Storm and Silence

by Thier, Robert

  Why was I even bothering to correct her? It would be good if she came up with her own explanation and I wouldn’t have to engage in inventive truth-modification again to spare her concern. But the thought simply drove me insane: I was going to meet Mr Rikkard Ambrose, and all the while my little sister would be sitting at home thinking that he and I were…

  I shook my head. This was no time for mushy-gushy irrationality. My interest in Mr Ambrose was purely professional, and it didn’t matter what anybody else thought. Did it?

  No doubt motivated by her concern for the welfare of my pining, love-struck heart, Ella finished my hair in record time. I took about two seconds to admire myself in the mirror - really, Ella had managed to make quite a presentable lady out of her raw material - and then rushed towards the door. Over my shoulder, I threw my little sister a grateful grin. ‘I’ll owe you forever for this! Thanks!’

  ‘You are most welcome,’ she said, winking again. It was definitely conspiratorial this time.

  Dear God, had the world gone mad?

  I rushed down the stairs, past a bewildered aunt and out the door before she could shriek her protest. How much time was left until nine? Not enough, probably. I was just about to start sprinting off in the direction of Leadenhall Street when I spotted a cab, just driving by on the other side of the street. Huzzah![11] My life was saved!

  ‘Cabbie!’ I waved my parasol like a castaway signalling the rescue ship.

  With a ‘Ho there!’ the cabbie stopped his horses and peered at me curiously. I clambered into the cab before he could even think of jumping down to help me inside, and whacked my parasol against the roof.

  ‘Leadenhall Street, cabbie, number 322. I have to be there before nine.’

  The name of the famous street, full to the brim with business and money, acted like an electrical shock on the poor man. Up until then he had been looking sleepy and not too pleased by his new passenger, but when I said that name, his eyes flew wide open and he cracked the whip.

  ‘Gee up!’[12]

  The cab lurched forward and I was thrown back into the seat. Fiercely, I clung to the upholstery as we raced over the cobblestones. The uneven paving almost knocked my teeth out at the speed we were driving. We were lucky that there wasn’t much traffic on the streets, or this insane tempo would have been plain suicide.

  Outside the window, the buildings rushed by in a confused blur. I couldn’t see much of them, but I did notice that, after a few minutes, the reddish-brown colour of brick buildings was replaced by the fancier colours of painted walls, which in turn were replaced by the gleaming white of marble. We had left the middle-class districts of London and were fast approaching the centre of the unrivalled power and wealth of the British Empire.

  Anxiously, I listened for the sound of Great Paul, the bell of St. Paul’s Cathedral, announcing the full hour. I had no idea if I still had twenty or only two minutes left till my appointment. If I only had a watch, then I would know! But apart from being expensive, watches were also only intended for gentlemen. As if girls didn’t need to know the time of day!

  ‘Hold tight, Miss!’ the cabbie called, and I tightened my grip on the seat just in time. We swerved around a corner and I was almost thrown sideways onto the seat, but managed to right myself in time to see the black and white painted sign rush past the open window:

  Leadenhall Street

  Thank the Lord. Or maybe I shouldn’t be too quick to thank him. That would rather depend on what would happen to me now…

  ‘322, you said?’ the cabbie called.

  ‘Y-yes!’

  Abruptly, the cabbie pulled on the brakes and I was flung forward, just managing to catch myself in time to prevent my nose from being bashed in. Panting, I sat there in the coach and tried to recover my equilibrium. Outside, the cabbie jumped down and opened the door for me. Ordinarily I would have protested at such a display of male chauvinism, but right now my legs didn’t feel like protesting. With shaky steps, I climbed out and even accepted the cabbie’s hand, which he offered to help me down.

  ‘Here.’

  I handed the man my pocket money of about half a year - thanks to my generous uncle just enough to pay the fare - and looked up and down the street. I didn’t see number 322 anywhere. Hmm… What could the office of Mr Rikkard Ambrose look like? The likeliest candidate for the headquarters of a man of his wealth was a building right across from me, with a broad, showy façade and more pillars and scrollwork than on most royal palaces.

