Silence Is Golden

by Robert Thier

  What you shared? You shared a bit of skin contact! He probably just did it to look good in front of Prince Albert, for whatever sinister plan he has cooked up in that ice-cold head of his!

  Yes, that was undeniably the most logical explanation. But then…why did my hand continue to tingle as if it had spent an hour in a jar filled with enchanted fairy dust?

  ‘Mr Linton!’

  I jerked my eyes away from my hand and up to him again. ‘Yes, Sir? What is it, Sir?’ Belatedly, I remembered that I was still wearing a dress. ‘And it’s Miss Linton to you,’ I added.

  ‘Not anymore. The wedding is over.’

  ‘What? You are going to call me Mr, even while I’m wearing a dress?’

  ‘Most certainly.’

  ‘You…!’

  ‘If you want to spend time insulting me, Mr Linton, do it after hours. We have work to do.’

  And with that, he tapped his cane against the roof of the coach. ‘Driver? Back to Empire House!’

  I glowered at him the whole way back to the office, asking myself how I could ever have let him hold my hand. Right now, my hand was itching to make contact with another part of his body, and not quite so gently.

  But there were questions I needed answered. And from what I had learned so far of male psychology, he was unlikely to tell me anything I wanted if I slapped him across the face first. With great effort, I managed to keep my hands at my sides. I even managed to restrain myself when, instead of stopping in front of the front entrance, we drove around to the back and through the gates into the courtyard, in spite of the fact that, deep down, I knew the reason why. My eyes flashed like a cutthroat’s favourite razorblades. ‘Why are we going in the back? Is it because you don’t wish to be seen with a female by your staff?’

  ‘Exactly, Mr Linton. Impressively perceptive, for your standards. Now strip.’

  My eyes went wide. Did he just…?

  Yes. He did.

  Don’t! I told my right hand, which was twitching and aching to begin its swift journey up to his face. Don’t! It’s not worth it!

  Amazingly, unlike during the wedding, it actually did what I said.

  ‘I hate to break it to you, Mr Ambrose, Sir, but if I divest myself of my dress, it’s going to be rather more obvious that I am female, not less.’

  ‘Correct.’ Reaching under the seat, he pulled out a bundle of clothes. ‘Which is why you will put these on before you leave the coach.’

  Open-mouthed, I stared at the clothes. Not because they were anything to write home about. A plain black hat, black trousers and tailcoat. The vest was the only thing fancy. No, it wasn’t the fact that the clothes were special which had me gaping. It was the fact that they were mine! Bloody mine! Paid for with my own money!

  ‘How did you get your hands on those?’

  Your hands that have held mine…

  I squashed down the thought.

  ‘Karim gave them to me,’ Mr Ambrose told me, unconcernedly.

  ‘And how did Karim get his oversized paws on my clothes?’

  ‘He took them from your uncle’s garden shed at my instruction.’

  My jaw wanted to drop - then remembered it was already wide open. Blast!

  ‘You had Karim break into my uncle’s garden shed?’

  ‘Karim has broken into at least seven British-Indian forts, two palaces and three prisons while in my employ. Believe me, your uncle’s garden’s shed did not present a problem to him.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it! My incredulity was related to the fact that he broke British law by committing breaking and entering.’

  ‘Ah. Well, that does not present a problem to him either.’

  I took a deep breath.

  Calm, I told myself. If he can stay calm, so can you.

  ‘And how, if I may ask, Sir, did you know that I had an emergency set of clothes stashed in my uncle’s garden shed?’

  ‘You may not.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You may not ask. Get dressed.’

  And, dumping the pile of clothes into my lap, he climbed out of the coach, firmly shutting the door behind him.

  For a moment, one blissful, feminist, rebellious moment, I considered going after him and fulfilling my homicidal fantasies. Then I remembered that he was the man signing my pay cheque at the end of each month, and without that signature, my agenda for independence would go down the drain faster than you could say ‘Not fair!’ Pulling down the blinds with a muttered curse, I started the arduous process of squirming out of a dress.

