Chapter 40

A day later, Westminster’s Court of Requests resembled a battlefield.

Insisting that the enactment of a special law was necessary concerning this crisis, Robert Peel ascended the podium and raised his voice with veins bulging on his neck.

“Respected Mr. Speaker, and fellow members of Parliament!”

His voice struck the wooden ceiling of the chamber and reverberated back. The old oak panels, which had absorbed tens of thousands of speeches over hundreds of years, would surely remember today’s speech as well.

“Last weekend, we witnessed a disgraceful visage in the gardens of Buckingham Palace. In the gardens of the royal household, provided at a merciful seat bestowed by Her Majesty the Queen, the milk had calf brains floating inside it.”

At the mention of brains, a groan spilled from the public gallery.

Revulsion remembered by the body, nausea revived inside the mouth. Robert Peel was weaponizing the memories left behind in everyone’s bodies.

“The candy was mixed with copper powder, and the bread contained far more alum than flour. Is this the result of the free market the Prime Minister defends so unceasingly?!”

He unfolded Dr. Lindley’s analytical report.

Numbers on paper. Graphs. Records of microscope observations.

Science—this era’s newest and most irrefutable language—rested in his hands.

“Stone dust and alum go into the bread our children eat! The milk we drink is mixed with the brains of diseased cattle! Is this an acceptable state of affairs in London today?”

Whig MPs in the opposing seats sat like mutes who had swallowed honey.

Lips that would normally have retorted about infringing upon market freedom or understanding merchants’ grievances were shut tight.

The reason was simple. Those lips, too, had consumed the same poison a few days prior.

One could hardly deny with one’s own mouth what one had ingested with one’s own mouth.

Lord Melbourne sat in his seat, gazing hollowly into space with sunken eyes.

As Prime Minister, he ought to have defended the government, yet his complexion remained the color of dirt.

Understandably so, seeing as he was the very person who had partaken of tea first, sitting directly beside the Queen.

“What has the government been doing all this while?! It is tantamount to having connived at merchants’ greed and gambled with the lives of the citizenry!”

Robert Peel’s offensive was fierce.

While touching upon food hygiene, he smoothly expanded the issue into matters of national discipline and morality, harboring the strategic intent to shake the ruling Whig Party thereby.

“Free trade? Very well. Yet we never granted the freedom to sell poison! The incidents transpiring today are not freedom, but debauchery! And the government that connived at that debauchery is an accomplice!”

Cheers and jeers erupted intermingled from the parliamentary public gallery.

Yet this once, even the jeers were directed toward the Whigs; a crowd’s fury is akin to wind—once its direction is set, reversing it is difficult. And Robert Peel was expertly steering the vector of that wind.

Unable to endure further, Lord Melbourne rose and shouted.

“Sir Robert, your theatrical gestures are perpetually impressive, but do not inflate the incident out of proportion.”

Theatrical. Selecting that term was utterly deliberate. An attempt to degrade Robert Peel’s speech into mere acting rather than truth.

“It is merely an exceptionally isolated incident that occurred when a few greedy merchants overreached to secure royal supply contracts. Do you intend to treat every single bakery owner in London as a potential criminal and clap shackles upon them on the grounds of those individuals’ deviation?”

Isolated. Yet another deliberate choice of vocabulary.

Lord Melbourne sought to reduce the incident from a problem of structure to a problem of individual deviance.

A matter of the apple rather than the crate, a matter of individuals rather than institutions.

Robert Peel refused to back down.

“An isolated incident, you say! The merchants stated clearly right then and there. They declared it was the most popular product on the market, no different from what they sold routinely. Which means the citizens of London are consuming brain-spiked milk and stone-like alum bread every single morning.”

With that, Robert Peel shook a bottle containing white alum powder and continued.

“Did not Your Excellency the Prime Minister fume and fret precisely because you were barred from selling opium to China?”

That single remark struck home straight into Lord Melbourne’s chest. Those who argued for the freedom to sell opium to Qing China were simultaneously arguing for the freedom to sell poison-laced bread to their own countrymen. This logical connection struck sharply inward.

“Is trade with overseas blocked, so you now grant the freedom to poison your own countrymen domestically?”

Lord Melbourne’s gaze narrowed.

“Watch your tongue, Sir Robert. The government merely adheres to the principle of not interfering with the flow of commerce.”

Principle. When a politician deployed the word principle, it functioned as a declaration of zero further concessions.

“Let us face reality. If we ban every single additive as you insist, who shall bear the cost of bread? Is not the reason merchants utilize alum in the first place to supply it at low cost for the impoverished laborers?”

Low cost.

Depending on perspective, selling poison cheaply might well be deemed a virtue. If bread laced with alum cost one penny while pure bread cost two pennies, selling one-penny poison to an impoverished laborer could, in a sense, be viewed as an act of charity.

“Should the price of bread double owing to your lofty moral sentiments, shall you be the one to clear away the corpses of the common folk who starve to death?”

Robert Peel cried out resolutely.

“Your Excellency the Prime Minister, are you stating that the impoverished may consume poison? Is that the philosophy of the Whig Party?”

