The office of the Home Office, morning light slicing through the gaps of the blinds onto the carpet.
Arthur lounged lazily in his chair, legs propped on the desk, a pipe in his mouth, holding a copy of The Times. From his series of body language, it was hard to discern just how much respect this guy still had for the sacred Home Office.
A knock came from outside the door.
"Sir, it's Blackwell."
Arthur couldn't even be bothered to put his legs down, he merely lifted his chin: "Enter."
Blackwell pushed the door open and came in. The private secretary showed no surprise at the image of his boss.
Ever since the Alan Pinkerton case, Sir Arthur, who was usually meticulous at the Home Office, had adopted this slacker attitude.
But you couldn't completely blame him; as the saying goes, even a clay figure has some anger, let alone the permanent undersecretary at the Home Office?