  Fifteen minutes later I emerged from the coach, quite literally a new man. Stopping two feet in front of Mr Ambrose, I gave a mock salute.

  ‘Mr Victor Linton reporting for duty, Sir!’

  ‘You took your time.’

  ‘Would you have preferred it if I took yours?’

  ‘Wit is not something I pay you for, Mr Linton.’

  ‘Unfortunately, Sir.’

  I suppressed a grin as I saw his left little finger twitch. ‘We have work to do. Follow me!’

  ‘Yes, Sir!’

  We left the yard and entered through large double doors into the main hall. All eyes snapped to us the moment we entered, and let me tell you, there were a lot of them. Eyes, I mean. Clerks, accountants and messengers were hurrying hither and thither, and probably also fither and lither, making absolutely sure that they had performed every minutest task to Mr Ambrose’s perfect satisfaction. The moment the great master himself entered the hall, a hush fell over the hurrying crowd, and though they did not dare to slow down, they veered off to the left and right, avoiding Mr Ambrose like panicking chickens as he strode through the hall, me following in his wake. The instant we vanished into the stairwell, an audible sigh of relief sounded from the hall behind us.

  Mr Ambrose was the first and last person I had ever met who had mastered the art of marching up a staircase. I guarantee you, even if trained soldiers tried this, they’d break their neck at the second step. But Mr Ambrose did it as if there were nothing to it, and was quicker than I when I was flat-out running. He was at the top long before I was.

  Did he wait for me?

  I’ll give you three guesses.

  Thud!

  The sound of his office door slamming shut greeted me as I reached the top landing, panting and out of breath.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Linton,’ Mr Stone, the receptionist, greeted me with a timid smile. ‘In a good mood today, is he?’

  ‘Excellent!’ I panted. ‘We’ve just come from the Royal Wedding.’

  ‘Ah. That explains it. Here.’ Mr Stone bent to retrieve something from a drawer, and when he came up again, held out a stack of letters to me. ‘The correspondence of the day.’

  Immediately, a large, scented pink envelope with a coat of arms stamped on it caught my eye. Mr Stone, who had noticed the direction, nodded.

  ‘Yes. One of those again.’

  ‘They’ve been coming more frequently, lately, haven’t they?’

  ‘Almost every day.’

  ‘Hm.’ Taking the envelopes, I studied the pink intruder carefully.

  ‘What do you do with them, if I may ask, Mr Linton?’ Mr Stone enquired shyly.

  ‘What can I do? It’s not as though he wants to see them. I stuff them in the lowest drawer of my desk. It’s full to the brim already. I wonder how I’m going to fit this one in.’

  ‘Well, in case you need space, I still have one or two free corners in my drawers.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I was about to reach out for the doorknob and follow Mr Ambrose into the office, when I hesitated. ‘You don’t happen to have any idea whom they’re from, do you?’

  ‘What?’ Mr Stone popped a breath mint into his mouth and reached for a pile of documents on his desk. ‘The pink letters?’

  ‘Yes. Does he have a wife? A friend overseas with a strange predilection for pink? A mistress whose services he didn’t pay for because she didn’t perform to his satisfaction?’

  Mr Stone coughed and, wi
th a ping, the breath mint ricocheted off his paperweight and disappeared somewhere in the labyrinth of papers on his desk.

  ‘Err…um…well, Mr Linton, I wouldn’t know anything about that. I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Mr Ambrose. Though I’m sure that all of Mr Ambrose’s connections are perfectly respectable and proper.’

  ‘Are you? Well, good for you.’

  Tucking the stack of envelopes under my arm, I followed my perfectly respectable and proper employer into his office, where he was busy studying the plans for a new, improved steam engine his men had managed to steal from the offices of his main rival, Lord Dalgliesh, only a few days ago.

  ‘Ah, Mr Linton, there you are. What have you got there?’

  ‘Letters, Sir.’ Hurriedly, I covered the pink one with my arm. ‘Nothing to be worried about. I’ll sort through them later.’

  ‘Acceptable.’ Reaching over, Mr Ambrose pulled a bell pull and, a few moments later, a panting messenger boy appeared at the door.

