Hunting for Silence (Storm and Silence Book 5)

by Robert Thier

  The…the nerve of him!

  Suddenly, I felt the strangest urge to throw myself on him, wrestle him down to the chaise longue and kiss him silly. But since the chaise longue was spattered in snake blood, I refrained, and instead gave him a cool look that told him exactly what I thought of his attempt to turn the tables.

  ‘Well, we still have to ask ourselves how this lady ended up here. I doubt she came over from Brazil because she’s an opera enthusiast. Could she have escaped from some kind of zoo or ménage?’

  Mr Ambrose shook his head. ‘If there were something like this anywhere near my opera, I’d know about it.’

  ‘Is there someone who could have left this on purpose? Someone who hates the prima donna that much?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mr Ambrose nodded. ‘The prima donna’s understudy, the understudy’s understudy, the choir, the managing director, the orchestra, and half of the two dozen men who are in love with her.’

  I blinked. ‘But if they’re in love with her…?’

  ‘They’re French.’

  ‘Oh. I guess that explains it.’ I hesitated. ‘But could any of these people have gotten hold of such an animal?’

  ‘Maybe. But for them, there would be far easier methods to achieve the same goal. A bucket of dirty dishwater balanced on the door, a bit of paint splashed over a costume—it does not take a deadly snake to upset a prima donna. And if the purpose was not just to play a trick on her, but to kill—why not simply shoot her? It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘You…’ I hesitated. ‘You don’t suppose it was Dalgliesh after all, do you?’

  He whipped his head around to look at me sharply. ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘When I think of Dalgliesh,’ I told him darkly, ‘I think of a snake. Besides, this smells of something bigger than some spat between opera singers. There’s a vicious mind behind this, with resources at its disposal.’

  Mr Ambrose considered it for a moment – then shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘So he doesn’t have an opera house in Paris?’ I probed. ‘Any place that might be in competition with this one?’

  ‘Yes, he does. But the mighty Lord Daniel Eugene Dalgliesh would never stoop to concerning himself with the day-to-day running of such a small operation. Dalgliesh likes to plan great intrigues and play at politics. I am the one who has the hands-on approach.’

  ‘Oh, trust me,’ I told him with a wink, ‘I’ve noticed.’

  The look he had on his face for a moment—just a moment—was priceless.

  ‘Yes. Um. Well…’ He cleared his throat. ‘Back to the business of the attempted murder…’

  ‘Must we?’

  ‘Yes, we must, Mr Linton.’

  ‘Too bad. Since you’re sure Dalgliesh is not behind this, I was hoping I was going to get to see more of this beautiful city. Maybe with some company?’ Sidling up to him, I put my arm around his waist. He, fervent romantic that he was, responded by holding a dead snake under my nose.

  ‘Well, then you shall get your wish. I will put the investigation of this incident into your capable hands, and to ensure you’ll have plenty of company, you’ll start by questioning all the opera staff.’

  My eyes nearly bugged out of their sockets.

  ‘I what?’

  ‘Oh, and this…’ He dumped the dead snake into my arms. ‘Take it to an expert, will you? Find out where exactly it came from. Preferably without threatening anyone with a firearm.’

  ‘You…I…how…what…?’

  ‘Quite adequate questions to begin with, Mr Linton. I’m sure you will be a success as an investigator. Good day.’

  And, turning, he strode out of the prima donna’s dressing room. I, for my part, stood there in silence for a moment—then looked down at the snake.

  ‘You know, I think I understand your choice of lifestyle. Strangling people to death is so much more satisfying that just poisoning them with a little bite.’

  *~*~**~*~*

  My first interview with a member of the opera staff went something like this:

  ‘Good morning, ma’am. Could you please state your name, and then describe in your own words as closely as possible what happened a few hour ag—’

  ‘Mon dieu! C’est scandaleux! J’exige de voir le gérant, ou du moins je l’aurais fait s’il avait été là, mais ce bloc de pierre appelé Ambrose l’a envoyé en vacances parce qu’il n’avait pas besoin de de le payer pendant qu’il était là, n’est ce pas? Cet homme me rend fou! Mais pourquoi suis-je entrain de vous le dire? Vous êtes son fidèle laquais, un homme dont il faut se méfier! Vous n’oseriez jamais remettre en question les précieux ordres de votre maître, n’est-ce pas? Allez au diable! Allez en enfer et prenez votre bloc de glace de patron avec vous! Peut-être qu’il va fondre et faire de ce monde un meilleur endroit! Et puisque nous sommes sur le sujet de l’enfer…’[9]

  ‘Um…yes. Thanks.’ I held up both hands, just about managing to halt the flood of words from the big-bosomed prima donna. ‘That’s a very great description. Now—could you repeat it in English, please?’

