Silence is Golden: Volume 3 (Storm and Silence Saga)

by Robert Thier

  Is it possible? Can he really be…gone? Simply vanished? But how?

  I didn’t want to believe it yet. Believing it would make it real - and that would make the disappointment when Morty finally walked through the door only all the more crushing. But he didn’t walk through the door all day, nor climb through the window nor come down the chimney.

  It can’t be possible! He can’t be gone! He can’t! I can’t be this lucky!

  I tried telling myself that again and again as I lay in bed that night, trying to fall asleep. But the ridiculous grin on my face just wouldn’t die down, and neither would the hope blossoming in my non-bosomy chest. I suppose I should have felt a bit worried about what might have happened to poor Morty - but I was too blissful at the prospect of not becoming Mrs Morton Marmeduke Fitzgerald to bloody care!

  This happy prospect became exponentially more likely when, by next morning, Morty still hadn’t put in an appearance. Ignoring my aunt’s sour face, which could have been used to make enough pickled eggs to supply London for a whole year, I danced out of the house, threw on my men’s clothes and dashed off to work, running twice as fast as I normally did. By the time I arrived at 322 Leadenhall Street, I was barely out of breath. I danced into Mr Ambrose’s office, hardly able to suppress my urge to sing.

  ‘Isn’t it a wonderful morning, Sir?’ I sighed, twirling like a ballerina in the middle of the office.

  Mr Ambrose didn’t raise his cool gaze from the paper he was reading.

  ‘Any particular reason for your unnecessary exuberance, Mr Linton?’

  ‘Yes, oh yes! A man has disappeared! Maybe he’s sick, or he’s been pressed into the Navy, or -’ I did another pirouette, ‘- he might even be dead!’

  ‘And that is cause for joy why, exactly?’

  ‘Because he’s the bloody man who wanted to marry me, that’s why!’

  He cocked his head. ‘I see. My congratulatory condolences, Mr Linton.’

  ‘Thanks!’

  ‘How did this fortunate event take place, if I may ask?’

  I frowned. It wasn’t like Mr Ambrose to ask questions. And he had a funny lack of a look on his face. Somehow a bit different from the usual absence of expression that usually reigned on his stony visage.

  ‘No idea. But now that you mention it…’

  ‘Yes, Mr Linton?’

  ‘It’s strange…’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘He isn’t the first suitor who has disappeared without a trace. The last one disappeared just like that, suddenly, without the slightest explanation.’ I bit my lip, thinking - then shrugged, and skipped over to my desk with a grin. ‘But as long as they’re gone, why should I care about the how? Maybe I have a guardian angel.’

  Abruptly, he turned around, and marched back to the door. ‘Doubtful. I cannot imagine a divine entity would waste its time guarding you.’

  ‘Thank you for the compliment, Sir!’

  ‘Get out the balance sheets, Mr Linton. We’re going to get through with them today, understood?’

  ‘Yes, Sir!’

  We didn’t get through with them. There were lots and lots of the blasted things, and this was going to take longer than Mr Ambrose had anticipated. Either he hadn’t known how rich he was, which I doubted very much, or he hadn’t anticipated how big of a bite the government was planning to take out of his profits. In that case, I pitied the poor tax collector who would come around trying to collect. There truly were fates worth than death, and I didn’t wish them on anybody. Not even tax collectors.

  I toiled from morning until (almost) night. Mr Ambrose continued to crack the figurative whip until thirty-seven seconds before eight pm, when he finally admitted that we might actually not manage to finish the work tonight.

  ‘Put away the balance sheets,’ he ordered. ‘In all probability, we will not be able to finish our work today, after all.’

  I glanced at my pocket watch. Twenty-five seconds to closing time. Yes, I’d say that it was probable, too.

  Grabbing stack after stack, I stored away several months’ worth of bookkeeping. The only thing I had on my mind was getting out of the office extra quickly to enjoy my newfound freedom - but when I removed the last stack of financial papers from Mr Ambrose’s desk, something beneath caught my eye: a slim black folder, lying conspicuously alone at the corner of the desk.