  ‘Send this down to Mr Maddison in the technical department.’

  ‘Yes, Sir, Mr Ambrose, Sir!’

  ‘Tell him the valves still need a little bit of work, but otherwise, the prototype seems sufficient.’

  ‘Yes! Right away, Sir!’

  And he was off.

  I raised an eyebrow. ‘So, you are involving the young and innocent in your nefarious deals now?’

  Mr Ambrose took a seat behind his desk and fixed me with his cool gaze over steepled fingers. ‘I do not know what you mean, Mr Linton.’

  I closed the door behind me. ‘Don’t play the innocent with me! I’m your personal secretary. Your closest confidante. I always know what you are really up to.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Behind his desk, Mr Ambrose cocked his head. ‘Then pray, enlighten me, what was I doing at the wedding ceremony? Why was I wasting my time on a German princeling with too big a head and too small a moustache?’

  I opened my mouth - and closed it again.

  ‘All right,’ I admitted grudgingly. ‘Maybe I don’t always know what you’re up to.’

  ‘Indeed you don’t.’

  ‘So tell me!’ I took a step forward. ‘What was that all about? You…’ I hardly managed to bring the word over my lips, the idea was so outlandish! ‘You…smiled.’

  ‘Indeed. I am reliably informed that contortion of facial musculature is customary at nuptials.’

  ‘It is customary in everyday life, too. But that didn’t mean you saw fit to make use of it.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘And you gave three thousand pounds to charity!’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Why?’

  In answer, instead of saying anything, Mr Ambrose bent down and retrieved something from a drawer within his desk. With a whisper of air, a large sheet of paper landed in front of me on the desktop.

  ‘Read,’ he ordered.

  Dear Diary

  I picked up the paper, and read.

  ‘Her Majesty Victoria, Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, in Her gracious consideration for the chiefs and people of New Zealand, and her desire to preserve to them their land and to maintain peace and order amongst them, has been pleased to appoint an officer to treat with them for the cession of the Sovereignty of their country and of the islands…’

  My voice faded away. With narrowed eyes, I looked up at Mr Ambrose and waved the paper.

  ‘What is this?’

  He met my gaze with his cold one. ‘I do not need to explain myself to you, Mr Linton. I will tell you what I plan in this case only because I shall need your assistance at a later point.’

  ‘Understood, Sir. So…what is it?’

  ‘What you are holding is a copy of the so-called Treaty of Waitangi, signed four days ago by representatives of the British Crown and forty-four Maori chiefs at Waitangi, New Zealand. It establishes British Sovereignty over all of New Zealand.’

  My eyes narrowed a bit further.

  ‘I’ve read about sea journeys. A journey to New Zealand would take at least sixty days.’

  ‘Seventy-five, to be exact. But, depending on the weather, it can last as long as one hundred and twenty.’

  ‘If this was signed just four days ago, how do you have a copy of it now?’

  ‘By acquiring one before the original was shipped, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘And what has this Treaty of Waikiki-’

  ‘Waitangi.’

  ‘-Waitangi got to do with you?’

  ‘Simple. With British sovereignty established over the islands, it will be much easier to exploit their natural resources. I am opening up new avenues of business.’

  ‘And what about these Maori you mentioned? What will they say to these new avenues of yours?’

  ‘Every avenue needs paving stones, doesn’t it?’

  I decided it was best not to think too deeply about what exactly he meant by that. In any case, I still had plenty of other things to think about.

  ‘And what does all of this have to do with the Queen?’

  ‘I have already exerted considerable influence on the British Parliament to grant me economic benefits in New Zealand. Unlike India, Dalgliesh has not been able to sink his fangs into those lands yet, and I plan to make him pay for his negligence. I am going to get this land under my control.’

  ‘No matter the cost?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mr Linton.’ He gave me a censuring look. ‘The cost always matters. One simply has to make sure that it is outweighed by profit.’

  That wasn’t exactly what I had meant. But I knew it would be useless trying to explain to him that I had been referring to the natives. So I simply asked: ‘The Queen?’

