Storm and Silence

  Oh, good. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘But we should be quick anyway, just in case I am mistaken.’

  Not so good.

  Mr Ambrose nodded to Karim. ‘You know what to do once we’re there?’

  The mountainous Mohammedan nodded, patting the bag slung over his shoulder. Not for the first time, I wondered what was inside.

  ‘Yes, Sahib.’

  ‘Adequate.’ Mr Ambrose raised his watch again. ‘Brace yourselves. It will begin in ten… nine… eight… seven… six… five… four… three… two… one… now!’

  Nothing happened.

  With an angry snap, Mr Ambrose shut his watch.

  ‘They’re late,’ he complained. ‘You can’t rely on anybody to be punctual anym-’

  Suddenly, there was an almighty clash from the other side of the building. Screams pierced the night over the city. For a moment, I thought that some sort of street brawl had broken out.

  Bloody hell! Has he hired people to attack Lord Dalgliesh’s guards? They’ll all be shot down!

  But then the clash came again, and it didn’t sound like swords or guns - rather, like a cymbal.

  An orchestra attack?

  ‘What the bloody hell…’ I started to whisper, but was cut off by more screaming. It didn’t exactly sound painful. If I had to choose an adjective, I would have said 'enthusiastic'. But that couldn’t be, could it?

  Curiously, I peered around the cart. Coloured lights were visible around the corner of a house. It sounded like people were approaching. But… the sound of the footsteps wasn’t right. It didn’t sound like normal traffic, or even soldiers marching - more like people at a ball, dancing to a rhythm. But who would be crazy enough to stage a ball on a street in the middle of Chinatown, in front of a house with professional gunmen on the roof?

  Who do you think?

  The sound came nearer - and then, without warning, the head of a giant, red-golden beast appeared in the street. It was at least two yards high, with thick spikes on its forehead and snout. A livid red tongue protruded from its horrifying maul that could surely swallow a girl whole, and as it reared up into the air, a roar and renewed clashing cut through the dark night again.

  The monsters eyes fixed directly on me.

  I opened my mouth to scream - and a hand clamped down on my lips. ‘I said,’ I heard a very cool, controlled voice at my ear, ‘brace yourselves. That means no horrified screaming.’

  ‘Bmm! Hmpff!’

  My attempts to warn him of the approach of the giant monster went unheard. He pressed down harder.

  ‘Look,’ he told me. ‘Look closely.’

  No! I don’t want to look! I can’t even stand to look at that grey beast of a horse you own, and this - this is a thousand times worse! Run! Run for your life, you granite-headed idiot!

  What apocalyptical demon had he set loose in the streets of London, while the unsuspecting public slept in their beds, and the police were nowhere to be seen?

  ‘Look, Mr Linton. That is an order.’

  Unwillingly, I moved my eyes to rest on the red-and-golden monster. For a moment, I just stared in fear as the wild eyes moved from left to right and the head jerked in wild contortions. Then…

  Then I saw the pair of legs protruding from the lower part of the head.

  Dear, merciful God! Has the monster already devoured somebody?

  But no. Those legs weren’t sticking out of the beast’s mouth. They were just protruding from the bottom of the head, as if a man were standing inside it, holding it up. For the first time, I noticed that the face of the beast was hard and immovable as wood, and that its tongue did not move, and neither did its jaws. I saw the glint of paint on its features, and it dawned on me that I might have slightly overreacted.

  My body relaxed.

  Mr Ambrose’s arms, still around me, did not.

  And, for the second time in half an hour, I realized that I could feel his fingers on my lips, and his stone-hard, sinuous body pressed against my back. Suddenly, the fake monster was only a dim memory. Suddenly, I was wondering whether he remembered the last time, too, and what it felt like to him. My derrière was pressed very tightly against him, soft flesh against hard muscle. More soft flesh than was probably advisable. I found myself wishing that I had tied my corset a bit more tightly in that area.

  Don’t be ridiculous, I chided myself. Why should you care what Mr Ambrose thinks about how you feel, or that he probably thinks your bottom is too fat?

  Not that it was, mind you. A little on the generous side, maybe, but not fat. No, definitely not.

