The Shadow of Great Britain
Chapter 347 - 347 212 Regulations Don't Allow You to Speak 5K8_3

347: Chapter 212 Regulations Don’t Allow You to Speak (5K8)_3 347: Chapter 212 Regulations Don’t Allow You to Speak (5K8)_3 Arthur just smiled at the words and didn’t answer.

He opened the door and walked out.

With the office door clicking shut, Rowan picked up his teacup and crossed his legs, his mouth still muttering, “The way he beats around the bush, he might as well be one of those old bureaucrats in the Home Office.

Perhaps he should consider running for office; he’d probably climb the ladder faster.

What’s he trying to achieve by floundering in the small pond of Scotland Yard?”

…

London, Marylebone, Regency Crescent.

Here, the Bonaparte family reunion was playing out.

Louis Bonaparte, who had borrowed a suit from Arthur to meet his uncle, sat on the sofa, covering his face and crying.

His uncle, the former King of Spain, also leaned on his ruby cane, lamenting his nephew’s trials and tribulations over the years.

Meanwhile, outside the Regency Crescent, Police Superintendent Jones smoked and peered through the glass windows, observing the situation inside.

The identity of Louis Bonaparte had been confirmed, but breaking into a former king’s house to take away his grandnephew in front of him made Jones feel somewhat daunted.

He didn’t understand what Arthur was thinking when he made such a rash decision.

From a normal law enforcement perspective, even if Arthur had wanted to make a mockery of Louis Bonaparte, he could have simply waited until he left the building and arrested him on the street.

But Arthur insisted on doing it differently: he was determined to slap the former King of Spain publicly.

Once this incident occurred, Jones could even foresee that the arrest would definitely be on the front page of London’s major newspapers tomorrow.

After all, journalists loved to report on the private affairs of such notable figures.

A police raid on a private residence certainly wouldn’t escape their attention.

Even if the journalists didn’t catch wind of it, the disgruntled former king would surely blow the whistle himself.

Once this news broke, it would definitely not have a good impact on Scotland Yard’s reputation, and it was uncertain how the officials at the Home Office would react to this incident.

Nevertheless, Jones, despite his reservations, still planned to carry out Arthur’s orders meticulously.

There was no other reason than the fact that he, Clayden Jones, was too eager for advancement.

The new regulation for promotion based on years of service was about to be implemented, and there was a tempting Police Superintendent position in sight.

Anyone would be dazed by such a prospect!

Since Napoleon’s death, the glory of the Bonaparte family was old news, especially on British soil.

This meant that even if he lost this bet, the most he would probably face was a couple of reprimands, a few headlines from the news media, and at most, a directive from Scotland Yard prohibiting his promotion for a few years.

But with the new regulation set to be enacted soon, if Jones did not move up in rank within the next month or two, there would be little hope for him for at least the next four years.

Considering all the possible outcomes, this situation was essentially risk-free.

So why wouldn’t he go through with it?

Jones pulled a pocket watch from his coat and glanced at it, then asked an officer beside him, “Has the arrest warrant been delivered from the station?”

The young officer replied, “The arrest warrant is here, but we’re still missing the documents from the Foreign Office.”

Jones looked toward the Bonaparte uncle and nephew inside the house and suddenly noticed three male servants walking out.

He hurriedly stopped the leading one and asked with a smile, “Are the two Mr.

Bonapartes enjoying their conversation?”

The servant glanced at his uniform, nodded politely, and said, “My master is very grateful to the officers for rescuing the young master from the clutches of London’s gangs.

Later, he intends to entrust me to present some snuff boxes and such small tokens of appreciation to the officers.

But for now, please step aside, gentlemen.

The lord plans to take the young master on a tour to appreciate the sights of London, so we need to prepare for their outing and bring around the carriage.”

Hearing this, Jones took off his hat and bowed slightly, “Very well, sir.

Please go on with your business.”

He watched the man walk toward the stables behind the Regent Building until he was out of sight, then put his hat back on his head and loosened his collar, saying in a cold voice, “On my command, prepare to enter Regency Crescent and arrest Louis Bonaparte.”