  The cabbie had followed my gaze. ‘Which one is number 322?’ I asked. ‘That one?’

  He shook his head emphatically. ‘Oh no, Miss. That’s India House, the headquarters of the East India Company. Number 322, Empire House, is right opposite. Behind the cab.’

  Oh. I turned and with apprehensive steps circumvented the cab.

  Slowly, as the black-painted wood of the vehicle blocked less and less of my field of vision, something gigantic and steel-grey came into my sight, and I knew immediately: this was it. This was the office of Mr Rikkard Ambrose.

  It was built in neo-classical style like India House. That attribute, however, was just about all the two buildings had in common.

  Empire House was not broad. Not ostentatious. Not richly adorned. It was the highest building in the street, stacking levels of offices upon offices in the narrowest space possible, and by doing so towered over the flatter, broader houses. Its façade was not marble, but austere dark grey stone and cast iron. The portico, normally the pride of every building with dozens of pillars, was hardly fit to be called a portico. There were only two pillars supporting the projecting roof - but what pillars they were: grey giants that seemed to threaten everybody who approached them.

  Grey giants under which I had to pass.

  ‘Looks impressive, don't it?’

  I jumped. The cabbie was standing right behind me.

  ‘W-what does?’ I asked, trying to make my voice sound steady. It didn’t really work.

  The cabbie took a critical look at my face, which for once I’m sure, in spite of my tan, was fashionably pale according to the beauty-standards of English society.

  ‘Sure you want me to drop you off 'ere, Miss?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Just saying.’ He shrugged and hauled himself onto the cab’s box again. Once more, he looked back. ‘Quite sure? The gentleman who lives 'ere is supposed to be…’

  For some reason he didn’t finish the sentence, but glanced up at Empire House, and suddenly cut off.

  ‘Yes, I’m quite sure. Thank you.’ I nodded to him once more, and tried to give him my best imitation of a smile.

  He just shrugged.

  ‘It ain’t none of my business. Good luck.’

  With that, he cracked his whip and drove off, maybe a bit faster than was strictly necessary. I stared after him for a moment - then I remembered: I was running out of time. Quickly shaking off my paralysis, I turned and strode across the street.

  Halfway across, the shadows of the great pillars enveloped me like giant bat wings. I couldn’t help shuddering as I climbed the steep steps to the big oak front door. There was no doorman, which was a bit unusual for a building belonging to one of the world’s most wealthy men, but which strangely fit the austere nature of the building and its owner. I was actually relieved - I wasn’t entirely sure a doorman would have let me in. Yet deep inside I was also disappointed. A disapproving doorman might have been an excuse to turn around and go home.

  Now I had no choice. No reason to excuse cowardice. I had to try. I owed it to myself.

  Cautiously, I grabbed the large brass doorknob and pushed.

  The door swung open, and I waited for the smoke of cigarettes to assault me as it had in all buildings ruled by men. Yet there was nothing but a draft of cool, clean air. Taking a deep breath, I entered and let the door fall shut behind me.

  *~*~**~*~*

  Inside it was dark. The sun hadn’t risen above the houses of Lond
on yet, so only a little light fell through the high, narrow windows. What light there was, though, was sufficient to illuminate the scene in front of me well enough to make my throat constrict.

  I was standing at the entrance to an enormous hall, at least seventy feet across. Apart from the gigantic cast iron chandelier hanging from the ceiling and the galleries high up on the walls, there was no decoration of any kind. No portraits, no draperies, nothing. The floor was dark, polished stone; the walls were painted a dark green-blue. In any other place the lack of decoration might have made one think the owner of the building was poor, but not here. The very enormity of this stark cavern repudiated poverty. And besides, it didn’t take me long to realize the true reason behind the sparse decoration. I had lived too long with my dear uncle and aunt not to recognize the signs that somebody kept his purse up his arse.

  Throughout the hall, people were jogging from one of the many doors to another, carrying pieces of paper, and obviously in a very great hurry to get their business done. The only person who wasn’t moving an inch was a sallow-faced old man behind a plain wood counter at the back of the giant room. He simply sat, bent over a book in which he was busy scribbling notes.

