Hunting for Silence (Storm and Silence Book 5)

by Robert Thier

  Oh. I hadn’t thought about it in those terms before. Maybe I should have gone myself after all. I cleared my throat.

  ‘Well, um, err…yes.’ I sat up straight. ‘I know how we may be able to find out who’s behind all this. But I need your help.’

  Even though I might have oinked at you last night. You wouldn’t mind that, would you? After all, it’s a perfectly acceptable response to a proposal in most porcian families.

  For a moment, I was sure he would tear me a new one. For a long, silent moment, I was sure he would just turn around without a word and march out of the room. But instead, he looked at me and said: ‘How can I help?’

  I felt a warm tug in my chest.

  Maybe there was no oinking after all. Maybe, in response to his renewed proposal, I just passed out in a drunken stupor. Yay!

  ‘I’m going to call the staff in again, one after another. And while I’ve got them in here and am squeezing everything I can out of them, I need you to go search their rooms.’

  One stony eyebrow lifted infinitesimally. ‘You want me to go and…what? Dig through dresses and note paper for clues?’

  ‘I want you to search for a cage. Or a basket. Or anything else that could have been used to bring a snake into this place. Unless, of course, you think whoever did this brought it in here wrapped around their neck, disguised as a shawl?’

  ‘Somewhat unlikely.’ Mr Ambrose gave a slow nod. ‘I see your point, Mr Linton. Adequate. I will go inspect the rooms in question, while you keep the suspects occupied.’ He gave us both one last, hard, ice-cold look. ‘Do your job well.’

  Then he turned and was gone.

  Beside me, Claudette raised a few sheets of music and fanned herself. ‘Oh là là! That man is simply…well, I know you are a man, so you would not understand, but trust me, he is…oh là là!’

  ‘Oh, I think I understand what you mean,’ I said, my voice rather fainter than usual.

  We called in the first employee, and I pelted him with renewed questions, this time focusing on any contacts they might have to shipping companies, zoological gardens, geographical societies or any other place or organization that might somehow grant them access to rare South American serpents. This proved to be a far more fruitful line of enquiry than my previous attempts. By asking the staff members about each other and comparing their statements, I was able to eliminate most of them from my list of suspects. In the end, only three remained. I sent a messenger boy to inform Mr Ambrose who was under suspicion and where their rooms where located, and then detained them with further aimless questions. I was just starting to wonder how long I would have to keep them occupied when, from outside, a loud screech cut through the everyday noise of the opera house, followed by a resounding slap.

  ‘Stay here!’ Jumping to my feet, I pulled my revolver and raced to the door. Claudette, the stubborn idiot, acted as if she hadn’t heard me and stayed right on my heels. Ha! A woman after my own heart.

  Racing down the corridor, I swerved around a corner, approaching the epicentre of the commotion. To judge by the sound of it, a minor French Revolution was going on somewhere in the opera house, involving mostly female revolutionaries. I was ready for anything when I came around the last corner.

  Or at least I thought I was, until I saw Mr Ambrose striding towards me, three red streaks down his cheek, and the rest of him covered in rouge and pink feathers. I stopped in my tracks, my eyes nearly popping out of their sockets.

  ‘W-what happened to you?’

  ‘The directions you gave me to the last suspect’s room, Mr Linton—were they “left corridor from the entrance hall, two doors down”?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Mr Ambrose’s eyes glittered with frost. ‘Interesting. I wonder how it is, then, that when I opened that door I appeared to have stepped into the ballerinas’ dressing room.’

  My eyes, if possible, went even wider. ‘The ballerinas’…!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  I eyed his decorated state. A tiny part of myself wondered if I shouldn’t feel jealous that Mr Ambrose had entered a room full of scantily clad women. But the bigger part of me felt only one thing when looking at him right now: a burning need to burst into maniacal laughter.

  ‘Mr Linton?’

  ‘Y-yes?’ I managed.

  He raised a warning finger. A stray feather fell from his fingertip. ‘One word. Just one word, and I…’

  I whirled away, ducked through the nearest doorway and managed to slam the door behind me before succumbing to the inevitable.

