Storm and Silence

by Robert Thier

  You probably wouldn’t despise it quite so much if Mr Ambrose and you were alone, somewhere nice and warm, hm?

  Immediately, I kicked that thought out of my mind, where it didn’t belong.

  Changing your clothes, I told myself. That’s all the reason why you’re undressing now. To change your clothes. And he has got his back to you. He is not looking. He wouldn’t even want to. And you do not want him to want to, understand?

  Glancing up at the back of the two men, I saw that Mr Ambrose had his arms crossed behind his back, and his little finger was twitching with the tempo of a sewing machine.

  ‘Hurry up, Mr Linton,’ he hissed, straightening his perky blue hat. ‘If one of the soldiers comes around the shed now…’

  ‘I thought they had gone.’

  ‘They might come back. If they find you like this…’

  ‘What do you think they will do?’ I asked in a voice that, for some unfathomable reason, sounded teasing.

  ‘Sound the alarm and come back with heavy artillery,’ he growled.

  Now that was a blow below the belt! Or not really, because currently I wasn’t wearing any belt. In fact, I wasn’t wearing much of anything, except a pair of drawers and my corset. It was getting rather chilly, particularly around the shoulders, and I shrugged into the red uniform as quickly as possible. I had expected it to feel awkward, but it didn’t. Wearing Uncle Bufford’s Sunday best for so long had made me become accustomed to wearing trousers. The military outfit, with its burning colours and padded shoulders, rather gave me a feeling of confidence, though that feeling was slightly offset by the ridiculous hat.

  With a deep breath, I fastened the last button.

  ‘All right,’ I whispered. ‘We can go.’

  Mr Ambrose didn’t move.

  ‘You are fully clothed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Karim, turn around and check if sh- he is fully clothed.’

  ‘Sahib,’ Karim protested, not moving an inch. ‘I can’t…’

  ‘Do it, Karim!’

  ‘Yes, Sahib. As you command, Sahib.’

  One hand over his eyes, with only a minuscule crack open between two fingers that could be closed the moment he detected any sign of indecency or devilry, Karim slowly turned towards me. I rolled my eyes. To tell the truth, I was getting slightly miffed, and had almost forgotten the hundreds of soldiers around us and the mortal danger we were in. I mean, I surely didn’t look that bad in underwear…

  ‘She is decent,’ he announced in a low rumble. Then, thinking again, added, ‘As least as decent as she can be.’

  ‘I see. Then let us waste no more time.’

  Without turning to glance at me, Mr Ambrose strode to the corner of the shed and peeked out into the courtyard.

  ‘There are no soldiers nearby,’ he whispered. ‘There are two of them farther down the courtyard, approximately twenty yards away from us. We will go around the back of the shed. When we emerge from behind it on the other side, they will not notice, or think we have come from the other side of the courtyard. From where they are standing, it would be nearly impossible to tell the difference.’

  He crossed to the other side of the shed and positioned himself at the corner there.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ I said, my heart hammering. By now, the soldiers who surrounded us had more than returned to my consciousness: they had usurped it. Playing dress-up behind the shed was all too well, but now we would step out into the open again, and our disguise would have to hold.

  ‘Yes, Sahib.’

  ‘Good. Remember, when you step out, look relaxed and comfortable.’

  ‘You mean like you always do?’ I asked, sweetly.

  ‘Mr Linton?’

  ‘Yes, Sir?’

  ‘Be quiet!’

  ‘Yes, Sir! Of course, Sir!’

  ‘On the count of three. One… two… three!’

  He stepped out into the courtyard, and started marching in the most perfect military step I had ever seen. In his brilliant red uniform he looked the picture of a handsome young soldier. I stared after him, an odd tugging sensation in my gut.

  ‘Come on!’ Karim growled from beside me. ‘Or do you wish to stand around here gaping for the rest of the night?’

  With a hurried shake of the head I started forward.

  The moment I stepped out from behind the shed, I could feel them on me: the gazes of the hidden gunmen who were stationed all over the roof. I could feel their eyes boring into me, probing me, as Lord Dalgliesh’s eyes had probed me, searching for truth and purpose.

