Hunting for Silence (Storm and Silence Book 5)

by Robert Thier

‘That doesn’t make sense, Mr Linton.’

  ‘I’m drunk,’ I reminded him happily. ‘I don’t have to make sense.’

  ‘Oh yes. Yes, you do.’ A powerful hand caught my chin in its grip and lifted my head. Blinking the drowsiness out of my eyes, I gazed up at Mr Rikkard Ambrose, his icy gaze boring into me. I felt like whiskey on the rocks. Lots of alcohol with a bit of ice mixed in. ‘I know you—and I know you want me. I told you when I left for France, I’m not just going to walk away from you. I’ll make you mine, one way or another.’

  ‘There!’ I waggled a finger in his face. ‘That’s what I meant by tyrannical. When a woman tells you no, you have to accept it!’

  ‘Even if she doesn’t mean it?’

  ‘Especially then. Agonizing over potentially idiotic decisions is one of the most precious rights of womankind.’

  Muttering a low oath, Mr Ambrose continued on his way, and I snuggled back into his chest.

  ‘You’re impossible!’

  ‘I’m your little ifrit,’ I grinned up at him. ‘That’s my job description.’

  Wordlessly, he pulled me tighter against him and lowered his face into my hair, crushing it against his lips. Not loosening his grip for an instant, he carried me along a corridor, the walls of which seemed rather wobbly and colourful for a scarcely lit house in the middle of the night.

  ‘W-where are we?’ I murmured.

  ‘The attic.’

  ‘You’re going to store me in the attic?’

  ‘Yes, with the brooms, buckets and old costumes.’

  But, contrary to his words, a moment later he pushed open a door and stepped into one of the most beautiful rooms I had ever seen. True, it was a bit dusty, and there was actually a broom leaning in the corner—but the rest?

  I sucked in a breath at the sight.

  High, high above us, the two slanting sides of the ceiling med above an intricate labyrinth of rafters. Between the rafters, cobwebs hung like velvet drapes, glittering in the silvery moonlight that fell in through the window.

  Oh, and the window…

  It was big. It was high. And it was beautiful. Through it, I could see lights glittering as far as the eye could see. In the distance, a dark band cut through the luminous magic of Paris. The Seine. I gazed, unable to look away. If the view was this amazing in the middle of the night, what would it look like in the morning?

  ‘Up here you won’t bother anyone,’ Mr Ambrose said, his voice cool and detached, while his fingers gently stroked my cheek. ‘And I can lock you in when I need to stop you from causing trouble.’

  I gazed once more at the beautiful room—then looked up at his face, only inches away, and pressed a gentle kiss on his cheek.

  ‘That’s so considerate of you. It’s been some time since I had leisure to practice my lock-breaking skills.’

  Making an indistinct noise at the back of his throat, he marched over to the window, to a cot that was already waiting there. A cot without the barest hint of dust on it. This hadn’t been standing here a long time, like everything else in the room, a realization surfaced in my befuddled mind. He’d had it brought up especially for me, long before I’d stumbled drunk into his office downstairs. Warmth rose in my chest. Yet as I looked up into his eyes, I saw nothing but ice there. Quickly, he looked away.

  ‘Here,’ he said, gruffly, and lowered me onto the cot. With one quick jerk, he pulled a blanket over me. ‘Sleep it off. I need you alert in the morning, and ready to continue with the investigation.’

  Ready to be out of your way, you mean.

  ‘Why can’t you look at me? Why do you want to avoid me?’ Would I normally have asked such a question straight out? Probably not. But in my pleasantly befuddled state, it seemed the logical thing to do.

  His eyes flashed.

  ‘I could ask you the same thing. Why, Lillian?’ His voice was like a knife, cutting straight to the chase, and through it, straight into my heart. ‘Why did you say no?’

  I flinched. There was no need to ask what he was referring to.

  ‘You know why.’ Gently I reached up to touch his cheek, but missed and bumped his nose instead. Oh well, who said I couldn’t invent the romantic nosebump?

  Capturing my hand between both of his, he stared at me, cold, controlled rage in his eyes. ‘Just because of a few stupid words in a wedding vow? Honour and obey?’