  *~*~**~*~*

  Once Mr Ambrose had cleaned up, and I had managed to regain control of my facial muscles, we met with Claudette in Mr Ambrose’s office for a strategic conference. Having told him about my three suspects, I expected him to have news for me after searching their rooms. And he did. Only not quite the news I was expecting.

  ‘None of those people had anything resembling a basket or a cage in their rooms, Mr Linton.’

  I frowned. ‘You’re sure? Did you look everywhere? Did you—’

  ‘I checked every cupboard. Every wall. Every loose floorboard.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have missed—’

  He gave me a look. ‘I spent years in the colonies with little money in my pockets and only my wits to defend it. Trust me when I say I know how to hide something.’

  I closed my mouth and nodded. A little shiver went down my back. Every time he said things like that I realized how little I actually still knew about Mr Rikkard Ambrose. Yet…how were you supposed to question a man like him? It was more likely you could open a safe with a can opener.

  Focus, Lilly! You’ve got more important things to do right now.

  ‘Well, then…what now?’

  We exchanged looks. None of us seemed to know what to say, with the exception of Mr Ambrose, who knew how not to say anything.

  ‘I suppose I’d better go back to re-interviewing the staff,’ I sighed, finally. ‘Maybe there’s something I overlooked.’

  The next few hours I spent once more cooped up with Claudette in our impromptu interrogation room, grilling one opera employee after another. But after an exhausting afternoon of endless questions, I still was no closer to discovering the truth. Finally, I slumped in my chair, utterly spent. Unfortunately, there were no yellow piggies to distract me. My eyelids, far too heavy to hold up anymore, slid shut.

  ‘Do you have any more of that fabulous plonk with you?’ I appealed to Claudette. ‘I could use some right about now.’

  ‘I’m afraid not, mon ami. Your dear employer confiscated it.’

  I muttered something about Mr Rikkard Ambrose I would not be able to repeat in polite society—just as, without a knock, the door opened.

  ‘I didn’t quite hear that. You were saying, Mr Linton?’

  Cautiously, I half-lifted one eyelid. There he was. Mr Rikkard Ambrose. ‘I, err…I was just discussing the current state of our investigation with Claudette, Sir.’

  ‘Indeed? So you have something to report?’

  In answer, I sank deeper into my chair and groaned.

  ‘Not really,’ explained Claudette, my trusty translator.

  Mr Ambrose opened his mouth, probably to fling some criticism at me—and then hesitated. His gaze slid over me, and a muscle in his jaw twitched.

  ‘Hm. Well…I can’t have you wasting the entire day with this. I am here in Paris for more than just this little opera house, you know.’

  I groaned again, letting my eyes slide shut. Honestly, at the moment, I just couldn’t find the energy for a rebuttal.

  ‘Miss Allard?’

  ‘Yes, Sir?’ Claudette enquired.

  ‘Go.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Go now. I have things to discuss with Mr Linton.’

  Shrugging, Claudette rose from her chair and left the room, leaving me behind under the intense scrutiny of Mr Rikkard Ambrose. With all my might, I managed to lift one eyelid.


  ‘What? Are you going to give me a lecture on not doing my duties?’

  ‘No.’ He continued to watch me, his intense gaze sending a shiver down my back. ‘How long have you been working, Mr Linton?’

  I thought of saying something like, ‘Not long enough, Mr Ambrose! I must get back to work immediately. After all, knowledge is power is time is money!’

  But in the end, I just went with the truth.

  ‘Too long for someone with a hangover,’ I admitted, resisting the temptation to sink down onto the table. For a solid oak surface, it looked extraordinarily comfortable right now.

  ‘Is that so? Hm.’

  He regarded me for a moment—then seemed to come to a decision.

  ‘Get ready!’ he commanded.

  ‘For what? More work?’

  ‘No. To leave. Meet me at the front door in ten minutes.’

  My head, already halfway down to the tabletop, came up again.

  ‘The front door?’