  My eyes fixed themselves on Mr Ambrose’s back, a few yards in front of me. Please, I thought, desperately. Please don't let them guess the truth about him.

  Would you even see blood on that red coat? Or would there just be a bang, and he would crumple silently to the ground? I didn’t know. All I knew was that I didn’t wish to find out.

  Get a grip, I snapped at myself. The gunmen aren’t watching you. They are watching the outside for intruders, not the inside for their own soldiers, and that’s what you are now. It is just your imagination running wild!

  If only I had been better at convincing myself.

  Beyond Mr Ambrose, the gigantic double-winged front door loomed. I was just wondering once again how the dickens we were going to get it open, when suddenly, one of the wings swung open with a creak. Two soldiers stepped out. My heart almost stopped. What would we do? What would we say?

  Mr Ambrose gave the soldiers a curt nod. He didn’t say anything. They gave him a curt nod back. They didn’t say anything.

  And then we were past them and inside the hallway.

  ‘H-how did that just happen?’ I asked, my voice unsteady.

  ‘What?’ Mr Ambrose enquired. He wasn’t paying attention to me. His eyes were sweeping over the different doors that lead from the hallway in various directions.

  ‘Our getting past them!’

  ‘I nodded, they nodded, we walked past. It’s not that complicated.’

  ‘But… why didn’t they stop us? Question us?’

  ‘That’s why we are wearing a disguise, Mr Linton. So people won’t know who we are. Come on. This is the right door.’

  And he set off towards a door in the left corner of the room. It opened without resistance, and the three of us entered a narrow corridor, dimly lit by the occasional gas lamp on the wall. Mr Ambrose neither slackened his pace nor altered his brisk gait. I marvelled at how authentic he looked. He could have been a general, or a lord leading his army into battle.

  Which maybe he was, in a way.

  Shaking my head, I quickened my pace to keep up with him. We passed a door on the left, and Mr Ambrose didn’t stop. Again we passed a door, and again he didn’t give it a glance. We passed many doors on our march down the narrow corridor, some on the right, some on the left. From behind some came raucous laughter, from behind others came the sounds of swords being sharpened, from behind yet more we heard only silence. Mr Ambrose did not deviate from his straight course once until we reached a bend in the corridor. There, he stopped dead and, without turning, said: ‘Around the corner, there is a straight corridor. It should lead directly to the door of Dalgliesh’s office. In case we encounter someone, we cannot speak or discuss our route anymore. The closer we get to Dalgliesh’s office, the more soldiers we will meet. Karim? Another look at the map, to make sure.’

  The Mohammedan fished the map out of his bag, did a quick check and put it back. ‘Yes, Sahib. You have it correct.’

  ‘I see. Remember. Straight ahead and through the door. Don’t speak. Look as though you know what you are doing.’

  He started moving again, and we followed. With a few steps we were around the corner - and before us, there was a little room with the corridor splitting off into two different directions.

  Lion’s Den

  ‘This,’ Mr Ambrose said, gazing coldly at the two doors, ‘is inconvenient.’

  Karim swore violently.


  ‘What is this?’ I demanded, pointing to the bifurcation. ‘I thought you said there is only one corridor, and it leads straight on.’

  ‘I also mentioned that the plans were not up-to-date, if you remember, Mr Linton.’

  ‘Spiffing! Absolutely top-hole!’ Angrily, I gave the wall a kick. Naturally, it kicked back just as hard, as walls usually do. ‘So we’re just going to pack our bags and go home?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Mr Ambrose, who looked as if the whole thing was nothing more than an intellectual problem to be discussed over tea and biscuits. ‘There are two corridors. We are three people. Simple arithmetic tells us the solution. We will divide our forces, and whoever discovers Dalgliesh’s office or his personal safe will have to acquire the file and make it out of here.’

  Karim, who had just been about to follow my example and kick the wall with all his force, stopped. I was rather glad. He might have brought down the house on top of us.

  ‘Of course!’ He exclaimed. ‘I’m at your service, Sahib. Where shall we go? Where shall we send…’ His eyes rested for a moment on me, while he searched for the proper pronoun. ‘…this individual?’