  I hadn’t put it there. Usually, all the files on Mr Ambrose’s desk were put there by me. But this one? No. The thing just lay there, dark and mysterious, sending a shiver down my spine. It sparked a dim memory in my mind. Months ago, shortly after I had first started working for Mr Ambrose…

  Haven’t I seen something similar?

  But no. I was Mr Ambrose’s secretary. What possible reason would he have to keep any files secret from me? Still, even the inscription on the file seemed familiar: M.M.F.. from L.L. Waste Disposal.

  What could that possibly mean?

  ‘Sir?’ Picking up the file, I held it out to him. ‘What am I supposed to do with this?’

  He looked at me for a moment - a strange look that sent another shiver down my spine. Bloody hell! I had to set up a shiver blockade somewhere back there.

  ‘Well, Sir?’ Mr Ambrose was still gazing at me, unspeaking. I glanced down at the file. What in God’s name was so familiar about it?

  I looked back at my employer, and he cocked his head. ‘File it under “success”, Mr Linton.’

  ‘Yes, Sir. As you wish, Sir.’

  *~*~**~*~*

  Free!

  Free!

  Free!

  I was free!

  Free as a bird!

  No, actually much freer than a bird! A bird had to build a nest and fill it with ugly, quarrelsome baby birds and then spend all his time stuffing their greedy little beaks with earthworms. I didn’t have to stuff anybody with anything. I could just tell them to get stuffed!

  My aunt was in a sour mood, of course, but since this was sort of her natural state, I wasn’t particularly worried about it. As for Morty - I wished him all the best, wherever he was. The happier he was in his current place of residence, the less likely he was to come back to me. And when a little pinch of guilt overcame me now and again for not worrying more about the fate of my fiancé, I had only to resort to the pages of the Times to recover my earlier sense of exalted relief at not being faced by the prospect of marriage:

  QUARRELSOME WIVES

  It has come to the attention of the Editor of this paper that recently, a number of cantankerous women have gone so far beyond the boundaries of propriety as to take their husbands, the very men to whom they swore a vow of loyalty in front of God, to court. Why, one may ask, did they feel the need to accuse the men who should be dearest to their hearts? Was it because they were murderers? Thieves? Traitors to the Crown?

  Far from it! It was mere, petty dissatisfaction - rebellion against the way in which God made the world. Forgetting their vow of obedience, they dared to contradict the master of the house and then, when faced with the just punishment for their quarrelsome ways, they dared to call upon the law of England to defend their breaking of their wedding vows.

  Can such behaviour be tolerated?

  Just as God did not tolerate Eve’s sin, we must not tolerate these latest offences of women against the divine order of things. When a man desires to punish his wife, this is his business, and his alone. Only women without an ounce of proper feeling in them would protest anything to the contrary. It is well-known that those women who object to their husband’s castigating have been led astray by influences from outside the home. Working women, those are the ones who are protesting against their just punishment. If we want to put an end to the quarrelsome nature of many wives, we must put an end to women’s employment. Undoubtedly, it is the predominant cause of wife beating, and completely contrary to the purposes for which woman was given to man. Woman’s purpose is to be the angel in the house, not the devil outside of it.

  Thus, I call upon every right-thinking m
an in Great Britain to not give work to women, or associate with so-called ‘ladies’ who have reached an unbecoming degree of independence by practising a profession. If we all recall the divine order of the world and return to what is proper and right, it may not yet be too late to save Great Britain from the terrible fate that is threatening.

  Charles Marcus Earl

  The Editor[7]

  Do you understand why I might be a teensy-weensy bit anxious about getting married?

  Yep. I thought so.

  ‘Lillian!’

  My aunt’s voice tore me from my delicious fantasies of strangling the editor of the Times. Lowering the paper, I glanced up just in time to see her rushing into the room. I was expecting her to make some cutting remark about how unfeminine of me it was to read the paper, and had already prepared a mollifying response - but I didn’t need it.

  ‘Oh Lillian! Lillian, how wonderful!’ My aunt rushed towards to me. There was a radiant smile on her face. My guard went up immediately. ‘Simply wonderful! Oh, Lillian, I am so glad that that awful Mr Fitzgerald has disappeared!’