  ‘Words you would hold me to.’

  At least he didn’t try to deny it. Turning away, he gazed out through the dirt-stained window.

  ‘Why did you leave?’ It was an audacious question. A question about pain, and secrets of the heart. A question I’d probably never have asked if I were sober. Luckily, I was still completely sloshed.[19]

  For a moment or two, he didn’t reply. The silence was deafening. But then…

  ‘When you said no to me, I…’

  ‘Yes?’

  At his sides, his hands balled into fists.

  ‘It was the first time I wanted to punch something without having a debtor in front of me. Even when directed against a valid target, violence is mostly a waste of time. And there was I, wanting to punch without knowing whom or what or why! And every time the logical part of my mind told me I should probably try punching you, I felt like punching myself, and there is nothing more bloody illogical in the entire world!’

  There was a thunderous thud. It was over so quickly, I had hardly time to blink. Had that really just happened? Had I just seen Mr Rikkard Cool-As-An-Icecube Ambrose punch the wall?

  ‘I needed to get out of there.’ His voice had sunken to an arctic whisper. ‘I grabbed the first file from my “problematic business” pile, and jumped into a carriage. And as the non-existent deity of fate would have it, the business I ended up giving a thorough examination was this one. Do you have any idea what I’ve had to suffer through the last few weeks? If I have to hear one more romantic aria sung by an overweight fool in a parrot costume…!’

  ‘My condolences. But, you know, my life back in London hasn’t been exactly a picnic, either.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Oh yes indeed, Mr Ambrose, Sir. Can you imagine how hard it is to make up excuses for why you’re being followed everywhere by a turban-wearing mountain wearing a giant beard and sabre?’

  ‘I don’t have to imagine. I know the feeling well. And I always say he’s here to cut the throat of anyone who thinks of harming me.’

  ‘Well, for some reason, that wasn’t something I wanted to tell my lady friends over afternoon tea.’

  We lapsed into silence again. And in the silence, in the dark of this dusty attic in Paris, the sadness and hurt between us shifted and morphed into something else. Something warm. Something that drew us together.

  ‘I missed you,’ I whispered into the darkness.

  Silence.

  Silence which for once, wasn’t cold.

  ‘I missed you, too.’

  I bit my lip. Was it cruel to tell him this? I’d said no. I’d refused his proposal, and he had made it clear he wasn’t interested in anything less than marriage. Would it only hurt him to tell him?

  Oh, to hell with it!

  ‘I love you.’

  Silence.

  Silence for a long, long moment, that stretched and—

  Suddenly, he whirled around to face me. In a blink, he was at my bedside and grabbed hold of me. Digging his fingers into my hair as if it were the thread that connected him to life, he pulled me against him and kissed me, hard, fast, heady.

  Holy hell! If this is his punishment for being drunk and disorderly, maybe I should do it more often!

  When he finally broke away, he was panting. His eyes held mine captive, ice swirling in their sea-coloured depths.

  ‘Likewise.’

  Wasn’t it wonderful how sweet and loving Mr Rikkard Ambrose phrased his romantic declarations? He should have become a poet.

  ‘Move over,’ he ordered.

  I obeyed him, because it was always a good idea to stay unpredictable. Lif
ting the covers, he slid into bed beside me and wrapped his arms around me like iron fetters. Only iron wasn’t quite as hard.

  ‘So, we’ve established the basic parameters, Mr Linton. We both possess mutual affection for one another.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘And we both want to be together.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  Gripping my shoulders, he turned me around. I lay there, gazing up at him. Darkness was starting to encroach on my vision, heralding the approach of sleep. But even if I’d been as drunk as the whole House of Lords, I would still have seen his stone-hard face, and his eyes, burning with sincerity.

  ‘So have you changed your mind? Will you be my wife?’

  I considered for a moment, then glanced over at the solitary little yellow piggy that had coiled itself up in a comfy corner of the room and was watching us with interest.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Oink,’ it said, and wiggled its tail.

  ‘Good advice,’ I agreed—and promptly dropped into unconsciousness.

  Investigating

  Have you ever tried to get a hungover French prima donna out of bed at seven in the morning? No?

  Lucky you.