The impoverished may consume poison. That sentence resounded across the chamber even though Lord Melbourne had never uttered it.

Extracting from the opponent’s logic what the opponent never said and placing it into their mouth. Robert Peel was a master of political rhetoric.

“We beheld it clearly that very day with the scientific lens of the microscope. To the naked eye, it was white and beautiful bread, yet beyond the lens, it teemed with sharp crystals and unidentifiable lumps. Science has brought the truth to light—must politics close its eyes?”

Lord Melbourne chuckled derisively.

“Science… You speak of the nonsense blathered by some fellow named Dr. Lindley in his cups?”

In his cups.

An attempt to tear him down via the personal flaw of intoxication.

Attacking character when logic cannot be assailed.

The oldest and most cowardly, yet most effective rhetorical technique, which Lord Melbourne wielded with fluid skill.

“Sir Robert, should we leave the precedent where the state meddles down to the components of bread, what follows next? Shall we count individual threads in fabric and inspect coal dust in hearths?”

The slippery slope fallacy. A logic instilling the terror that permitting one thing will expand without limit.

The exaggerated interpretation that inspecting bread means inspecting fabric next, followed by coal, ultimately placing everything under government control.

Yet between poison resting inside bread and counting the threads of fabric lay the critical threshold of human life and death. Bypassing that threshold via rhetorical technique constituted Lord Melbourne’s strategy.

“I place my trust in the self-correcting capacity of British merchants. As consumers grow smarter, bad bakeries will naturally be phased out.”

At that, Robert Peel stomped his foot once upon the podium as though he could endure no longer and shouted.

“Should they be phased out only after people have fallen ill and died from drinking brain-spiked milk, what good is that?”

Only after they have died.

That phrase struck against the chamber’s ceiling and echoed back.

Phasing out is survival of the fittest. The logic that those who survive are righteous, and those who perish are in the wrong.

Yet was the child who died after eating poison-laced bread in the wrong?

Should that child’s parents have been smarter?

A world where death is correction and the graveyard is a diploma.

If that is the destination of the free market, what possible value does such freedom possess?

At that moment, the majority of Whig MPs displayed no reaction.

We have secured the initiative.

Convinced, Robert Peel fell silent for a brief spell before opening his mouth.

“Respected members of Parliament.”

A low yet powerful voice rang out across the hall.

“Just a few days ago, we learned a bitter lesson. The fact that regardless of high or low status, anyone can become miserably equal in the face of unsafe food.”

He paused for a brief moment, swept his gaze across the assembly, and upon locking eyes with Lord Melbourne, shot him a glare before continuing.

“We harbor pride. That our Britain is a civilized nation. That it stands far removed from barbarism. Yet what is the reality? We, who once mocked the opium dens of Qing China, were in truth feeding poison to our children right in the middle of London.”

He declared resolutely.

“It is a matter of shame. And a matter of order. Should the state fail to protect even the most fundamental nourishment of its subjects, what possible reason for existence does that government possess?”

With that, Robert Peel lifted the draft legislation he had prepared.

It was the [Bill for the Prevention of Adulteration of Foodstuffs], containing concrete clauses for food safety.

The moment a name is affixed, the abstract becomes concrete, the idea becomes reality, and dreams become blueprints.

“Accordingly, this member proposes enacting a bill defining the act of mixing hazardous substances into food as a severe crime, appointing specialized analysts to monitor this, and upon detection, imposing stringent penalties alongside the permanent revocation of the offending merchant’s trading license.”

Had it been usual, MPs who broke out in allergic reactions at the mere word regulation would have protested, yet today proved different. The agony of a few days prior still lingered vividly within their bellies.

“I agree!”

“I concur!”

Not only Conservative MPs, but a portion of Whig MPs seated in the rear rows raised their hands as well.

Splendid. Even the Whigs have bled over somewhat!

Inwardly, Robert Peel cheered.

Should this bill pass, the Conservative Party would seize the title of the party safeguarding the safety of the subjects, and parliamentary power would gradually tilt toward the Conservatives.

At that moment, Lord Melbourne, lounging with an indolent posture, bolted upright, gazed at Robert Peel, and shook his head.

“Respected member, your speech was rather moving and the proposed bill persuasive, yet from the perspective of this Prime Minister, it rather appears the Conservative Party is attempting to advance solely its own interests through this crisis.”

“…What manner of remark is that, Your Excellency the Prime Minister?”

“Nay, to be precise, I am uncertain how it differs from those merchants who hurled insults at the royal household.”

“…What did you just say?”

The instant the gazes of the two men intersected, the interior of Parliament began to fill with a murmurous uproar.

“Following that occurrence from days ago, too horrifying even to utter aloud, has the Conservative Party ever dispatched a letter or inquiries wishing Her Majesty the Queen well through the Lord Chamberlain or a Lady of the Bedchamber?”

“That is…”

As Robert Peel hesitated, Lord Melbourne shook his head as though quite unable to believe it.

