The Shadow of Great Britain
Chapter 492 - 492 264 Rothschild's Gambling Table 8K4

492: Chapter 264: Rothschild’s Gambling Table (8K4) 492: Chapter 264: Rothschild’s Gambling Table (8K4) Astley Circular Theatre, in a small room on the second floor.

Lionel watched as Arthur expertly wrapped his own bandages and applied a pungent, acrid ointment before adding his usual nonchalant expression, causing Lionel to burst into laughter.

He leaned on the edge of the table and asked, “This isn’t your first time doing something like this, huh?

Arthur, you’re a little too skilled at this.”

Arthur, with an indifferent air, slipped into his Scotland Yard uniform and started fastening each button while looking in the mirror, “If you mean acting hurt, then this is certainly a first.

But if you mean dressing wounds, then I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve done it.”

To Lionel, working at Scotland Yard wasn’t as easy as depicted in the “Hastings Case Files,” nor was it always glorious.

To be honest, investigating a homicide was relatively a cushy job compared to patrolling the streets.

When I first joined Scotland Yard, because I didn’t get along with the chief constable, I was often assigned to patrol the narrowest, most dangerous, and darkest streets.

You know, there are many docks in Greenwich, so I would often encounter drunk sailors and Irish dockworkers lifting bags at the taverns in the training areas.

There was a popular game among these groups when they were drunk, where they would place bets in groups of three or five.

Each would put in a penny, and anyone who dared to beat up a patrolling Scotland Yard officer would take all the money.

Both Tom and Tony had been beaten up, and after I joined, I became the target for these game settlements.

Now, do you see why I have such practiced bandaging skills?”

Lionel couldn’t help but laugh at this, “I thought you were naturally good at fighting.

Looks like you’ve had your fair share of unpleasant past experiences, too.”

Arthur tightened the bandage on his palm until he was sure it was secure, then he said, “To me, that period wasn’t particularly unbearable, certainly better than rolling in the mud pits of York when I was a kid.

Still, tussling with Irish drunkards isn’t a fond memory.

I learned from them that, under any circumstance, one should never engage with more than two hooligans, no matter how strong you think you are.”

Lionel laughed heartily, “But hearing you talk about it, I finally understand why there are so many assaults on officers at Scotland Yard every year.

The newspapers aren’t fair to you cops at all, blaming you for violence in law enforcement when you’re actually the victims of unwarranted disasters.

But that’s reporters for you; they often draw satirical cartoons of Rothschild on their pages, depicting my father as a fat man with a pocketful of Gold Coins.”

“I fear that a few years from now, when they tire of drawing my father, they might switch the cartoon model to me.

But there’s nothing I can do about that; it’s a rite of passage in life.

So, don’t worry about it, Arthur, even His Majesty the King can’t escape their mockery, let alone you and me.”

Arthur buttoned his hat and took a look at himself in the mirror, “As for these attacks coming from Fleet Street, I don’t think much of it.

I can’t say that everyone in Scotland Yard is completely clean; to my knowledge, attacks between law enforcement and those under enforcement often go both ways.”

“Hmm?” Lionel asked, “What do you mean by that?”

Arthur picked up the teacup beside him, “For example, in the Tower Hamlets district, which I once oversaw, on the east side of Shoreditch High Street, there’s a place called Old Nichol.

About 5,000 people live there, but its level of squalor is notorious throughout London.

Even if I don’t state it in the terms of Scotland Yard, but rather in the words of the local priest, you would still hardly hear anything positive.”

“On my first day in office, I talked to the local priest about this, and he told me, ‘The moral standards in Old Nichol are unbelievably low, with people mainly living lives of deception and concealment.

Almost every family here has one or several reasons to fear the police.’ At first, I also doubted whether the priest was exaggerating, but soon, the residents of Old Nichol shattered my doubts with their actions.”

“On my first day, the Kingsland Road police station in Old Nichol handed me a crime report for the first half of the year.

The report showed that in the first six months, 214 people were arrested in Old Nichol: 72 for drunken disturbances, 35 for assaulting police officers, four for armed robbery, three for indecent exposure, 16 for beating their wives and passing women, one for child abandonment, 27 for burglaries and pickpocketing on the streets, 33 for gambling in large groups, oh, and two for attempted suicide.

As for the rest—animal abuse, selling alcohol without a permit, and a mishmash of other offenses—I can’t even remember them all now.”

As someone always sensitive to numbers, Lionel couldn’t help but gasp, “214 people?

So, in half a year, 4.2% of Old Nichol’s population was arrested?”

“That’s right.”

Arthur sipped his tea, “And that’s just those who were arrested.

Based on the scarce police resources at Kingsland Road station, I tend to believe there must be many more who slipped through the net.

Accumulating year after year, the local priest’s words might well not be an exaggeration.

That old man has been living there for years, and his duty includes listening to residents confess and counseling them, so he certainly knows more about criminal intelligence than we police do.”