  I opened my mouth to give him a piece of my mind, but Mr Ambrose was quicker.

  ‘No, Karim. We will not go together. You will go one way. Mr Linton and I shall explore the other corridor.’

  Something like hurt showed under the black curls of Karim’s beard. I might have been sorry for him if I hadn’t been so busy suppressing a gigantic grin.

  ‘You’d rather be accompanied by this creature than by me, Sahib?’ the Mohammedan demanded.

  Mr Ambrose made a terse movement with his head towards the second corridor. ‘I’d rather send somebody I can rely on where I cannot go myself, Karim.’

  Nice. The grin stopped trying to force its way onto my face. So he couldn’t rely on me, could he?

  Mollified by Mr Ambrose’s words, and probably also by the sour look on my face, Karim bowed.

  ‘I shall do as you command, Sahib.’

  ‘If you find the file, leave. If you find nothing, leave. Don’t wait for us. We will meet back at Empire House.’

  Karim didn’t look too happy about that order. But he bowed again.

  ‘As you wish, Sahib.’

  Without another word, he turned and disappeared down the corridor to the left.

  ‘Come on.’ Mr Ambrose motioned down the other corridor and started forward. ‘We have wasted enough time.’

  I almost ran after him. Not that I would ever have admitted it, but leaving Karim behind sent a tingle of fear up my spine. No matter how many soldiers Lord Dalgliesh had at his command, I couldn’t see any of them getting past the huge Mohammedan. Now that he was gone, all Mr Ambrose had for protection was his cane, which just now didn’t seem as impressive to me as on the first occasion he had drawn its hidden blade.

  Suddenly, Mr Ambrose stopped and held up his hand. That was a sign even I, with my very limited experience in burglary, had no problems understanding. I halted, and waited with baited breath.

  When, after a few moments, nothing had happened, I whispered: ‘What is it?’

  ‘Voices,’ he said in a low, but otherwise normal, tone of voice. ‘Be quiet. And if you have to speak, don't whisper. We are soldiers, remember? We are supposed to be here, and if we whisper, it will sound suspicious.’

  That actually made sense. ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘And don't call me “Sir”,’ he added, still peering down the corridor, his back to me. ‘If somebody catches you doing it, we will be under immediate suspicion. We wear uniforms of the same rank.’

  A grin spread across my face. ‘Do we, now?’

  ‘Mr Linton?’

  ‘Yes, Si- um, I mean, yes, mate?’

  ‘I can feel your smile. Dispose of it immediately.’

  ‘Yes, mate!’

  ‘And don't call me mate. Only drunken sailors do that.’

  ‘Yes, Si- ma- um… thingy.’

  ‘Mr Linton?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Be silent! I am trying to listen.’

  I decided against giving an answer. I had run out of forms of address in any case, and I was just as interested as he to hear what was going on up ahead. Straining my ears, I tried to catch the voices he had mentioned. There was something… Not voices, only indistinct noises. A clang of metal here, a dull thump there, that was it.

  Then it came: a low shout, just before the next thump. Again a shout, a bit like a command, but not really, and then another thump.

  ‘What do you suppose it means?’ I whispered.

  His hand jerked up.

  Blast! I had forgotten: no whispering. Quickly, I continued in a more normal tone of voice: ‘That doesn't sound like an office, does it?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Well? What is it?’

  ‘I am reluctant to venture a guess with only audible data at my disposal, Mr Linton. But it sounds very much like a dock. Like a ship being loaded.’

  ‘But… we’re still a long way away from the docks, aren’t we?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Without any further explanation, he started forward again.

  Yes? That’s all you’re going to say?

  Cursing inwardly, I hurried after him. He still marched along the corridor as if the whole place belonged to him, as if he had a right to be here that nobody could dispute. I did my best to imitate him, but probably didn’t quite succeed. Slowly, the noises up ahead grew louder, the voices clearer. It was clear now that things were being loaded. I could hear the recurring thumps of the load as it was let down from high above, and the squeak of what I supposed were pulleys and cranes.

  The shouted commands made it certain:

  ‘Two yards to the left!’

