Chapter 127: The Hyde Park Murder Case

Chapter 127 The Hyde Park Murder
36 Lancaster Gate, Bayswater, London.

Night had come, and the stars filled the sky outside the window.

The large dining room was set with a rectangular, cream-colored table, and Darwin and Elder sat on mahogany chairs on each side of the table, while Arthur sat in the main seat flipping through a book.

He mumbled, “Benjamin Disraeli, he wouldn’t be the same Mr. Disraeli who created Vivian Grey, would he?”

Elder’s face was buried in a copy of the newly released Boudoir Secrets Newspaper, and as he read, he asked, “What? Is he famous?”

Darwin, who was concentrating on studying the museum magazine, heard this and spoke, “I just remembered when Arthur said that, it seems like there is such a person in the literary world of Britain in the past few years. Only Mr. Disraeli’s reputation doesn’t seem to be very good, and in the first few years you could see attacks on him in various literary magazines every now and then.”

“Attacks?” Elder’s face slowly rose out of the newspaper, “What did he do? An extramarital affair? An illegitimate child? Or some other unholy male/female relationship?”

Arthur glanced at him, “The ones you’re talking about are precisely the areas where literature and artists are the hardest to attack, remember Paganini, who we met earlier at the Theater Royal? That guy was a flirt, his biggest hobby was to sell his money in the pleasure houses all over Europe, but the fans didn’t bother with that kind of thing, and would even praise him for being romantic and affectionate.”

Arthur said here, originally was in the kitchen happily cooking Dumas suddenly a jolt.

Luckily, no one else noticed that he was out of sorts, and Elder continued to pursue, “So what exactly was Disraeli guilty of?”

Arthur copied the copy of Vivian Grey in front of him and displayed its cover in front of Elder.

Elder scanned it, only to find that at the name of the book’s author, it was clearly written: anonymous.

Elder scratched his head: ”Does this Disraeli have a brain problem? It’s not easy to write a book actually or anonymous, is he not going to ask for a fee?”

Arthur said, “That’s the crux of the matter. Mr. Disraeli’s original intention of creating this book was not to make money at all, but to attack an old friend he once had in the publishing world.

It is already disgraceful to write a book backstabbing a friend, and Mr. Disraeli’s cloak-and-dagger satire of others is even more intolerable in the literary and publishing world.

So when his true identity was revealed, he immediately became infamous in the field of literary creation in Britain. Since that time, it seems that he has not published any new work for a long time.

I thought at first he had emigrated because he was ashamed of himself. Now it seems that Mr. Disraeli should just be avoiding the wind, and as long as he waits until the outside world calms down, he’ll toss up again.”

As soon as Arthur’s words were finished, Dumas, who was wearing a white apron, carried several plates of fragrant rice and placed them on the table in front of everyone.

Arthur looked at the plate glittering with yellow oil light, clear grains of rice, as well as sandwiched between the grains of rice used to season the color of the small diced tomatoes and fat and thin slices of sausage, he raised his hand slightly fanned two times, a soft and fresh scent immediately lingered on the tip of the nose.

He couldn’t help but raise his eyes to look at Dumas and gave him a thumbs up, “I can’t believe you actually have this skill. Before, when you said you wanted to cook, I thought you were joking.”

Dumas sniffed and gave a condescending hum.

“You can’t be blamed for having this kind of thought, after all, you Brits joke about what you’re going to eat every day. But I must also solemnly declare to you that even in France, you may not be able to taste such a skillful handiwork of mine.”

No sooner had Dumas finished his words than Arthur saw the Red Devil standing behind him sucking on his glistening greasy fingers while nodding his head in agreement, “Try it, Arthur, the fat man really isn’t fooling you.”

Dumas sat back in his chair and took a taste of his creation, then spoke with satisfaction.

“Outside of performing literary creations, my greatest specialty is making food. Or to put it more bluntly, writing is just a means for me to achieve my goals in life. I have two goals in life, one is to taste all the food in the world, and the other is to let everyone else taste it as well. The first goal can be achieved by writing alone. But the second goal, it has to be through the Republican Revolution.”

Arthur heard him bragging so much, so he took a taste with conviction.

He chewed on the rice, savoring the lingering flavor and aftertaste in his mouth.

It had to be said that this casserole did taste good, and if he had to describe what this flavor was like, then perhaps it was like egg fried rice with oyster sauce and diced ham. But where did Dumas get oyster sauce these days?
Arthur pondered slightly and wiped his mouth with a dishcloth, then looked at Dumas and calmly said, “It’s oysters, you added oysters.”

Dumas sniffed in surprise, “I told you, you must be an old Frenchman lurking among the English.”

“Oysters?” Elder caught the key word instantly, and he hurriedly asked, “Have the leeches’ eggs gone?”

“What leech’s eggs?” It was Dumas’ turn to be confused.

Darwin kindly explained for him, “It’s that dark ring around the outside of the oyster shell.”

Arthur added, “Bouncy and tastes a lot like pudding.”

No sooner had Arthur finished his words than he saw Dumas, his face green, rush up the spiral staircase with an arrow’s stride, and, needless to say, he must have gone in search of the lavatory.

And Elder could not help blushing at the sight: “Look! Look! Even the French can’t stand this stuff!”

At the end of his speech, he followed in Dumas’ footsteps.

Arthur glanced at the backs of the two of them, then helplessly shrugged at Darwin, “Didn’t you say it’s fine when it’s cooked?”

Darwin nodded with a smile, “That’s right, it’s indeed cooked and done.”

“Then why don’t you eat it?”

Darwin calmly wiped his mouth, “Who would voluntarily eat that stuff without dying of starvation?”

Just as the words were finished, there was a sudden knock on the door.

“Who is it at this late hour?”

Arthur picked up his white teacup and slowly stood up, walked across the walkway, stepped on the plush carpet, and opened the double-opening door to the clean white room.

He had just opened the door when his eyes flashed at the bright light emanating from a portable kerosene lamp.

Before he could see the visitor, he heard a surprised voice.

“Ah, Inspector Hastings?”

Arthur slowly opened his half-squinted eyes, which allowed him to see the visitor clearly.

That was the junior constable who had once been drawn to the Greenwich police district to assist him in solving the murder and body theft case – Charles Field.

When Arthur saw him, he couldn’t help but smile and ask, ”Was this originally your patrol area? What kind of case is it that you’re visiting the door at this late hour?”

Fielder looked a little nervous as he nodded his head repeatedly and said, “Inspector Hastings, I’m afraid you don’t know, do you? Superintendent Clemens …… is dead ……”

“Dead?” Arthur was first stunned, then hurriedly pursued, “When and where?”

“Just …… is this evening, Superintendent Clemens hanged in a tree in the northeast corner of Hyde Park. The exact circumstances of the case are still being investigated, which is why I’ve been going door-to-door this late to visit the nearby households. By the way, Inspector Hastings, did you notice anything unusual during the evening?”

(End of chapter)