business.”

Annie’s eyelids drooped as she listened, and her eyes began to moisten.

Judd Martin reluctantly fished two one-penny coins from his pocket and placed them on the female server’s tray, “Alright, alright, take this money and buy yourself something nice later.

There’s still some bacon and ham in the kitchen, when you’re done working, cut yourself a bit to eat.”

The female server’s face broke into a smile as she kissed Martin on the cheek, her expression no longer showing the distress from moments before, “Thank you, Uncle.”

Watching his niece move towards the kitchen with a nimble gait, Martin couldn’t help but scratch his cheek and grumble, “The girls these days are too shrewd.

Anyone who marries my niece, she could make a penny stretch to the worth of a shilling.”

He was about to return to the counter to continue with the business at hand, but halfway there, as if he had remembered something, Martin quickly called out to the kitchen, “Annie!

Just slice the ham two fingers thick, girls shouldn’t eat too much of that stuff!”

No sooner had Martin’s words ended than they heard the noise of the tavern’s louvre door being pushed open.

Martin looked up and saw three or four burly men in sleeveless shirts.

Judging from their muscular arms, bulging veins, and misshapen ears, these men were clearly not to be trifled with.

More importantly, Mr.

Martin could also see through the gaps between the men’s shoulders the swarms of underlings outside the tavern, each holding various shiny blades.

Mr.

Martin hastily fetched two bills from beneath the counter.

He pondered for a moment and still didn’t immediately hand over the money.

Instead, he put on a grin and approached the men, attempting to probe with a question.

“Gentlemen, may I ask what you would like to drink today?

Our establishment here…”

Before he could finish his sentence, the other party had already taken a seat on the high stool in front of the bar, grabbing Mr.

Martin’s face with his calloused hands.

“Martin, don’t you recognize me?”

Mr.

Martin scrutinized the man closely and quickly forced a smile, uglier than a cry.

“It turns out to be Mr.

Ward, Fred’s right-hand man—the ‘Iron Hammer.’ Didn’t you hear it from Fred himself?

My shop in Whitechapel has been approved by him.”

“Fred?”

Ward chuckled, released Martin’s chin, and spoke, “Martin, can’t you stop mentioning a dead man’s name?

He’s probably not sure which fish’s belly he’s lying in by now.

If you want to seek his protection, I can throw you into the sea.

By the way, let me give you an extra heads-up, from now on, I call the shots in Whitechapel.

If you want to get by, you’d better show me some proper respect and sincerity.”

At this point, Martin knew there was no way out for him today.

He quickly took out those two bills he had prepared in advance, bowing and scraping, “Since that’s the case, here’s a small token of my humble respect.”

Ward glanced at the bill and his mouth twitched violently, “Two bills?”

No sooner had he spoken than the sound of drawing a gun and releasing the safety was heard.

Several burly men behind Ward pointed their guns at the astonished guests in the tavern and bellowed, “What are you looking at?

Get out, all of you!”

Ward pressed the gun against Martin’s chin and said, “Martin, count yourself lucky that I didn’t come specifically for you today.

So, I can forgive your initial rudeness.

Tell me, where is Fiona?

That bitch arranged to meet me here, claiming she wanted to have it out with me.

You wouldn’t have mixed yourself up in her business, right?”

“No, of course not.” Martin raised his hands high, sweating profusely from his cheeks, “So, the person Miss Yvonne mentioned was you?

She… she asked me to give you a letter.”

“A letter?

Hahaha!” Ward holstered his pistol, raised an eyebrow, and whistled, “Is that bitch trying to declare her love to me?”

Martin, trembling, fumbled from beneath the table to retrieve the letter, respectfully handing it over with both hands.

Ward, with utter indifference, tore open the letter.

He pulled out the sheet of paper, looked at the front, then turned to check the back.

However, both sides were blank, with nothing written on them.

A sense of ill omen welled up in Ward’s heart, and he hurried off the high stool, shouting at his mates behind him.

“Something’s not right, we’ve got to get back now!”