  ‘Down! Now!’

  ‘A bit to the right!’

  ‘You’ve got it! Gently now, gently. This stuff is valuable!’

  I could see light up ahead. Suddenly, the corridor opened in front of us into a wide hall. I wanted to duck back, but Mr Ambrose hissed at me out of the corner of his mouth: ‘Don’t you dare! They have already seen us!’

  And he was right. The eyes of several soldiers who were standing on a gallery that lead all around the room were on us. They were out of hearing range, but they could see our every move.

  ‘Oh my God!’ I breathed. ‘What now?’

  ‘Do as I do,’ he hissed. ‘Exactly as I do, on the other side. Now!’

  And he took a few steps to the right, until he stood at the left end of the corridor, and assumed an erect position, his arms clasped behind his back, his legs clamped together. Having no idea why, I did the same, and felt pretty silly about it.

  After a few moments, the soldiers on the gallery seemed to lose interest in us. Their eyes wandered on to more important things, like the crates full of dried cod that were piled on top of one another in a corner of the hall.

  I stared at them, fixedly, waiting for the ‘Seize them!’ or ‘Shoot!’. But no such command came.

  ‘What is the matter?’ I asked out of the corner of my mouth. ‘Why aren’t they suspicious? Why aren’t they even looking at us anymore?’

  ‘Because we are acting as soldiers are supposed to act,’ Mr Ambrose replied. I had no idea how, but he managed to speak without actually moving his lips. ‘We are standing guard.’

  ‘Standing guard? Over what?’

  ‘The entrance to this corridor, of course.’

  ‘What would anyone want to guard it for? It’s just a corridor!’

  ‘Soldiers aren’t trained to think about why they do things, Mr Linton. If they were, nobody would ever get an army together. Now be silent!’

  Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced at his face. It was as cool and still as a block of ice. How could he do it? Inside me, fear, excitement and stress were writhing like a wounded snake. He didn’t show the least emotion. But then, he never did.

  Oh yes, he sometimes does - in your imagination
he does a lot of things…

  Behind my back, I clenched my hands together. No! I couldn’t follow that train of thought, not now, not here of all places. Quickly, I let my eye wander through the hall to find something to distract me.

  There was certainly enough to see.

  At first, the red coats of the soldiers, flaring up like signs of danger, had distracted me from the rest. But now that they seemed to have lost interest in us entirely, I took in the rest of the giant room.

  ‘Room’ probably was not a big enough word. It was a cavern, a man-made cavern, almost as big as the entrance hall of Empire House. I could see that Mr Ambrose and his nemesis had the same penchant for giant proportions. Yet where in Mr Ambrose’s hall there had been a monument of cold barrenness, although it was the entrance to his headquarters, this hall in a simple East End outpost of the East India Company was flaming with sumptuous colour.

  The walls were dark, red brick, interspersed with wooden beams painted red and white. Up above, the beams arched to support a flat ceiling. Torches hung from the wooden supports, plunging the whole scene into sinister shades of dark gold and orange. In the flickering torchlight, the glinting barrels of the soldiers' guns looked like the torture instruments of Satan’s disciples in hell.

  Shadows flickered over the ceiling and the gallery that surrounded the room. Shadows also moved with the soldiers who were marching along the gallery, watching the scene below. And shadows were thrown by the gigantic contraptions that filled the centre of the hall.

  I hadn’t been wrong. There were pulleys, cranes, ropes and even lorries in abundance. They formed a labyrinth through which hundreds of workers scuttled like ants over an anthill, carrying, fetching, shouting. If all things around them left bizarre shadow-paintings on the wall in the flickering torchlight, they themselves painted entire ghastly frescos in black and dark orange. The cranes were the arms of giant black octopi, and the ropes on the pulleys were snakes, waiting to strike and bite.

  Under the ghastly play of shadows, on each of the four walls of the hall, hung a gigantic tapestry displaying a coat of arms: two roaring lions on either side of a shield showing a red cross on white ground. Although I had never seen this particular crest before, and the shadowy monsters on the wall made it hard to see, I had no trouble guessing what it was.