  ‘The Queen is the last cornerstone in my plan. True, she has little actual political power, but she serves as an important figurehead. With her blessing for my ventures, rival offers will likely be looked upon with disfavour by Parliament. That is why I decided to win over her husband. Considering the way things stand, if I have Albert on my side, I have Victoria.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked, frowning. ‘Most royal marriages are arranged for the sake of convenience, or for an alliance. Usually, there’s no more regard between the husband and his wife than between a pin and its pincushion. Why would you think this case is any different?’

  In answer, Mr Ambrose pulled something else out of a drawer of his desk. This time, it was a few smaller sheets of paper, filled with neat handwriting. Mr Ambrose cleared his throat.

  ‘At about half past, I sent for Albert; he came to the Closet where I was alone, and after a few minutes I said to him, that I thought he must be aware why I wished them to come here, and that it would make me too happy if he would consent to what I wished (to marry me)…’

  My mouth dropped open. He couldn’t be reading what I thought he was reading, could he?

  ‘…we embraced each other over and over again, and he was so kind, so affectionate; oh! to feel I was, and am, loved by such an Angel as Albert-’

  ‘Mr Ambrose!’

  He glanced up. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mr Ambrose! This isn’t…You can’t be-’

  ‘If you would let me continue, Mr Linton? The pertinent part is still to come.’ He raised the papers to his eyes again. ‘To feel I was, and am, loved by such an Angel as Albert was too great delight to describe! He is perfection; perfection in every way, in beauty - in everything! I told him I was quite unworthy of him and kissed his dear hand…’

  ‘Mr Ambrose! This…how…how in God’s name-’

  ‘Will you be quiet, Mr Linton? If you keep interrupting me, this will take all day.’ He gave me another one of his cool looks, then returned to his reading. ‘He said he would be very happy, “das Leben mit dir zu zubringen”, and was so kind, and seemed so happy, that I really felt it was the happiest brightest moment in my life, which made up for all that I had suffered and endured. Oh! How I adore and love him, I cannot say!’

  Lifting his eyes from the p
aper, Mr Ambrose regarded me for a moment. ‘This material would support the theory that their marriage was in fact not simply a marriage of convenience, wouldn’t you say, Mr Linton?’

  ‘Um…well…’

  ‘This entry is from Tuesday, October 15, 1839. But if this is insufficient evidence to convince you, let me read you a passage from November 9.’

  He turned over a few pages, and then began to read aloud in his cool, distant voice once more, while I listened with my mouth hanging open. Part of me knew that I should stuff my ears, but I didn’t. I couldn’t.

  ‘He looked down into my face, with such an angelic expression in his dear beautiful face. I laid my head on his chest, and he wiped away my tears with his hand and took me and pressed me in his arms, and kissed me so often, as I did him. We then sat on the sofa together, and dearest Albert put his arm round my waist, and leant quite close to me, and kissed my neck and head, and-’[3]

  ‘All right, all right!’ I held up both hands protectively. ‘I get the picture!’

  ‘Satisfactory.’ He leaned back and stowed away the papers, not noticing the glare I was directing at him.

  ‘Tell me you didn’t!’ I demanded.

  ‘Didn’t what, Mr Linton?’

  ‘Tell me you didn’t just read me passages from the Queen of England’s private diary!’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  I sagged with relief. ‘Oh, thank God! I thought-’

  ‘I read you passages from the transcript of the Queen of England’s private diary with which my agents provided me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The transcript. Meaning an exact reproduction of material originally presented in another medium. From Latin transcribere.’

  ‘I know what a transcript is, thank you very much! I’ve only made about two hundred of them for you since starting this infernal job!’

  ‘Two hundred and thirty-seven.’

  ‘Let’s get back to the subject, shall we? You stole the Queen of England’s private diary?’

  ‘No. I had it copied. People would have noticed it was stolen.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Apparently, the staff at Buckingham Palace is not particularly reliable. When I sent a few of my people over with excellent, albeit fake, references, the housekeeper nearly kissed their feet, she was so happy to hire them.’[4]