  Mr Ambrose cut short my posterior musings by releasing me and stepping back.

  ‘Be quiet, Mr Linton,’ he warned me, his voice as cool as ever. No. He definitely hadn’t been thinking of anything… down there.

  Quickly, I tried to push all thoughts of the feel of his body out of my mind. It wasn’t too difficult, considering the circumstances. My eyes were drawn once more to the giant beast, of which now, not only the head, but a long, snake-like body was in view, each part of it supported by another pair of legs. The snake-like thing had by now started advancing towards the western side of number 97.

  ‘What in St George’s name is that?’ I panted, pointing at the wagging head of the fake monster.

  ‘Chinese New Year celebrations,’ Mr Ambrose said, his face as straight as a ruler. ‘The performance is called “The Dance of the Dragon”, I believe.’

  ‘Is it the Chinese New Year?’

  ‘No. But I doubt Lord Dalgliesh’s guards know that. They are not Chinese.’

  ‘Well, fortunately, neither am I,’ I said, watching the head of the monster with trepidation. ‘Real animals are scary enough. I have no idea why any people would want to dream up even more monstrous creatures, and for a celebration, to boot. Give me a nice, quiet suffragist demonstration any day…’

  ‘If you’re quite finished, we should get going.’ Mr Ambrose jerked his head in the direction of number 97. ‘Or we will get shot in spite of the performance of our Chinese friends, and I’d hate to have spent enough money for an entire dragon and twenty-four pairs of legs for nothing.’

  Without waiting for my response, he whirled. Drawing his cloak in closely around himself, he started across the street. Crouching low, he stayed out of the light of the street lamps, jumping from shadow to shadow. Karim followed without hesitation.

  I gazed at the thirteen steps or so that separated me from number 97 with trepidation. At any one of the thirteen steps I would have to take, I might get shot. I wondered what it would feel like, having a bullet pierce my flesh. Yet - the longer I stood here wondering, the more likely I would be to find out. And he was already halfway across.

  You don’t really have a choice, do you?

  I threw myself forward.

  When I had just taken my first step, I thought I saw a glint on the rooftop of number 97, and my heart almost stopped. The barrel of a gun! I expected the crack of the shot, the bullet hitting me - nothing came. It must simply have been a drainpipe, glinting in the moonlight.

  Ten steps left.

  Inwardly, I cursed the London authorities for making this road so damnably wide. Couldn’t they have reduced the size a bit? Couldn’t they have felt compassion for poor girls who were running across the street in the darkness, hoping not to get shot by villainous assassins? I was sure if there had been a woman on the planning committee, she would have thought of it! It was such an obvious point to consider in city planning.

  Seven steps left.

  Every time one of my feet hit the ground it sounded like a drumbeat in my ear. I wondered at the fact that the men on the roof hadn’t heard it yet and put a nice, round hole into me. But in reality, the clash of the cymbals and dozens of thundering feet on the opposite side of the building were probably more than covering the noise of my advance.

  But they could still see me, if they were not looking the other way. I drew the mottled cloak tighter around me, though I c
ould not really believe in its powers of disguise. It was only a cloak, after all…

  Three steps left.

  I surged forward with renewed effort. In front of me, I could see Mr Ambrose and Karim appearing out of the gloom. They were pressed against the brick wall of number 97. Closing my eyes, I leapt forward. If I was to get shot at the last moment, I didn’t want to see the blood.

  I slammed into something hard - much harder than a brick wall! From above me, I heard a sharp exhalation, and then, suddenly, a set of arms was around me, pulling me to a chest that felt wonderfully familiar.

  Well, maybe that’s because you’ve been pressed up against it twice already in the last hour!

  This time, he wasn’t holding me to shut my mouth, though, and my back wasn’t to his front. Instead, the hard muscles of his chest were pressed more tightly against mine than they had ever been before. He was holding me so tightly, I thought he didn’t ever want to let go again. I would not have minded if he never did. I felt so overjoyed to still be alive, and here, and with him…

  A strange feeling flooded my body. A feeling of heat and weakness and wanting… something. From one moment to the next, I went limp in his arms, collapsing against his chest with a faint sigh.