  Cocking my head, I lifted one eyebrow. ‘Well…so am I. But I must admit, I’m rather surprised you feel that way.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be silly!’ She pulled me up out of the chair and hugged - actually hugged - me to her. ‘Of course I’m glad he’s gone! You deserve much better!’

  With those words, my good mood evaporated, and a thrill of apprehension shot through me.

  ‘Better?’ I demanded. ‘Better like whom, exactly?’

  Pink Letter Lady

  A baronet! She had actually managed to find a blasted baronet! And as if baronets weren’t rare enough in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, she had found one who apparently wanted to marry me! And even worse: an hour spent in my company had not been enough to change the man’s mind!

  What the bloody hell was I going to do? Aunt Brank had been eager enough for me to get married before, but now? When there was a noble title involved? She would move heaven, earth and hell to pull this wedding off. If need be, she would drag me to the altar by my hair. The only way I would be able to escape was if I fled England!

  ‘Good morning, Mr Linton,’ Mr Stone greeted me cheerfully as I stomped down the hallway on my way to my office.

  Then he caught sight of my face.

  I threw him a glare. ‘Who said anything about good?’

  ‘Um…’ He swallowed. ‘My mistake. Mr Ambrose is waiting for you.’

  I bet he is! But right now, that doesn’t matter! I have to think up a way to get out of town, a way to get away from my aunt. I don’t have time for Mr High and Mighty Ambro-

  My thoughts cut off abruptly as an idea struck me. It wasn’t gentle about striking me, either. It gave me a hefty wallop in the head.

  Mr Ambrose! That was it. The last two times I had left England - the only two times, in fact - it had been in the company of Mr Ambrose, to take care of problems presented by the many and varied business interests that he possessed all over the globe. The two of us had invaded the secret headquarters of Lord Dalgliesh, had sailed to France, traversed the deserts of Egypt and fought robbers and hired killers together! Surely he could come up with some more robbers to kill in some desolate corner of the earth, preferably more than five hundred miles away from my dear aunt?

  ‘Mr Linton, I can hear you breathing out there!’ a familiar cold voice cut through the door of Mr Ambrose’s office. ‘Get in here! You are already twenty-seven seconds late.’

  ‘Work calls,’ I informed Mr Stone and, pushing the door open, sauntered into the office with a broad smile on my face. ‘Good morning, Sir! It is a wonderful morning, is it not?’

  Cold silence greeted me.

  I don’t know whether you’ve ever been greeted by cold silence before. In case you haven’t, let me tell you - it doesn’t make for a great welcome party.

  ‘The perfect weather for a walk in the park,’ I added, trying to keep the bright smile on my face. ‘Or a trip to the country. Or maybe, I don’t know…even a longer journey?’

  A pair of dark, sea-coloured eyes found my face. ‘Get the balance sheets, Mr Linton!’

  Not a very promising start, I had to admit to myself as I hurried to do his bidding. I would have preferred ‘Of course, Mr Linton! Let’s go to Honolulu!’ But if Mr Ambrose ever made things easy, he wouldn’t be Mr Ambrose - or would have stopped breathing. Though, on second thought, I wouldn’t put it past his corpse to try and order me around.

  ‘You know,’ I mused, putting down the balance sheets in front of him, ‘You look a little pale, Sir.’

  Those dark eyes met mine. ‘Your point being, Mr Linton?’

  ‘A journey to sunnier climes would do you a world of good,’ I said encouragingly.

  ‘I’ll take this half. And you-’ Mr Ambrose lifted half of the balance sheets off the stack and slammed them down in front of me on the desk, ‘take this.’

  ‘France is very beautiful at this time of year, I hear.’

  ‘I expect you to be finished in no more than two hours.’

  ‘So is Italy. I’ve heard that in the Toscanan-’

  ‘Mr Linton?’

  ‘Yes, Sir?’

  ‘What are you going to do now?’

  ‘Work through balance sheets, Sir.’

  ‘And what are you not going to do?’

  I thought for a moment. ‘Waste time talking about Italy, Sir?’

  ‘Exactly. Get to work.’

  And I got to work.

