The Shadow of Great Britain-Chapter 1681 - 53: London Cannot Lose Hastings (Part 3)

This group of guys have been together for a long time, naturally giving rise to thoughts of making a living through illegal means.

And the Picket Gang was born in such an environment; as one of London’s top crime gangs, their main hallmark is "slashing bags with knives," slang for "cutting pockets," simply put, taking advantage of a passerby’s distraction to cut open their pockets and steal wallets.

However, there are quite a few gangs in London who do pocket cutting, but not every gang has Old Fagin’s superb craftsmanship.

And when it comes to pocket cutting, the Picket Gang’s work is especially rough. Their theft operations often fail, and when this happens, the Picket Gang resorts to robbery, or even if the robbery fails, they quickly injure others to make their escape. Due to lagging medical conditions, they often manage to inflict fatal injuries during their crimes.

As this situation developed, the Picket Gang, failing to master pocket cutting, lowered their heads and turned their attention to robbing docked merchant ships and taverns, though even after the industry shift, their extremely violent, often armed assault style continued.

The Picket street thug pinned to the ground still tried to resist, but Cao Li’s knee felt like cast iron, pressing him down so he couldn’t breathe. 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝐰𝚎𝕓𝐧𝚘𝘃𝗲𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝕞

Hutter also quickly pounced, the two of them together holding him firmly down, their movements swift and practiced, completely unlike their previous idle smoking at the station.

"You actually have the nerve to say you’re in a hurry?" Cao Li snorted, pulling out a bloody ticket from the man’s coat pocket—destination Gravesend Port, time: 2 p.m.

"Even the escape route is arranged." Hutter muttered while cuffing him: "The losers on Picket Street actually planned to flee from South Shore Port?"

Arthur crouched down, picked up the suitcase still damp with water droplets, his fingertips gently brushed over the copper clasp, and the case opened with a click, revealing the ivory-inlaid silver writing box and several other insignificant stolen items neatly inside.

"Kensington Palace private property theft case, evidence conclusive..." Arthur smiled and glanced at the suspect pressed down on the ground, "Oh, who do we have here? Turns out it’s Little Bobby, you should know you can’t get away this time, right?"

Little Bobby from Picket Street!

Once the nickname was announced, it immediately prompted a gasp from the onlooking citizens.

"Oh my gosh, it’s him?"

"My aunt’s tailoring shop over there was robbed by this gang last year!"

"Isn’t he the guy who cut off the patrolman’s finger on Riverside Street?"

"Yes, that’s him!"

"Look, he’s actually been caught!"

The crowd swarmed in, the two police teams already ambushed near the station had to continuously blow their whistles, set up a perimeter, barely keeping the curious onlookers at bay.

"Who the hell are you... you’re not a cop..." Little Bobby gasped, pinned to the stone bricks, his eyes fierce, still spitting threats: "You better not let me know who you are, or the Picket Gang won’t spare you!"

Officer Cao Li, nearly stabbed by Little Bobby, avenged personally with a punch to his head: "Watch your damn language! This is Sir Arthur Hastings!"

"Arthur Hastings?" Little Bobby, just threatening to kill everyone in the family, suddenly had his voice trembling: "The one who tossed Fred into the sea?"

"Yes." Arthur replied lightly: "Do you want to join him?"

He slowly stood up, tossing the box to the just-arrived Chief Field, taking off his gloves and brushing the dirt from his trousers.

"Everything in that box is legitimate." Field examined the items in the box, reporting in a voice no less striking than Giovanni Rubini’s high notes: "Even Her Majesty Victoria’s personal seal is in here!"

"Even Her Majesty Victoria’s personal seal is in here!"

Chief Field’s words immediately struck the citizens like a thunderclap. The square erupted in a burst of astonishment and commotion, mixed with chaos, excitement, and almost delirious whispers:

"Her Majesty’s seal?! My God! How did they steal this thing?"

"Are these people mad? Daring to steal from the Royal Palace!"

"This guy is finished... totally finished..."

"The Picket Gang is truly audacious!"

The crowd surged like waves, the noise like a tide.

Little Bobby’s threat of "the Picket Gang won’t spare you" was long swallowed by this tumultuous tide, the stone slabs beneath him were ice-cold and numbing, his head pressed down tightly, cheek against the sewage, his face gradually turning a dull, pallid wax hue, yet he did not struggle, his mind was still echoing in last night’s rainy night.

He never thought that the thing he casually snatched last night would turn out to be royal property!

Last night, it was that damned ghost weather too!

The streets in East End of London are forever so damp, so foul-smelling, he along with Fat Tommy and Old Taylor cuddled outside a shabby brick house at the end of Malta Lane, smoking by a rusty oil lamp.

A few carriages crept down Lighthouse Street, not a sound of wheels grinding over cobblestones, as if intentionally wrapped in blankets.

The middle-aged merchant came very timely, also very quietly, the case in his hand was small, but adorned with silver clasps and intricate patterns, it clearly bespoke of much craftsmanship, very valuable.

When he reached out, unexpectedly smooth. No one shouted, no one chased him, that merchant merely turned his head, glanced at him blandly, a look neither alert nor surprised, instead like he... expected him to take this bounty.

Upon thinking of this, Little Bobby shudders, shutting his eyes, his ears hearing nothing, not the noisy citizen insults, nor Langworth’s excited commentary on telegraph technology and on-site capture, he even failed to sense his own cheek bleeding.

What reached his ears, was only a voice calm beyond calm: "Wrap it up."