  Was he the receptionist? Well, there was only one way to find out.

  I approached the counter and cleared my throat timidly. The man didn’t seem to notice and continued writing in his book.

  I cleared my throat again, louder this time, and crossed my arms. This fellow was getting my hackles up!

  He finally deigned to look up and examined me over the tops of his small, steel-rimmed spectacles. The face he pulled made me think he wasn’t very pleased with what he saw.

  ‘Yes?’

  This was it. Last chance to back out. Last chance to leave this place and never come back.

  With great effort, I gathered all my courage and said, loudly and clearly: ‘I’m here to see Mr Ambrose.’

  I couldn’t have gotten a more impressive reaction if I had said ‘I’m here to see Father Christmas do a naked tap dance on your desk.’ Everybody within hearing range stopped to turn towards me. One young clerk fell over his own feet and only just managed not to drop the large pile of papers he was carrying.

  ‘Mr Ambrose?’ asked Sallow-face incredulously. ‘Mr Rikkard Ambrose?’

  ‘Is there another one here?’

  ‘Most assuredly not, Miss…?’

  ‘Linton. Miss Lillian Linton.’

  ‘Well, Miss Linton,’ said Sallow-face, steepling his long fingers in a manner that I’m sure he meant to be threatening, ‘Mr Ambrose is a very busy man. He does not have time for everybody who wishes to waste it.’ He looked down at his book again. ‘If you have come collecting for charity, try Lord Arlington’s place, or Lady Metcalf's. I am sure they shall be more than happy to oblige you.’

  ‘I have not come to collect for charity,’ I said. ‘I have an appointment.’

  This time, somebody actually did drop his documents. I heard the clatter behind, me, and the hurried noises of someone running after flying bits of paper. Sallow-face had no eyes for the miscreant, however. His full attention was on me once more, sizing me up, and down, and up again.

  ‘You have an appointment, Miss…?’

  ‘Linton. Yes.’

  ‘With whom, if I may ask?’

  ‘With Mr Ambrose, of course. I already told you I came here to see him. I was told to be here at nine.’

  Sallow-face’s eyes bored into me, as if he was trying to see a note with the words 'April fool’s joke' attached to the back of my head, although it was the middle of summer. ‘Told by whom?’ he demanded.

  ‘By Mr Ambrose.’

  For the first time, I could see a tiny little bit of uncertainty replace some of the sallowness. Mixed into it was a spark of fear. ‘By Mr Ambrose himself? Personally?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wait a moment, please.’

  I was expecting him to jump up and run off, emulating all the other people hurrying around the entrance hall, but instead he remained sitting where he was and picked up a strange metal horn from his desk, which I hadn’t noticed before. It was connected to the desk by a thick tube that vanished into the wood.

  ‘Stone? Stone, are you there?’ Sallow-face spoke into the metal horn.

  I stared at him, stupefied. Had he lost his marbles? Did he think this metal thing was a stone? And if so, why was he talking to it? As far as I knew, neither stones nor metal objects were very verbose.

  The man held the horn to his ear - and a faint, tinny voice came out of it! My mouth dropped open. What was this? I couldn’t hear what the voice said, but it was unquestionably human. He was talking to someone through that thing!

  Sallow-face returned the horn from his ear to his mouth and said: ‘Listen, Stone. There is a young… lady here,’ he threw me a look that made it clear he privately had other names for me, ‘who maintains she has an appointment with Mr Ambrose. Can you check that for me please? Go to Simmons and ask, will you.’

  A moment of silence. Then the faint tinny voice started talking again.

  ‘What?’ Sallow-face demanded. ‘Not there? What do you mean not… Oh, quit his job? I see.’

  A thrill went through me, and suddenly I forgot all about the strange listening-horn. Quit his job? They had to be talking about the secretary! The secretary who had left. Had they wanted to check whether I really did have an appointment? That must have been it! So they were actually considering letting me up there. For a moment, I wondered whether I should mention that I was the ex-secretary’s replacement. Then I remembered that I was a lady, and ladies didn’t work for a living, and if I claimed such a thing, Sallow-face would throw me out for sure.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he snapped at that very moment. ‘But what am I to do? If she really has an appointment and I don't let her through, I’ll be out on the street tomorrow morning. Yes? So what? What do I care? I say she can go through, so she’s your problem now.’

