Chapter 2277 - 272: Nightingale Mansion Is Not a Place for Free Meals (Part 2)

Perhaps because they stumbled upon a familiar topic, Whickriff’s speech seemed noticeably more natural than before.

"Someone pointed out an old gentleman to me, seated on a chair basking in the sun, saying that eight years ago when His Majesty William ascended the throne, it was he who pulled the carriage."

"Oh?"

Whickriff added, "That old gentleman said, back then the streets of London were crowded with onlookers, all guessing whether this new King could stay on the throne."

Arthur nodded slightly, without comment.

"Someone also brought up the Queen," Whickriff continued, "though they spoke very cautiously. Some say that many have been replaced in the palace recently, and since the new monarch’s accession, many rules have changed. Others worry about His Majesty being too young, surrounded by clever people, afraid he’d be led by the nose."

Hearing this, Arthur smiled lightly, still withholding judgment.

"And then, just some ordinary matters..." Whickriff remarked with a chuckle, "It’s cold, horse gear is expensive, coal prices have risen again, and this winter has been truly difficult to cope with. Oh, right, an old driver said he passed by Holborn the other day and saw someone handing out flyers at the street corner, claiming workers should have their own representative, and that upheaval was bound to happen in London soon. But shortly after they shouted a few words, the patrolmen were on them right away. Someone also mentioned Canada, saying that the situation there had been lively lately, troops have been dispatched, now it’s temporarily quiet, but no one can say for sure if there won’t be trouble again. People are even betting that the new Governor won’t last a year."

The carriage rolled over a slightly bumpy section, the carriage gently swaying.

Arthur casually asked, "How much was bet, two and a half pennies or one shilling?"

"One shilling." Whickriff replied swiftly, "After all, it’s the Royal Stables where they gamble, they wouldn’t bear to bet too small."

The carriage rolled over a slightly bumpy section, the carriage gently swaying.

"And what else?"

"There’s also the railway." Whickriff thought for a moment, "Someone said that in a few years, you’ll be able to take a train from London all the way to Edinburgh without having to change horses or stop on the way. Another cursed him for talking nonsense, saying if that were true, we’d all have to change trades to shoveling coal sooner or later."

Whickriff laughed to himself at this remark, "The people at the stables mostly don’t believe in those novelties. But while their tongues deny it, their ears are perked up quite high."

Arthur leaned back against the carriage, his gaze finally drifting to the streetscape outside the window.

"And you? Do you believe it?"

"I don’t understand those grand theories, Sir." Whickriff replied, "But I think, as long as there are people riding in London, someone will always have to hold the reins. Even if the roads change, someone will always have to deliver the passengers."

Saying this, Whickriff’s voice gradually lowered, as if realizing he’d been rambling on a bit.

"Sir..." He slightly bent his head, checking directions with Arthur through the gaps in the carriage, "Are we heading back to White Hall now?"

Arthur did not respond immediately, still leaning on one side of the carriage, his gaze resting on the ever-receding streetscape outside the window.

Shops along St. James Street passed one after another, their windows reflecting the gray sky.

"No hurry to head to White Hall today."

Whickriff was slightly startled but did not press further.

"The Police Commissioner Committee has no urgent agenda today." Arthur added, his tone calm, "Besides, Rowan is keeping an eye there, nothing major will occur. My old superior there also ought to familiarize himself with his upcoming duties in advance."

The carriage slowed slightly at an intersection, prompting Whickriff to ask, "Then... Where would you like to go next?"

"Straight ahead, to Covent Garden Market. An old friend told me that my other new friend has been holed up there for two days."

"Yes, Sir."

Whickriff flicked the reins, and as the carriage turned onto the street leading to Covent Garden, the air seemed to change almost instantly.

The rain cover pressed low, the fabric repeatedly tugged, its edges long frayed.

Stalls lined up one after another, wooden crates, baskets, and weights piled up haphazardly, nearly encroaching upon the space meant for pedestrians.

The sidewalks and streets were crowded with buyers and street vendors.

Porters shoulder piles of goods with bare arms, swearing words no one can discern.

Housewives wrapped in thick shawls, baskets in the crook of their arm, walked slowly, occasionally stopping to eye a hat stall, or haggle over a batch of greens. Small boys holding three or four onions darted through the crowd, twisting through every gap.

The urgent vendors shouted in all sorts of strange accents, the immense noise almost dizzying.

"Get your bargains here! Roasted chestnuts, warm and toasty, one penny for twenty!"

"Half a penny a box, shoe polish, the best!"

"One penny for a stack of paper, whiter than the faces of young ladies huh!"

"Half a penny for a heap of onions, two pennies for a pound of grapes, selling at a loss!"

"Who wants hats for four pennies each? Hurry and pick a bargain! Half a penny for three laces!"

"Here are candies for half a penny! Come look! Here are toasted bread slices!"

"Hey! Hey! Take a look! How much for this pile of greens? A penny for a bunch! Long live free trade! Fresh turnips, come buy!"

The kids’ shrieks, the women’s hoarse cries, the men’s rough grunts all blend together. Occasionally you can even hear the Irish selling "Delicious apples," or a street singer trio striking up accordion tunes between verses.