  What the hell is happening? Lilly to legs: start working again, now! Right now, do you hear me?

  Above me, I heard him catch his breath. And then, something happened which I would never have thought possible, certainly not here. Not now. His hands started roaming over my body, expertly probing my face, my neck, my arms, my… oh my!

  My heart beginning to beat a frantic rhythm, my legs wobbled and almost gave way. His hands travelled farther down, over my waist, down my hips and to my legs… wait a minute! What did he want down there?

  My eyes fluttered open, just in time to see him straighten and give me a cold, questioning glance. ‘Why did you sag against me?’ he demanded in a low, burning cold voice. ‘I have checked everywhere and cannot detect a single sign of a shot wound! Have you sprained your ankle?’

  Checking for shot wounds? He was checking for shot wounds?

  ‘Um… no.’ Hurriedly, I straightened, hoping that with my tanned complexion and in the gloom of night, nobody could see my furious blush. ‘I was just exhausted from the run, I suppose.’

  He made a soft noise in his throat that combined a minimum use of his vocal cords with a maximum of male scorn. Then he turned to Karim, who had been watching everything with narrowed eyes. The minute Mr Ambrose turned towards him, his features became as neutral as Switzerland, though they remained considerably hairier.

  Mr Ambrose didn’t speak, but made a few, quick, hard gestures with his hand. Obviously, they must have meant something to Karim, who unslung the bag from over his shoulder and opened it. From its depth, he retrieved… was it a rifle? My eyes widened.

  Is he going to shoot at the guards on the wall?

  But no. Mr Ambrose was many things, but not a fool. And now that Karim lifted the thing up, I could see more clearly. Contrasted against the moon that rose above the roofs to the north, I could see that, while the object had the same basic shape as a rifle, two slightly curved arms extended from it, one on each side.

  And there was something pointy at the end, some kind of arrow with a strange head. What in heaven’s name…

  Twang!

  With a sharp snapping noise, the strange arrow flew upwards and over the wall. Behind it, a sort of tail was flailing in all directions. No - no tail, a rope!

  I had to strain my ears to hear the dull thud as the arrow landed beyond the wall. And even so, I only heard it because I knew it was coming. The racket from the other side of the building was still overwhelming.

  Mr Ambrose made another one of his cutting, silent gestures. I raised an eyebrow, quizzically.

  ‘That means “move”,’ he hissed. ‘Now move.’

  Oh, I bet he wished he could use that strange sign language in the office! Then he wouldn’t have to talk to me at all, or write, but could just order me about with a twitch of his hand. And what did he mean, move? Move where?

  Karim was in motion already. With two steps he was at the rope. Giving it a hearty tug, he tested whether it sat well. Apparently not displeased, he gripped it with both hands.

  For the first time, the significance of the rope hit me. Blimey! He was expecting me to climb up there?

  Bracing his massive legs against the wall, the Mohammedan began to climb, determinedly. Soon, he had vanished into the darkness above me. Mr Ambrose followed, swift and graceful. And I…

  Well, I followed, too. Probably more determined than swift or graceful.

  After only half a yard or so, my arms began to scream in protest. My palms were on fire, bitten with the hot teeth of the coarse rope from which I hung like a leg of mutton from a meat hook. Clenching my teeth and ignoring the pain, I took one of my hands from the rope and reached upwards. Thank God I was wearing men’s clothes! The weight of my usual collection of petticoats would have been enough to drag me to my doom.

  Halfway up the rope I decided that, yes, my derrière was too fat. I really had to do something about it. Not for the sake of appealing to Mr Ambrose! No, not at all! Simply for the sake of rope climbing. Maybe I should eat less solid chocolate…

  Three quarters of the way up, I looked towards the sky, only to see Mr Ambrose’s face above me. He made another sign at me, which I immediately understood: Hurry up! What are you dangling down there for?

  I clenched my teeth again, wishing I had enough breath for a solid, unladylike curse, and reached up once more.

  Finally, I felt another hand close around mine and pull me up. It was a hand I knew well. Strong, smooth and hard. Mr Ambrose’s hand. His other hand closed around my wrist and heaved. Maybe he groaned a little more than was strictly necessary. My derrière might be a little generous, but I wasn’t that heavy!

