The people near the abbey bowed their heads as Elias Montagu approached, yet they were not the real issue.
The real issue was the words being spoken.
A little farther away, conversation had already begun.
A man in clerk's attire gently nudged the waist of an older gentleman who appeared to be the father of a family—his arms laden with market purchases.
The clerk spoke first, voice low.
"This is probably the biggest event of the century."
The older man whispered back,
"Yes… Why would one of the four great dukes set foot in a church his family has never worshipped?"
The clerk covered his mouth with his hand.
"Have you heard the old legend?"
The older man turned his head slightly in the other direction.
"You don't mean the rumour that the Montagu family are heretics?"
The clerk turned in the same direction and murmured,
"That's the one. It's been circulating for nearly three decades now."
The older man coughed.
"You know what happens if someone overhears that? Speak more quietly!"
Elsewhere, two labourers from the same company stood staring at the abbey, talking between themselves.
One said, "A political move is coming, isn't it?"
The other replied, "I think it's more like quiet warfare."
A third man from their crew approached and added,
"I just hope they don't cut our wages over this!"
A short distance away, a woman who clearly belonged to the aristocracy stood beneath a parasol. She leaned toward the lady beside her.
"I've heard that if he so much as gives the smallest order concerning industry, he could paralyse the entire kingdom!"
The other woman, who had been covering her mouth and nose with her hand, lowered it slightly.
"I'm worried about my husband… He's a priest in this very church!"
Closer to the entrance, people remained mostly silent—no whispers, no murmurs.
But farther out, not only were people whispering; those very whispers could easily become the seed of a new rumour.
Behind a few trees stood two men, each holding a pipe. One wore a navy coat, the other brown.
Their topic was obvious—they had just witnessed it with their own eyes.
The man in brown said,
"That's Elias Montagu, right? The current Duke of Manchester—the only son of the late Henry Montagu?"
The man in navy replied,
"Of course. The same 'industrial king.' I've heard the slightest opposition to him ends in death."
The brown-coated man raised an eyebrow.
"Really? You mean that rumour from the twelfth of July 1876?"
The navy-coated man nodded.
"Yes, exactly. I remember the story was that—"
Suddenly a voice came from behind them.
A rather young man in a long black coat, smiling, was calmly adjusting his leather gloves.
"Yes—I've heard that rumour too."
Both men startled at the sight of him. The brown-coated one exhaled sharply.
"Easy, lad. I thought my death warrant had just been signed!"
The young man in black laughed softly.
"Oh no… I don't believe His Grace the Duke of Manchester has quite that level of influence."
The navy-coated man hissed urgently,
"Quiet, boy—you're too young to understand these things. He isn't merely a duke. He is one of the four great dukes—the pillars of the kingdom's majesty and power!"
The young man in black smiled wider. He lifted the black top hat he had been cleaning with a handkerchief, placed it carefully on his head, and said,
"In any case, I don't understand much about politics or influence… so if you wouldn't mind, please leave me out of your discussion and just tell me—which way is the bakery?"
The brown-coated man chuckled.
"Sure, lad—you're still too young for these conversations. But the bakery…"
He glanced around briefly, then pointed with a simple smile.
"You can go down that street. They bake excellent bread there."
The young man in black raised his hat slightly in thanks and replaced it. But just as he turned to leave, the navy-coated man spoke again.
"By the way—that lantern embroidery on your hat is very fine. Where did you buy such a hat?"
The young man in black suddenly stopped.
He stared straight ahead for a moment, as though hiding something.
Then he turned back with a smile.
"It was custom-made… just for me."
With those words, he walked slowly away from the two men.
The brown-coated man watched him go, then said to his companion,
"He must be quite wealthy… buying a custom hat like that."
The navy-coated man nodded in agreement.
Meanwhile, back at the Montagu manor in London, a small verbal confrontation was taking place.
The Security Advisor stood directly in front of the main entrance. The three policemen stood opposite him.
The man in the centre—slightly ahead of the others—forced a smile that barely reached his eyes.
"I am Ernest Hamilton. And you are…?"
The Security Advisor regarded Ernest Hamilton and the two officers with icy composure.
"I see no reason why I should give you my name."
Ernest Hamilton's smile vanished completely. His teeth clenched visibly in anger.
Just then a single crow cawed overhead, passing directly above them.
After the sound faded, the Security Advisor spoke again.
"You see, Mr. Hamilton… your words were so tedious that even the crow grew bored and flew away."
The two officers behind Ernest let out stifled, silent laughs. Ernest shot them a furious glance; both immediately fell silent.
With forced gravity, Ernest declared,
"I have the right to enter the residence of a duke!"
The Security Advisor replied with perfect calm.
"I have received no instruction to grant you entry again."
Ernest looked ready to explode—when suddenly the Montagu family solicitor stepped quietly out from behind the Security Advisor.
Dressed plainly, he descended the steps with measured pace.
A brief silence settled between Ernest and the Security Advisor.
Finally Ernest drew a deep breath.
"Very well… Next time you return, I will report your conduct directly to the duke."
The Security Advisor offered a mocking smile.
"I eagerly await your report."
All of this was happening on one side.
But Frederick Clayton's state of mind was far from calm.
As he walked behind Elias into Westminster Abbey, the same questions circled relentlessly in his head:
*Why has the duke come here?*
*Why did I accept this without question?*
*Why has my lord become so utterly unpredictable lately?*
These were the thoughts that accompanied Frederick Clayton—Head Butler to Elias Montagu—as he followed his master.
In the end he could neither protest openly nor declare the action wrong.
He was, after all, only a servant.
Meanwhile, inside the Montagu manor, calm had not returned after the police departed.
From the outside it appeared peaceful.
Inside was another matter.
The Housekeeper hurried out the main door and spoke to the Security Advisor.
"The maids forgot to draw water for cleaning the manor!"
The Security Advisor replied with his usual eerie calm.
"And what exactly am I supposed to do about it?"
The Housekeeper gave him a pitying look from head to toe.
"You have all these soldiers here supposedly to protect the manor… At the very least, go help the maids draw water from the private well with them!"
The Security Advisor's eyes widened—as though he had just suffered a minor stroke at the insult to his dignity.
He coughed, voice incredulous.
"What am I supposed to do?"
The Housekeeper frowned.
"Hurry up and go!"
The Security Advisor scowled.
"I am not here to clean up your managerial mistakes!"
The Housekeeper grew even more irritated.
"I said go! The duke must bathe today!"
The Security Advisor exhaled deeply, raised his hand, and snapped his fingers three times.
To the duke's trained guards, three snaps meant emergency or critical mission.
Yet this was undoubtedly the most absurd critical mission the Security Advisor had ever received in his service to Elias Montagu.
The guards stationed near the platform followed him toward the rear courtyard.
Those at the front steps remained in place.
So far, today had been the strangest day for many people.
Apart from a ship that had sunk in the harbour.
But it seemed only the surface routine of the country.
Something else was moving in the shadows.
What exactly?
Only the shadows knew.
───────────────────────────
A man gently placed a black top hat on a table and leaned against it.
"Yes… everything is proceeding exactly as predicted."
Another voice asked,
"Everything?"
The man who had set the black top hat down laughed softly.
"Well—not quite everything. It seems one of the four great dukes has suddenly decided to upend the rules with a single move!"
Silence fell over the place where the two stood.
Perhaps because… they were both smiling.