  ‘Pourquoi diable tu m’as appelé ici? Et pourquoi est-ce que tu continues de parler en anglais? Je ne comprends pas un mot de ce que tu dis. Honnêtement, je m’en fiche, mais j’ai de meilleures choses à faire plutôt que de m’asseoir là à écouter. Est-ce que Ambrose va déduire de mon salaire le temps passé ici?’[10]

  I perked up. That last part I might actually have kind of understood!

  Ambrose de déduire cette temps de mon salaire…

  What could that possibly mean? Take three guesses.

  ‘Yes.’ I nodded emphatically. ‘He will absolutely deduct this from your salary. This and anything else he can think of.’

  The prima donna slapped a delicate hand on the tabletop between us.

  ‘Merde!’

  I beamed. She had understood! We were making huge strides in interlingual communication.

  ‘Yes, absolutely merde,’ I agreed, patting her hand. ‘Don’t worry, I know the feeling. I’ve had a few merde-moments with Mr Rikkard Ambrose myself.’

  ‘Cet homme est une tête de nœud!’[11]

  ‘Yes, absolutely. He definitely is a tait du noid, whatever that may be.’

  ‘Hm…’ The prima donna gave me a considering look. ‘Pour un homme, vous n’êtes pas trop mal. Surtout pour un anglais.’[12]

  ‘Thank you—I think. If that was was a compliment. You’re not too bad yourself, as long as you aren’t screaming or singing.’

  Reaching into her humongous collection of petticoats, the prima donna removed a small flask and held it up.

  ‘Voulez-vous partager?’

  Ah, the international language of getting completely wankered! This was one I definitely understood. With a broad grin, I snatched up the bottle, unscrewed the top and took a big gulp.

  ‘Hou la la! Ralentissez, petit gars, ralentissez!’[13]

  ‘Ooo la la is right!’ A broad grin spread across my face, and I handed her the bottle. She grabbed it, and took a gulp even bigger than mine.

  ‘Voila!’

  ‘Ha! That’s the best thing you can do? Give me that bottle!’

  ‘No way! If I do, it be empty in three gulps!’

  I froze. Then, slowly, I raised my eyes to meet hers. She clapped her hand in front of her mouth. ‘Merde!’

  ‘You can say that again, Lady! How come you suddenly speak English?’

  She gave me a sullen look. ‘I thought you call me to reduce my pay. That enfoirè Ambrose try to do that twice since he arrived. So I simply pretend I not understand. Simple solution be the best, eh?’

  ‘Genius!’ I slapped the table. ‘I wish I’d had that idea.’

  A corner of her mouth twitched. ‘He try with you, too?’

  Oh, he tried lots of things with me—most of which succeeded.

  ‘Um…something along those lines. But, you know, I’m not here to announce a pay cut.’

  She nodded. ‘I gather from what you say.’

&nb
sp; I frowned. ‘Then why did you keep on pretending?’

  Her smile blossomed into a full-blown naughty grin. ‘It be so much fun to watch you wrestle with Francais and lose.’

  ‘You…you devious little…!’ I jabbed a finger at her, while the inner me stood up and applauded. ‘As punishment, you will serve as my translator! I need someone to help me find out what is happening here. And since you’re the victim, you’re pretty much the only one I can trust to tell the truth.’

  ‘Translator. New job, oui?’ She held out an open hand and raised a delicate eyebrow. ‘How much it pay?’

  ‘You’ll do it, or I’ll inform Mr Ambrose about this little scheme to avoid him.’

  ‘Qu’est-ce que vous avez dit? Je crains que je ne comprends pas un mot que vous dites. Je ne parle pas anglais. C’est un langage tellement compliqué, et je ne suis qu’une chanteuse idiote.’[14]

  ‘Really?’ I gave her a long, hard look. ‘You’re really playing that game again?’