The junior officer by their side was startled by the comment and exclaimed, “Commander, have you lost your mind?

We haven’t completed all the paperwork yet.

If we handle things this way, I’m afraid it might not be in accordance with the regulations.”

“Regulations?” Jones heard this and couldn’t help but glare at him, mimicking the salutary gesture Arthur had taught him and offering a respectful fist in the direction of Scotland Yard, “The entirety of Scotland Yard, encompassing six departments and twenty-three police precincts, rests on Superintendent Hastings’s shoulders.

It’s not your place to speak about regulations!”

The junior officer, chastised, didn’t dare to look up, only responding weakly, “Carrying six departments and twenty-three precincts?

Are you saying that what Superintendent Hastings is actually shouldering is not the St.

Edward’s Crown Badge?”

An older officer, overhearing this, quickly pulled the junior officer back and came up with a forced smile to mediate, “You’re right, Superintendent Hastings is indeed a big star at Scotland Yard.

In the past two years, everyone who has worked on cases with him has had nothing but praise for the meticulousness and competence with which he handles his duties.”

“Enough with the useless talk!” Jones cut in, “Right now, I’m asking you one thing: are you going to carry out the raid and arrest at Regency Crescent or not?!”

The junior officer tentatively said, “We will carry it out, of course, but…”

Jones glared and demanded, “But what?”

The junior officer replied, “The things you just said, won’t they hurt Chief Rowan’s feelings too much?”

At this, Jones, infuriated, threw his white glove to the ground and berated, “To hell with your ‘hurt’!”

Seeing the hesitation in the eyes of the officers, his heart was both angry and anxious.

But then, all of a sudden, a diabolical strategy sparked in his mind.

Jones took a deep breath to calm himself and, recalling Arthur’s demeanor, spoke in an even tone, “I apologize, everyone; I shouldn’t have lost my temper.”

Relieved by his words, the officers responded, “It’s fine, Commander; we understand the pressure that comes with these kinds of arrests must be great.”

Jones asked, “No, not because of that.

Being a police officer, naturally, comes with constant pressure.

As a mature officer, I’m already accustomed to it.

And as you all know, I am usually not so emotional at work.

The reason I lost my temper today is that I feel this might be the last time I’ll be executing a mission with the fine folks of the Whitechapel station.

I wanted to cherish these last moments and create some happy memories together…”

“Commander…”

“You…

you’re not saying you’re going to…”

“There’s nothing to miss here; it’s tough and exhausting work.

Finding a different job would be much better.”

“We wish you all the best, Commander!”

As the officers offered their well wishes, Jones cleverly changed the subject, “Yes, when I was saying farewell to Police Superintendent Clayden yesterday, I felt the same as you all.

But after having worked here for so long, even if you move to a better work environment, the sincere camaraderie doesn’t just fade away.”

“This…”

The expressions of the officers changed, with the more astute already considering the potential changes in their positions.

Jones drew another deep breath, revealing a smile of relief, “Of course, I would also like to choose a suitable successor.

After all, everyone knows that the Whitechapel district has a long history of development, a rich working-class population, and complex police cases…”

While Jones murmured these clichés, the junior officer who had just been arguing with him was listening absentmindedly.

He gently nudged his colleague’s elbow and asked, “Where’s the warrant?”

His colleague, still pondering the implications of Jones’s words, reflexively reached into his coat and handed over the warrant, “Here it is, what’s wrong?”

Little did he expect that as soon as he had spoken, he saw the junior officer pull out his service pistol and charge towards the door like an arrow released from a bow.

A boom echoed through the room, followed by a fierce shout, “Freeze!

Scotland Yard Police!”

Immediately after came a perfectly formal report that even the pickiest veteran officer couldn’t fault, “Reporting in, Commander, Constable Ledley King from the Tower Hamlets Police District of the East London Division of the London Metropolitan Police at Whitechapel Station, reporting to you, sir.

I have successfully apprehended the target, Louis Bonaparte!”