  He gave me a supreme look. ‘Do you think that this measly little opera house is the only business in Paris I have to attend to? I cannot waste all my time investigating an incident that might have been nothing but the random act of a jealous singer. I have more important things to do. There are some interesting real estate investments I want to examine while I am here, and I need someone to accompany me through the city. Be sure to make the cantina cook give you something edible to take along. The real estate evaluation will likely take up the rest of the day.’

  It took a few moments for his words to sink in. When they did, I felt a tingle rise inside me. My one open eyelid rose a little higher.

  ‘This “real estate evaluation”…would it involve us walking through Paris? Making a tour of the city?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘And would it also involve us passing some popular tourist attractions?’

  He gave a jerk with one shoulder, that might have been a shrug. ‘Quite possibly. These are difficult to avoid here.’

  ‘And we’ll be feeding pigeons?’

  ‘If you want to waste your lunch, be my guest.’

  ‘Mr Rikkard Ambrose…!’ A grin started to spread across my tired face. ‘Are you asking me on a romantic rendezvous to take my mind off things?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ His spine stiffening, he sent me an arctic look. ‘I am here for business purposes and require my assistant, Mr Linton. So get moving, will you? Knowledge is power is time is money!’

  My grin widened. ‘Yes, Sir! Right away, Sir!’

  City of Love, Bacon, and Eggs

  I waited in the candlelit entrance hall, nearly jumping with excitement. I was going on a rendezvous with Mr Rikkard Ambrose! In Paris! And also in trousers. I would have put on a dress, but I had been expecting to march into mortal danger when coming here, and so hadn’t even bothered to pack one. Maybe I would remedy that at some point in the future, but for now…

  I grinned at the sound of footsteps behind me and turned to face Mr Rikkard Ambrose marching towards me.

  ‘Good evening, Sir. Ready for your rendezvous?’

  He gave me a cool look. ‘This isn’t a rendezvous, Mr Linton. This is a business matter.’

  ‘Of course, Sir. Certainly.’ I lifted the wicker basket I’d brought with me. ‘I brought a picnic, just as you asked.’

  ‘Marching rations, Mr Linton. Those are marching rations.’

  ‘Of course, Sir. Just as you say, Sir.’

  I pushed open the door, and together we stepped out into the mild Paris evening. In passing, I smiled and nodded at the doorman, who was halfway into nodding back—when suddenly, his eyes widened with recognition, he gave a squeak and jumped backwards to duck behind the nearest column.

  Mr Ambrose looked from me to the doorman and back again. One eyebrow lifted about a quarter of a millimetre. I acted as if I didn’t notice and, whistling, strolled off into Paris.

  We made our first stop at a beautiful, wrought-iron bridge spanning the Seine. For several minutes, we just stood there, gazing over the water glittering in the last light of the sinking sun, and taking in the fact that we were both here, side by side, in this beautiful place. Finally, the little ifrit in me reared its head and asked:

  ‘So…what are we here to inspect?’ One corner of my mouth lifted. ‘What real estate do you want to buy?’

  Mr Ambrose’s little finger twitched. Quickly, he glanced around from right to left, and then said, as if that should be evident to anyone and he was surprised I’d asked, ‘This bridge, of course.’

  ‘You want to buy the…what is it called?’ Doubtfully, I glanced at the massive iron construction connecting two public roads. Couples were strolling up and down everywhere, holding hands, enjoying the fresh evening air.

  ‘The Pont des Arts.’

  ‘Pardon my saying so…but won’t the city of Paris object to your buying a public bridge?’

  In answer, he pulled a measuring tape out of his pocket and started examining the bridge, mumbling and taking notes in a little notebook. I looked on with a little smile and let him be. Firstly, because it was adorable how hard he was trying to be businesslike, and secondly, because there was a tiny chance that he was actually planning to buy up all of Paris’ public bridges. This was Mr Rikkard Ambrose were talking about, after all.

  ‘Where next?’ I enquired when he put his measuring tape away.

  Mr Ambrose pointed across the bridge, to where an imposing two-wing palace with a lavish park rose high above the Seine.

  ‘There.’

