By the time they left Westminster Abbey, the midday sun had already warmed the flagstones of Parliament Square, and the air shimmered faintly above the cobblestones.
The Abbey's Gothic spires rose behind them, solemn and ancient, their stone faces burnished by centuries of soot and sunlight. For a brief moment, Shane Cassidy looked back. The stained glass of the Chapter House still glimmered faintly in his mind, the images of saints and kings frozen forever in coloured silence.
Catterson raised his hand, hailing a motor cab idling near the kerb. The vehicle gave off the mingled scents of leather, petrol, and faint tobacco.
"Where to next, sir?" asked the driver, tipping his cap.
Shane unfolded the London street map that had been tucked inside his overcoat by the Savoy's concierge that morning. After a pause, his finger rested on the East End.
"I'd like to visit the Rowton House on Whitechapel Road," he said quietly.
Catterson lifted a brow. "The working men's hostel?"
Shane nodded. "I read that it was built to house the unemployed after the turn of the century—one of the first of its kind. It's said to be a mirror of how London treated its poor."
The driver started the engine, and the cab rumbled eastward, through the swelling hum of midday traffic. Street hawkers cried out on street corners; paperboys darted between motorcars shouting "Evening News!" and "The Times Extra!"
As they crossed Holborn Viaduct, Shane's eyes lingered on the rows of soot-streaked brick buildings, their windows clouded with grime. In his mind's eye flickered a black-and-white image — men in threadbare coats queuing for bread, their faces hollow under the lamplight of 1908.
A fleeting thought chilled him: did a young and unknown agitator once walk these same streets, preaching reform or vengeance? The ghosts of London's forgotten poor seemed to follow the cab's wheels as they turned into Whitechapel.
The Rowton House stood grey and severe against the sky — a vast brick fortress of philanthropy, its high chimneys and narrow windows casting long shadows on the pavement.
At the entrance, an elderly porter was polishing the brass nameplate, the metal dulled from years of London fog. When he heard that Shane wished to see one of the old dormitories, he regarded the young man with faint surprise.
"Not many gentlemen ask to see that part of the house," he said slowly, his voice rasped with age. "Third floor, east wing — it's much as it was when we opened in 1905."
The stairs creaked beneath their steps. Along the corridor, rows of green-painted doors lined the walls, each numbered in brass. The air smelled faintly of soap and linseed oil.
When Shane entered the narrow room, the past seemed to breathe again. Four iron-framed beds stood in neat order, separated by worn curtains. A wooden table in the corner bore stains of ink and candle wax, and an old copy of The Daily Chronicle lay folded on the sill, its edges browned with time.
He reached out and touched the rough plaster wall. Near the head of one bed, faint scratches formed the shape of initials — almost erased, yet stubbornly visible.
Catterson leaned against the doorframe. "You seem drawn to these places."
"Perhaps," Shane murmured. "They remind me how easily despair can become ideology."
He turned toward the small window, where sunlight struggled through the grime, revealing swirling motes of dust — fragments of forgotten lives. In that moment, it felt as if the city itself were whispering to him, its every shadow carrying the memory of hunger and hope.
When they stepped back into the sunlight, the bells of St. Paul's Cathedral began to toll noon, their solemn tones echoing down Fleet Street.
They walked slowly along the Strand. The façades of banks and publishing houses gleamed in the summer light, while motorcars roared past red double-decker buses and flower sellers.
Shane paused before the British Museum. "Can we stop here a while?" he asked.
Catterson agreed at once. Inside, cool air greeted them — thick with the scent of dust, vellum, and the faint must of paper. The Reading Room, beneath its great blue dome, was quiet but alive with presence: the rustle of turning pages, the scratch of pen nibs, the shifting of chairs upon the floor.
A librarian with greying hair and round spectacles rose from behind the desk. "May I assist you, sir?"
Shane smiled faintly. "The ethnology section, please — Slavic studies."
The man nodded and guided them through the long aisles, past tall mahogany shelves heavy with volumes. "That section has been rather popular since the war," he said mildly. "Scholars studying national questions, mostly from the Continent."
They reached a vast oak table, its surface marked by scratches and ink stains. Shane ran his fingers along it, imagining those who once sat there.
In his mind, two young men appeared — their faces blurred by history. One wrote furiously, pages of revolution and destiny spilling from his pen. The other, seated opposite, stared into the void, quietly conceiving a darker vision of power.
Ghosts of conviction. Rivals who had reshaped the century with ink and rage.
"Come," said Catterson softly. "We've seen enough dust for one day. Let's find some sunlight."
They left the museum and followed Bloomsbury's quiet lanes until they reached Café Royal on Regent Street. The door opened with the chime of a bell, releasing a warm rush of roasted coffee and polished wood.
A waiter led them to a window seat overlooking the bustling pavement. "Two slices of chocolate gâteau and a pot of Kenya roast," Catterson ordered.
Through the window, Shane could see the Evening Standard headlines on a passing boy's stack of papers: "Europe Backs Peace Pact — Kellogg-Briand Treaty Signed."
When the waiter returned, Shane cut gently through the glossy shell of the cake, releasing the sweet scent of apricot and cocoa.
For a moment, he said nothing. Then, gazing out at the sunlit streets, he murmured, "The old world is fading — yet the new one seems darker still."
Catterson stirred his coffee thoughtfully. "Change always begins with optimism," he said. "It's what follows that defines the era."
The words lingered in the air between them, mingling with the strains of a violinist playing "The Blue Danube" near the doorway.
Shane smiled faintly. "Strange," he said. "That melody was meant to celebrate peace, yet it sounds almost like mourning now."
Outside, the late-afternoon sun gilded the rooftops of Piccadilly, and the city glowed with a deceptive calm. Gaslight brackets still clung to some old brick walls, even as the new electric lamps above them hummed faintly — London itself caught between two centuries, like a world holding its breath before the storm.
Shane lifted his coffee cup, the faint bitterness mingling with the sweetness of the cake, and wondered — not for the first time — which side of history he would stand on when the next tide began to rise.