  Sallow-face put down the horn from which protesting shrieks were echoing and turned to me with a syrupy smile on his lips.

  ‘Very well, Miss Linton. You can go up to the top floor inquiry desk. Mr Stone is already awaiting you there and anxious to help you.’

  Oh, Mister Stone, not a stone. So Sallow-face wasn’t barmy. Quite a relief, considering I got my directions from him. He pointed me to an open doorway behind his desk. I thanked him more graciously than he deserved, curtsied, and went through the doorway to find myself in a large hallway. Looking up, I saw steps leading up and around the walls of several floors, and these stairs were even steeper than the ones outside the building.

  Dong…

  Quickly, I turned my head westwards. There, a small window stood half open, letting a bit of light fall into the stark stone hallway. And through that window there now also came the sound of a bell. A deep, reverberating sound that chilled my bones. Great Paul was striking nine!

  Dong…

  I jumped over the first two steps, landing on the third and started to race up the stairs taking two at a time. Even so, I had hardly put half a dozen steps behind me when the clock struck again.

  Dong…

  I redoubled my efforts. I would not stop. I would not give up. And I would certainly not give that man any excuse not to take me on. I would make it in time!

  Dong…

  On the first landing I had to stop, or my heart would have burst. My legs already burned like hellfire, and my behind seemed to have an elephant attached to it. Blast it! So much for my resilience. I really needed to get more exercise!

  Dong…

  I reached the second landing. The noise of feet scurrying around and paper rustling that filled the hall downstairs was receding. Even over the reverberations of the bell I could hear that up here it was much quieter. Ominously quiet. My feet resounded hollowly on the steps. Third floor. Yes!

  Dong…

  I had just reached the fourth landing when a burst of sunlight suddenly blinded me and made me falt
er. I was high up now, up over the rooftops of all the surrounding houses. The cold morning sunlight penetrated the mist that was swirling around the building and streamed in through one of the narrow windows, illuminating the entire upper hallway in bright colours of gold. Quickly, I resumed my sprint up the stairs. No distractions now! The fifth landing! Onward! Once more unto the breach!

  Dong…

  The fifth landing. How many floors did this darn building have? I chanced a glance upwards and nearly fell over my feet. Grabbing the railing for support, I pulled myself onto the sixth landing, wheezing with the effort. But I had seen what I needed to see. Only two more floors left!

  Dong…

  The sixth landing! Nearly there. How many strikes of the clock were still left to me? I quickly counted in my head. Oh no, just one!

  Dong…

  Clutching my aching chest I stumbled onto the top landing and grabbed wildly at the air to find anything to support me. My hand caught a brass doorknob and clasped it, involuntary pushing the door open.

  I had made it!

  Unable to stop, I practically fell into the room beyond. I only came to a stop several fumbling steps later, falling to my knees, gasping, in front of a dark wood desk, behind which sat a narrow-faced young man who seemed rather surprised to find a young woman on the carpet before him.

  ‘Err… Miss?’ he said, tentatively.

  I tried to speak, but my vocal cords didn’t work quite right yet. My lungs were still too busy utilizing my throat for air supply after my sprint up seven flights of stairs. I stared at the carpet on which I was kneeling, trying to find the energy to raise my head. It was a dark carpet, with simple and rather austere geometric patterns. Somebody really should hire an interior decorator here.

  Get a grip, I told myself, and clambered to my feet.

  Looking around, I saw that I was standing in a longish room, almost a corridor, with doors leading off at regular intervals to the sides. At the very end of the room was a large double door of dark wood. Between me and the door stood only the desk, and behind the desk sat the anxious, narrow-faced young man.

  This had to be Mr Stone.

  ‘I’m here to see Mr Ambrose,’ I panted with as much dignity as one can muster while gasping for air. Quickly I tried to smooth out the wrinkles in my dress, but they resisted stubbornly.