  ‘Err…Mr Ambrose?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Pardon me if I’m mistaken, but isn’t that the Louvre?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I blinked. ‘The Louvre is part of your real estate inspection tour.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Just so I get this right – you want to buy the Louvre.’

  ‘I am not in the habit of repeating myself, Mr Linton. The building in question is prime real estate near the waterfront that wastes a lot of space — space that could be used as building sites — on greenery and open spaces.’ Cocking his head, he gave the museum a critical look. ‘Also, I have heard that for some reason, a number of eccentric people consider the contents of the building to also be of considerable value.’

  Covering my eyes, I gave a dismissive wave. ‘Forget I asked.’

  ‘Well, what are you waiting for, Miss Linton? Let’s go.’

  He marched off towards the Louvre, and I followed. I had to say, it was quite an interesting visit. It was probably the first time that the museum’s guides and curators had been asked questions like ‘How thick is the wall behind that ugly painting there?’ and ‘How much rent does an average flat bring in this quarter of the city’ or ‘Excuse me, is that a water pipe behind that chunky statue? How much would it cost to get running water in this whole place if you partitioned the rooms?’

  Of course, most of the conversations happened in French, so I wasn’t really sure what was said most of the time, but I could deduce pretty much everything from the way the curators’ faces turned first white, then red, and maybe even a little bit blue in a fit of enraged patriotism. One of these artistic gentlemen finally tried to have Mr Ambrose removed from the building after he started to check the wall behind the Mona Lisa for structural soundness. I, meanwhile, leaned against a column next to an ancient Greek fellow in a marble bedsheet, watching the whole scene with relish. This was exactly what I needed to relax.

  ‘And?’ I asked innocently when Mr Ambrose came over, his lips tight and his hand clenched around his measuring tape. ‘How is the wall behind dear Lisa?’

  ‘Mr Linton?’

  ‘Yes, Sir?’

  ‘Be silent!’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Follow me.’

  ‘Right away, Sir. Bye!’ Waving to my Greek friend and to the curator who was still mumbling about mad Englishmen, I hurried after Mr Ambrose.

  Our next stops were the Champs-Élysées a
nd the Arc de Triomphe. By the time we had switched directions and were heading towards the Cathedral of Notre Dame, Mr Ambrose had pretty much given up the pretence of reviewing possible real estate for purchase and development—which was good, because I don’t think the Catholic Church would have been happy. I heard the Pope can be difficult about things like levelling cathedrals to build apartment buildings. We climbed all the way up to the top (after Mr Ambrose stared at a priest who said we couldn’t, and the little man hurried off to pray) and stood at the stone railing, looking over the city of Paris in the setting sun.

  For the first time in a long while, I was away from all work, from all noise, breathing in clear air. It made me feel free. I gave a sigh.

  ‘I could stay up here forever. Too bad I don’t have a hump on my back.’

  Mr Ambrose stared fixedly ahead into the sunset. Or…did his eyes flicker over to me for just a millisecond?

  ‘I cannot say I feel similar regret over that particular lack, Mr Linton.’

  Mr?

  I jabbed his ribs.

  ‘Oh, come on! We’re at the top of a church, hundreds of yards away from anyone, in a city where the people don’t speak English! Even if I’m wearing trousers, I think you could call me Lillian without risking a scandal, don’t you?’

  ‘No.’ Still, he would not look at me. ‘I can’t. Because if I were to call you Lillian, if I’d let myself think and feel what you really are to me, I would do something that would cause a scandal. Especially in a church.’

  ‘Oh.’ I felt heat rush to my cheeks. Thank God it was fast getting dark. ‘Mr Ambrose, I…’

  Suddenly, he whirled to face me, and, in the last light of the setting sun, his usually cold eyes seemed to gleam with fire.

  ‘You haven’t given me an answer yet.’

  I didn’t even pretend not to know what he was talking about. His question still echoed in my mind, haunting me at every opportunity.

  So, have you changed your mind? Will you be my wife?

  I swallowed.

  ‘You know I didn’t say no the first time because of you, don’t you?’ Whose voice was this timid, whisper? Who was speaking? Surely not I. I was a strong and independent woman, and I bloody well sounded like one!