  She smiled at me with an innocence not even my little virgin sister could have matched.

  ‘Excusez-moi? Qu’est-ce que vous avez dit?’[15]

  My shoulders slumped. Crap! Or, as the French would say, crêpe suzette! What was I going to do now? I needed someone impartial to translate, or I would never get anywhere in this damn investigation. How could I possibly change her mind and make her help me? How could I convince her?

  My gaze swept over the well-endowed prima donna—and then, as if led by a helpful alcoholic divine entity, landed on the bottle. An idea popped into my head. An idea that, I was sure, Mr Ambrose would not like. Which of course meant I had to try it immediately.

  A smile spread over my face, and I leant forward, towards my soon-to-be interpreter.

  ‘Listen. I have an offer for you…’

  The Return of the Yellow Piggies

  I stopped in front of Mr Ambrose’s door. Or, to be more exact, my mind stopped. The rest of me needed a moment or two of wobbling to catch on. For a moment, I gazed consideringly at the three doorknobs on the door. Finally, I grabbed my favourite, before it disappeared, and turned it. It actually stayed substantial.

  ‘Yay! Victory!’

  Triumphant, I pushed open the door and swung into the room with it, dangling from my trusty friend the doorknob. It really was a nice doorknob. I should come visit it more often in future, maybe start exchanging news on women’s rights and brass polish…

  ‘Mr Linton?’

  My philosophical reflections on human-doorknob relations were rudely interrupted by a familiar cool voice. Glancing up, I saw a tall, dark figure standing at the window. Or maybe two. Or three. Math was so difficult to deal with when some nefarious character had stuffed your head full of cotton wool. The Ambrose(s) stood with their back to me, not moving an inch.

  ‘You’ve concluded your interviews for today, Mr Linton?’

  ‘Yep!’

  ‘And? Did you find out anything?’

  ‘Y-yep!’ I announced, cheerily. ‘I f-found out that those French singers carry some s-strong strong stu…stubledywubledy…stuff.’

  He stiffened. Hm…was he tense? Did he need a backrub?

  Slowly, so slowly he could have counted the dust moats in the air, Mr Ambrose turned around, his dark eyes flashing.

  ‘No. No. Not that again.’

  ‘Hello!’ With a bright smile, I waved at him, then turned a bit to the left, towards the yellow piggies dancing in the corner. ‘Hello to you, too! I’ve missed you! Where’ve you been?’

  ‘I’ve been here the whole time, Mr Linton!’

  ‘Not you! I’m talking to my friends over there. And psht!’ I held an admonishing finger to my lips. ‘You’ll interrupt their performance.’

  Mr Ambrose turned to glance into the corner, then turned back to me. ‘Mr Linton—how much alcohol exactly did you consume?’

  ‘Enough to be completely rat-arsed,’ I announced proudly.[16]

  ‘Mr Linton!’

  ‘Funny expression, that, isn’t it? Rat-arsed? I mean it’s not as if tipple came out of a rat’s arse. Or maybe it does? I’ve never seen alcohol be made. Hm…I wonder if someone ought to look into that…Only not too closely unless they want their nose bitten off.’

  ‘Mr Linton! Cease talking immediately!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I told you to!’

  ‘That’s no reason!’ I told him, raising a hand to wag an accusing finger in his face. ‘You can’t tell me what to do. You can’t—’

  Unfortunately, the hand I had raised to admonish him was the one I had used to cling to the doorknob before. Without its friendly support, my face decided it was time to French kiss the floor.

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘Mr Linton!’

  Suddenly, strong arms were around me, lifting me up, holding me close.

  ‘Oh, sure,’ I muttered into a comfortingly warm chest. ‘Now you rescue me, after I’ve rammed my head into the floor. Very gentlemanly, I’m sure.’

  ‘Rescue you?’ Icicles were hanging from Mr Ambrose’s voice. ‘I gave you the task to undertake an important investigation, Mr Linton, a very important investigation—and you return to me dead drunk. I don’t think you’re in a position to throw around accusations. Besides…’ Fingers slid down my cheek. Fingers that felt hard as steel and at the same time unbelievably gentle. ‘I’ve been reliably informed that women have just as much right as men to smash their heads into the floor. It’s called equality.’