  Half an hour later I was through about one fifth of the pile and hoping sincerely that Mr Ambrose’s accountants had done their job properly. I had leafed through the balance sheets, but I hadn’t exactly read anything while leafing. Well, how could I? How could anyone? If you were being threatened by a marriage to a rich British nobleman, you would have been just as crazy with worry as poor little me!

  My mind was frantically going through possible ways of trying to get Mr Ambrose to leave the country and take me with him.

  Inventing an imaginary business conference in Belgium?

  Forget it! He’d see through it in an instant!

  Just asking him politely, with a nice ‘please’ at the end?

  Are you crazy?

  Telling him I loved him passionately and wanted to elope with him to Gretna Green?

  You really are crazy if you think that’ll work!

  There really was only one thing I could do to get him to take me out of town: get him to make a trip that would be financially profitable. Profit was Mr Ambrose’s god and patron saint. For profit, he’d walk a thousand miles, or probably even sacrifice his firstborn son, if he had one.

  Clearing my throat, I glanced over at Mr Ambrose - who was already finished with about twice as many papers as my good self.

  ‘Mr Ambrose, Sir?’

  He didn’t look up. ‘Yes, Mr Linton?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking…’

  ‘What an astounding feat.’

  ‘I was thinking about-’

  ‘Let me guess. Italy?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, no, Sir.’

  I waited for him to ask what I had been thinking about, if not Italy. He didn’t.

  ‘Don’t you want to know what I was thinking about, Sir?’

  ‘Not particularly, Mr Linton.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to tell you anyway!’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘I was thinking about whether we might be taking another trip soon.’ Now he did glance up at me. The temperature of his gaze was enough to cause frostbite on the tip of my nose. ‘Not a pleasure trip,’ I explained hurriedly. ‘Strictly business, of course! It would be an absolute strictly one hundred per cent business trip!’

  ‘I see. And what, Mr Linton, would be the purpose of this absolute strictly one hundred per cent business trip?’

  ‘Um, well…business. Making money. Lots and lots of money. Stuff like that.’

  ‘And how had you envisioned making lots an
d lots of money on a trip the destination of which you do not seem to know yet yourself?’

  ‘Err…I don’t know, Sir.’

  ‘I thought not.’

  He sent me another nose-freezing look. ‘There is no reason to leave the metropole at the current moment. All my business operations around the globe are running smoothly.’

  ‘Are they?’ Bloody, stinking hell! ‘I’m so happy to hear that, Sir.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Spearing me with a gaze that was far too perceptive for my liking, Mr Ambrose lifted a fresh pile of balance sheets. ‘According to my new calculations, we will still need three days to finish with these. If we are not interrupted, that is. We will not leave London in the near future. The closest scheduled business trip is in a month.’

  Damn! That wasn’t nearly quick enough. If everything went the way Aunt Brank wanted it, I’d be married and have five squalling brats by then. No matter how biologically unlikely, if I stayed in London, she’d manage it somehow!

  ‘We’ve wasted enough time. Get back to work, Mr Linton!’

  ‘Yes, Sir. Immediately, Sir.’

  I threw myself mindlessly back into work. My mind was off calculating contingency plans. Was there some way I could possibly prevent this marriage? Puke on my fiancé? Proclaim to be an anarchist and mass-murderer? Drug my husband-to-be with opium and ship him off to the East Indies?

  No. Nothing would work. Aunt Brank would make me clean up the vomit. She already knew I was an anarchist, and if I shipped a baronet off to the East Indies, the British Government was sure to take exception.

  I had to get out! And I had to do it now. Mr Ambrose was my only hope.

  Crap.

  Abruptly, I rose to my feet. ‘Excuse me, please, Sir. I have to get new ink.’

  All I received in reply was a curt nod. Quickly, I turned and dashed out of the room - but not to refill my inkwell. In moments, I was through the door from his office into mine and had started pulling down files from the shelves. In a frenzy, I started leafing through them, desperate to discover something, anything that would help me! These were the pages where Mr Ambrose had recorded all his ventures and adventures, all his profitable journeys all around the world. There had to be something in some remote corner of the earth that could still spit out enough money to arouse Mr Ambrose’s interest! There simply had to be! Had to! Had to…