  Now try imagine that, only while your head is hurting like the devil rammed his favourite pitchfork through your left ear, and you’ll have a vague idea of how I felt the next morning. I didn’t exactly feel like conducting an in-depth investigation. However, I decided it was better than trying to face Mr Rikkard Ambrose, since I was not entirely certain whether last night had been a weird dream, or whether I had really answered his renewed marriage proposal by oinking.

  ‘Merde! Vous, les Anglais, vous êtes complètement fou! Personne ne devrait pouvoir se promener à cette heure de la matinée.’[20]

  ‘Oh, come on Claudette,’ I told the prima donna. We had gotten to a first-name basis last night. It was amazing what you could achieve while completely wankered. ‘Put a chausette in it.’

  She wrinkled her nose.

  ‘What would I want with a ordinary, filthy sock? I only wear se most finest silken stockings.’

  ‘Oh, just be quiet and come along. You know as well as I what we have to do.’

  She continued grumbling in her native language, but she followed after me and settled herself down beside me in the room that had been declared our official centre of operations.

  ‘And?’ I asked her. ‘Ready to investigate? Remember, you are my translator, so you’ll have to pay close attention.’

  She gave me a look of polite disinterest, and made a ‘pouah’ noise in the back of her throat that was as uniquely French as you could get. Sighing, I turned towards the door.

  ‘Oh, well. Here goes nothing.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Send the first one in!’

  The door opened, and a lady rushed in, a few music sheets in her hands and a dangerous glint in her eyes.

  ‘Est-ce que Ambrose va déduire ce temps de mon salaire?’ she demanded.

  Claudette and I shared a look.

  ‘Do you need me to translate sat?’ she enquired, one corner of her mouth twitching.

  I sighed and pulled out a list of prepared questions. I could see this was going to be a long investigation.

  I turned out to be right, and wrong in a way. Right because I had not the least difficulty finding people who harboured a grudge against my new friend, the temperamental prima donna. In fact, the first two dozen people I interviewed gave me extensive and detailed plans of what they’d like to do the stuck-up witch, never mind that the stuck-up witch in question was in the room translating for them.

  ‘Pourquoi voudrais-je mettre un serpent dans sa chambre? Si je voulais nuire à la chienne, je lui aurai juste tiré dessus! Elle m’a volé le rôle principal dans les trois derniers opéras effectués dans cette décharge! Elle mérite de mourir! Le serpent l’a mordu?’

  ‘Why would I put a snake in her room?’ Claudette translated. ‘If I wanted to harm the bitch, I would just shoot her. She stole the leading role from me in the last three operas performed in this dump! She deserves to die! Did the snake bite her?’

  Thoughtfully, my translator inclined her head. ‘I have to admit, she has a point.’

  ‘Err…you do? She has?’

  ‘Absolutely. That’s what I would have done if she had gotten the leading roll. Shot her, I mean. Oh, and regarding the “bitch” comment…’

  She turned back to our suspect. ‘Vous pouvez prendre votre arme à feu et tirer sur votre propre cul, misérable petit cafard!’[21]

  ‘Err…what did you just tell her?’

  Claudette gave me a bright smile. ‘I told her that we appreciate her honesty and cooperation, of course.’

  ‘Of course you did.’

  I asked the lady a few more questions, and Claudette translated (hopefully) faithfully, although I had the niggling suspicion that she tagged on a few less than complimentary remarks here and there. But who was I to prevent people from insulting each other? I was a firm proponent of freedom of speech, after all, as long as that didn’t include beating someone to death with a volume of famous speeches.

  One after the other, more members of the opera staff filed in, and with each and every one, the proceedings went more or less the same. I’d ask if they had put the snake into Claudette’s changing room, and the answer would be…

  Well, let me just give you a few examples.

  ‘Pourquoi utiliser un seul serpent? Et qui n’est pas toxique? Cela n’a aucun sens!’

  ‘Why would I use just one snake?’ Claudette translated, nodding approvingly. ‘And one sat isn’t poisonous? Sat does not make any sense! You know…she’s quite right, actually. If I’d gone for snakes, I’d ‘ave used more than one, certainment.’