  The insult I wanted to throw at the hypocritical son of a bachelor was muffled by his tailcoat. Struggling free, I bent my head back until I could meet his gaze and jabbed a finger against his chest.

  ‘D-dead drunk? Ha! I’m just a little tipsywipsy. Besides…how do you know I didn’t start on your investigigi…investititty…investic nation?’

  Dark, sea-coloured eyes seared into mine.

  ‘I would say that the fact you cannot pronounce the word “investigation” is a pretty strong hint.’

  ‘Ha! That’s where you’re wrong, Mr Ambrose, Sir!’ I thumped his chest. ‘I made huge leaps in the investiture…investmentality…in…in…oh, heck! In my job!’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Oh yes indeed, Sir!’ I beamed up at him. ‘I persuaded a very nice lady to translate for me when I interview the staff tomorrow.’

  ‘And how did you do that?’

  ‘I drunk her under the table,’ I announced proudly. ‘Bloody hell, those French singers can drink a lot of plonk![17] But I beat her! She’s sleeping the sweet sleep of approaching hangover. Which reminds me…maybe someone should scrape her off the floor.’

  ‘So let me recapitulate.’ Mr Ambrose was as deadpan as a skillet that had just committed a tragic suicide by hurling itself into a furnace. ‘You got drunk on the job in order to do the job.’

  ‘Yep!’ I grinned up at him, proud of myself at having found such fabulous reason to be nefarious. The yellow piggies clapped and applauded, their cute little tails wiggling. ‘I absolutely did. Tomorrow morning, I’ll have a translator, and I’ll be able to investimalate to my heart’s content.’

  His grip tightening around me, he pulled me up until I was standing on my feet—or at least wobbling.

  ‘I usually do not make predictions based on feelings, Mr Linton, but I have a feeling that tomorrow morning, you will be busy with other matters. Ones that involve a bucket and an icepack on the forehead.’

  I was about to respond when, suddenly, the floor lurched beneath me. Heck! Why did the bloody floor insist on acting up every time I took a little drink?

  Of course! The floor was a temperance activist![18] That was it! The evil floor wanted to outlaw my drink and banish the little yellow piggies!

  Well, I couldn’t allow that, now, could I?

  I kicked the floor.

  ‘Bad floor! Bad! Take a drink yourself before you judge.’

  ‘Err…Mr Linton?’

  ‘Bad floor! Bad! Just because drunk people always end up drooli
ng on you, that’s no reason to be vindictive. How could you want to hurt those cute little piggies? Can’t you see how well they dance?’

  ‘Mr Linton, I think I’d better get you upstairs to your room.’

  ‘No! I need to have a serious talk with this floor.’

  ‘There’s plenty of floor upstairs, Mr Linton.’

  Really? Damn! This was a conspiracy. ‘Is he a bloody teetotaller, too?’

  For some reason, Mr Ambrose seemed to take this perfectly harmless question as reason for concern. In one swift movement, he bent down, knocked my wobbling legs out from under me and caught me up in his arms.

  ‘Woah! What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m taking you upstairs.’ His tone brooked no argument. ‘Now.’

  He started forward, and his long legs quickly ate up the distance to the door. With the heel of his foot, he pulled the door open and marched through, towards the stairs.

  ‘P-put me down!’ I protested. ‘I’m not some helpless camel…camsel…damsel!’

  ‘Agreed. You’re missing a hump.’

  ‘So you’re going to put me down?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do it now!’

  ‘No.’

  I tried to find the strength to protest again, but it felt so nice being snuggled against his warm, hard chest, and my head was feeling a bit woozy.

  ‘You’re a tyrannical son of a bachelor,’ I accused.

  Mr Ambrose snorted, and murmured something too low for me to really understand. Something about a pot calling the metal back?

  We ascended the stairs in silence, all the way up the opera house that was long asleep by now. No voices of singers rose from below, no chatter of dancers flitted through the corridors. The only things to hear were Mr Ambrose’s quiet footsteps and the ringing of a church bell in the distance.

  A church bell.

  Mr Ambrose stopped on the last step.

  ‘Is that why you said no to me? Because I’m a tyrant?’

  I thought about it.

  ‘Yes,’ I finally admitted. ‘And no.’