  I had just gotten my feet on solid ground once more, when Mr Ambrose grabbed my shoulders, pushing me forward and down. Before I knew what had happened, we were cowering on a stone staircase leading up to the wall, and looking over the edge of the walkway. Immediately, I saw why Mr Ambrose had pushed me. At the other end of the walkway, a soldier in red uniform had just reached one end of his round and was turning towards us. He had to have heard something, for there was a frown on his face when he surveyed the walkway.

  Karim, who was kneeling beside us, raised an eyebrow, touching his sabre.

  Mr Ambrose shook his head.

  The soldier, who had no idea what kind of danger he had just escaped, shrugged and continued, while we slowly started edging down the stairs, away from him.

  ‘Can soldiers of the Presidency army act as soldiers outside of British India?’ I hissed. ‘That is outside of their jurisdiction, isn’t it?’

  ‘Their jurisdiction is wherever Lord Dalgliesh can buy them jurisdiction,’ Mr Ambrose replied coolly. ‘Now be quiet, and follow me.’

  He inched down the stairs, pressed tightly against the wall, his cane, which he had somehow managed to retain while climbing up that infernal wall, clutched tightly in his hand. I had no doubt it was the one with the concealed blade inside. He had come well prepared. For a moment, I wondered what arsenal Karim might have concealed underneath his turban. Probably a large one.

  But large enough for an entire garrison of soldiers?

  I wrenched my thoughts away from glinting steel and cracking guns. I had more pressing concerns. It was pitch-black here, in the shadow of the wall, and I had to be very careful not to stumble over my own feet and break my neck.

  At the bottom of the stairs, we could hear faint voices. Mr Ambrose inched towards them, the grip on his cane tightening even more. Beyond him, I could just make out the outline of a large, wooden shed. The voices seemed to be coming from around its corner. Mr Ambrose leant forward and risked a peek.

  Turning to us, he made a quick, jerking movement with his hand.

  ‘It is all right to move,’ Karim, who stood next
to me, growled into my ear. ‘They are distracted.’

  He moved past me, behind the shed, and I followed. This must be the shed Mr Ambrose had mentioned. The one behind which we were to change into uniforms.

  Opening his bag, Karim threw Mr Ambrose and me one uniform each, and kept another for himself. They quickly slipped into the red coats. The voices on the other side of the shed, meanwhile, moved away, until we were completely alone in the night.

  Then, Karim withdrew a rather jaunty-looking blue hat with buttons on it from the bag and put it on his head in place of the turban, glaring at me, daring me to make a comment. Yet I was too busy to comment on his headgear. I had difficulties of my own.

  With all the strength at my disposal, I tried once more what I had been trying for the last three minutes: to force the first button on my uniform into its buttonhole.

  ‘There… um… is a slight problem,’ I whispered.

  ‘Indeed?’ Mr Ambrose asked in a frigid whisper. He was wearing a hat with buttons on it too, and, to judge by the twitching of his little finger, wasn’t too pleased about it.

  I waved my arms, making the uniform stretch uncomfortably. ‘The uniform is rather tight over my other clothes.’

  ‘It may surprise you to hear this, Mr Linton, but I do not care. This is not a Paris fashion show.’

  ‘It’s not just uncomfortably tight, Sir. It’s too tight to wear without popping buttons - at least over my other clothes. I shall have to… um… undress.’

  For a moment, I saw a flicker of something in Mr Ambrose’s eyes. Nothing hot, not even something warm, but there might just have been the flicker of something tepid at the centre of those dark, icy orbs. Yet he turned so quickly, I couldn’t be sure.

  ‘Get on with it, then,’ he commanded, his voice as cold as ever.

  Karim followed the example of his master and turned, though I had the impression that what he really wanted to do was run and hide behind the next wall.

  I was feeling a little queasy, myself. For all my forthright behaviour in other areas of life, I had never been very forthright in the one area of life that usually led a girl to undress in front of men. I had to shiver at the very idea of it. Certainly I shivered at doing it here, in the cold night air, behind this dilapidated shed.