  Or, the next one:

  ‘Un serpent d’Amérique du Sud? Pourquoi d’Amérique du Sud? Ma cousine Monique a utilisé un serpent local lorsque son mari était grossier, et cela a bien fonctionné pour elle, à en juger par la taille de son pied. Comment oses-tu suggérer que je serais antipatriotique au point d’utiliser un serpent étranger? Vive la France et notre roi Louis Philippe!’

  ‘A snake from South America?’ Claudette translated. ‘Why from South America? My cousin Monique used a local snake when her husband was being rough, and it worked perfectly fine for her, to judge by the size his foot swelled to. How dare you suggest I’d be so unpatriotic as to use a foreign snake? Long live France and our king Louis Philippe!’

  And finally, my favourite:

  ‘Mettre un serpent dans le vestiaire de la prima donna? Je ne ferais jamais une telle chose! Non, ce que je voudrais lui faire c’est coller une carotte sur sa tête, la peindre en argent et lui faire jouer une licorne sur scène devant tout le monde.’

  ‘Put a snake in the prima donna’s dressing room? I would never do such a thing! No, what I would like to do is glue a carrot to her head, paint her silver and make her play a unicorn on stage in front of everyo…really?’ Breaking off, Claudette turned to the vindictively grinning, middle-aged janitor that sat facing us. ‘Sat’s the best you can sink of, Francois? You need to sink of somesin’ a lot better if you want to get back at me because of the incident with se brooms, mon ami!’

  At the end of a very long morning, I sagged back in my chair and stared at Claudette.

  ‘Does anyone in this place not want to see you dead?’

  ‘The mice under the floor?’ she suggested, as if she wasn’t entirely sure about them.

  ‘I don’t quite understand. How have you managed to get this many enemies? Do you have some nefarious alter ego that I have yet to meet?’

  The prima donna gave a soft laugh, and looked at me with a mixture of pity and fondness. ‘Oh, my dear Monsieur Linton, you don’t actually sink sat sis has anythin’ to do with ‘ow I behave or w’o I am inside, do you?’

  ‘It doesn’t?’

  ‘Of course not! I am se prima donna! Everybody wants me out of se way. Sey want my job, or sey want revenge for my taking se job
from them, or from their mother, cousin, daughter, grand-niece twice removed…you take your pick.’

  ‘Then how are you still walking and breathing?’

  ‘Se bon Dieu likes me,’ she said with a cheeky grin—which slowly disappeared from her face. ‘Or at least I thought so until yesterday.’

  ‘So…if everyone here wants you gone, how are we supposed to find out who put that snake in your room?’

  Claudette shrugged, as if it were a matter which could still be solved tomorrow if we didn’t get to it today. But spending a lot of time in the company of Rikkard Ambrose had given me an eye for looking beneath the surface. I could see the little twitches in her face that betrayed her hidden emotions. And among those emotions, one rose high above the others: fear.

  Reaching out, I squeezed her hand.

  ‘We’re going to get them. Whoever they are, we’re going to get them.’

  She gave me a weak smile.

  ‘Thank you, Monsieur Linton. You are a good man.’

  Why did people keep telling me that? It always made me want to answer ‘Not according to my crinkum-crankum[22].’

  ‘Let’s see…’ I bit my lower lip and concentrated, trying to see our problem from all angles. ‘We can’t discover who has a motive, because practically everybody does. What else is there? Hm…We could gather the entire choir and…no, that won’t work. We could get the music director in one room with a gorilla, an axe and…no, that won’t work either. We could…yes! Yes, that’s it!’

  I snapped my fingers. Sitting up straight, I grinned at Claudette.

  ‘I know how we can find out the truth. Go and get Mr Ambrose! I’ve got a task for him.’

  Claudette blinked. ‘You ‘ave a task for ‘im?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you want me to… fetch ‘im?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You have plate armour and a gun for me?’

  ‘Ha, ha. Very funny.’ I waved her off. ‘Go! And hurry! We don’t have much time.’

  She jumped up and ran, and—wonder of wonders—truly returned with Mr Ambrose in tow only a few minutes later. He did not look pleased. Not at all.

  ‘Mr Linton? I was told that told that my assistant required my assistance?’