“Furthermore, does not the Conservative Party remain entirely devoid of any message regarding our Whig-proposed Humble Address, expressing anxiety over Her Majesty the Queen’s well-being and praying for the Almighty’s blessing to accompany her?”

“Absurd…! Is that not simply because the contents of the resolution are still undergoing drafting?!”

Instantly, Lord Melbourne’s eyes flashed like a predator seizing upon its prey’s blunder.

“I am compelled to doubt my own ears. Meaning right now, the Conservative Party is trembling in terror over phrasing to be scrawled upon mere scraps of paper rather than Her Majesty the Queen’s well-being? And failing even to inquire after her health while doing so?”

“Our Conservative Party are faithful subjects of Her Majesty! Merely to ensure this unfortunate incident never repeats itself, by crafting legislation to protect the subjects and by extension Her Majesty—is that not true loyalty…”

At that moment, for the first time, Lord Melbourne’s ever-composed visage began to flush red.

Whether his genuine fury was real or merely performance remained a mystery to all, yet everyone within the chamber flinched and widened their eyes.

“Legislation! Must you continually chant that wretched legislation like a spell?”

His voice shook the parliament building, causing the oak panels of the ceiling to tremble minutely with the vibration.

“At this very moment within Buckingham Palace, physicians are coming and going, and Her Majesty is suffering under the burden of believing it her own fault! For ordinary subjects—nay, for anyone possessing blood in their veins—is it not propriety to inquire after Her Majesty’s well-being first?”

Her Majesty’s well-being. Framed alternatively as loyalty, it stood as the most potent card in this era placed upon the table.

The validity of a bill was arguable, but loyalty was not.

Because loyalty toward the Queen constituted an absolute value equivalent to life itself in this land.

In an instant, the interior of Parliament stirred into an uproar, and this time, Conservative MPs displayed unmistakable signs of bewilderment.

“Yet one styling himself the leader of the Official Opposition comes running straight to Parliament without a single letter of condolence, let alone a sickbed visit, seizing upon the moment to thrust forward a bill? Are you truly a subject of the Queen, or a scoundrel seeking to ascend the throne stepping over Her Majesty’s misfortune?”

“Th-That is a malicious distortion! I merely sought to ensure no such tragedy recurs…”

“Averting tragedy is achieved through resolute punishment of the criminals, not bundles of paperwork! When our government moves to apprehend and condemn the criminals, you wave scraps of paper about and fracture national unity. What is this if not treason!”

At Lord Melbourne’s scathing rebuke, Robert Peel’s complexion turned deathly pale.

Treason was a term approaching political execution in this era.
No matter how valid the contents of a bill might be, the moment the label of treason was affixed, supporting that bill equated to supporting rebellion against the Queen.

Having lost the war of logic, Lord Melbourne shifted the battlefield to a war of emotion.
And the emotional blade of this era outmeasured the blade of logic.

The following day, Buckingham Palace.

“…Truly they have produced loyal subjects indeed, oh how they have.”

It proved the honest evaluation emerging upon receiving reports from Baroness Lehzen regarding yesterday’s parliamentary events.

What? Inquiries after Her Majesty the Queen’s well-being? A letter? Apart from Lord Melbourne, not a soul came from the Whig camp either!

It was absurd.

Though failing to come themselves, they had managed to paint the Conservative Party as a treasonous faction.

Knowing Lord Melbourne stood at a disadvantage, I never dreamed he would launch a counterattack utilizing such a pretext.

Undeniably… politics is truly no simple matter.

The moment a tiny vulnerability is snagged, the framing undergoes a complete inversion.
The Whig Party, driven to the defensive, secured an opportunity to counterattack, while conversely, the offensive-wielding Conservative Party found themselves pressed onto the defensive.

Should things proceed thus, might not the two parties compromise at an appropriate midpoint to slash the Food Safety Act to ribbons, or bury it entirely and sweep it under the rug?

Nay, I can never permit such an outcome.

Having forged an opportunity with such difficulty, how could I allow it to be buried amidst partisan bickering between two parties?

A method must be found…

Expecting the trapped Conservative Party to extricate themselves unaided was the endeavor of an amateur among amateurs.

Depending solely upon someone else’s assistance would guarantee failing to recover even the principal investment.

Ultimately, public opinion warfare is our sole recourse.

The adage that the pen outmatches the sword.

Once skeptical, I now firmly believed it.

A sword slays a single individual, yet a pen slays the hearts of multitudes.

Wounds from a sword heal, whereas wounds from a pen endure in history.

After all, our company was shattered in precisely that manner.

Word reached me that the two parties had resolved to convene a selection committee.

Testimonies would emerge through that process. Witnesses would open their mouths.

And amidst those testimonies, the weapon I required might manifest.

I must listen closely to what utterances circulate within Parliament.

I extracted the diary. The text on the second page gazed up at me unchanged.

[Enact the Food Safety Act and protect the dining tables of the common folk.]

That phrase grew heavier upon my heart with each passing day.

Yet a single caveat remained.

Growing heavy implied the task was no simple feat, and the absence of simplicity signified corresponding worth.