The group rushed out the door in a panic.

Ward looked up at the sky, the sunset had already fallen, and at this moment, a new moon was rising from the horizon.

The moonlight shone on Ward’s face, revealing his sweat-drenched face and look of surprise.

The streets of Brick Lane were deserted, not even a sound could be heard.

In the hazy moonlight, he could only see a few pairs of crimson eyes on the rooftops beside the road, those were crows from the Tower of London, no one was better at sniffing out the scent of death.

Ward felt a chill down his spine, sweat beads soaking his shirt, clinging tightly to his back.

“Back we go!”

However, just as the words left his mouth, he heard a bang, and Martin’s Tavern closed its doors at just the right moment, leaving Ward with only the swaying sign hanging on the door, which was crookedly inscribed with ‘Close’.

Martin’s Tavern was now closed for business.

From the head of Brick Lane to the end of the alley, the lights inside every house went out one by one, with brightness retreating like the tide, replaced by the uniform footsteps on the street, round-top hats, black tailcoats, hard high-boots splashing through sewage, impeccable white gloves, police batons swinging with each step, and faces in the shadows too indistinct to discern expressions.

Among the countless blurred faces, Ward could only see a flickering red dot.

The red dot suddenly went out, and in the moonlight, Ward saw a white-gloved hand stretch out in front of him, followed by a voice so calm it was unbelievable.

“Meet the new Chief of the Whitechapel district branch in the Tower Hamlets division of the London Metropolitan Police, Clayden Jones.”

Ward glanced at the white glove in front of him, and then at the shadow behind the glove, those were pairs of ‘eyes’ that were very round, and thus surely very lethal.

Ward cracked an ugly smile, suppressing the shiver in his body, and slowly reached out to shake the white glove.

Just as he was about to touch the glove, a slap had already landed on his face.

Slap!

Perhaps out of guilt or fear, the burly Ward was actually knocked to the ground by a slap.

However, before his dazed head could recover, he felt something step on his cheek.

He slowly lifted his head, finally seeing the face looming over him, with some scabs on the forehead, and the left eye was slightly bloodshot, yet, under the moonlight, this somewhat comical face looked so dangerous.

Jones stepped on his head and bent down to ask, “Remember me?”

Ward looked at Jones, his pupils shrinking slightly, finally remembering who the new Chief of Whitechapel was.

Ward swallowed and said with a grin, “Jones mate, that’s all in the past.

Fred, that son of a bitch, is the one who wanted to hit you, we just followed his orders.

You mustn’t take it to heart.”

Jones nodded slightly at his words, behind him, the red-eyed crows took off in flocks.

“You’re right, business is business.

So, I hope you won’t take today’s events to heart because…

I’m just following orders as well.”

Gunshots rang out from outside the window, on the second floor of the tavern, was a private room.

Sitting in front of the small round table by the window was a young man with black hair.

He was busying himself with two teapots, mixing drinks with great interest.

One teapot held smooth milk, the other bitter coffee, and when both were meticulously mixed in one-to-one proportions, they merged into a delicate and beautiful gray.

The Red Devil leaned by the window, the occasional flashes of light outside illuminating his face, his mouth full of sharp silver teeth, and the drool dripping down from the corner of his lips.

“Arthur, you’ve grown up.

You’re finally starting to appreciate coffee, that rich and velvety taste, not at all comparable to the simple, immature taste of milk.”

Arthur, hearing the Red Devil’s words, did not respond; he only took a sip from his cup.

The coffee was indeed too bitter, and if not for the milk to mellow the flavor, he wouldn’t know how to swallow it.

He looked down at Jones from on high, the man had shot Ward in the leg.

The Red Devil chuckled and whispered beside Arthur, “You were right to spare his life, Tom and Tony couldn’t do that.”

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.

The door was gently pushed open, and Mr.

Martin stood there with a tray, looking somewhat nervous.

Sweat trickled down his cheek, yet he smiled flatteringly and said, “Mr.

Hastings, I have brought your ham.”