‘You,’ he told me in a tone that could have frozen the Sahara, ‘are a disgrace to your sex.’
‘Which one would that be?’
From freezing the Sahara, his eyes went right on to the Kalahari.
‘That is a discussion we will have at a later time. Right now, Mr Linton, I have to go interview the man we came to look for, before he decides to leave.’
‘How may I be of assi… assissi… assistance, Sir?’
‘You may go into that room there,’ he said, pointing to the door which led to the pub’s back room, ‘sit quietly in a corner and not touch another drop of alcohol until I come to get you. Understood?’
‘Y-yes, Sir… I understand.’ Damn! I was stumbling over syllables again. ‘But how will that help you f-find the file?’
‘By having you out of my way. Now go!’
With that, he turned and strode towards the tables.
I scowled after him. That hadn’t been very nice. And I didn’t like it when people weren’t nice to me, particularly not him! Still scowling, I moved towards the door he had indicated. It took me a few moments to get through it, because it was rather difficult to determine which of the three doors that kept dancing around in front of my eyes was the one I wanted, but eventually I managed it. In the back room, there were more tables, and a maid was running around, taking orders.
Most of the men here were drinking from mugs or glasses that were a lot smaller than the ones out front. I slumped down at one of the tables, where another man was already sitting, and waved the maid towards me.
‘I’ll have what he’s having,’ I’ll ordered. ‘And there'll better be no donkey’s hoofs or bull’s horns or other animal parts in there!’
The maid blinked at me in confusion. ‘Sorry, Sir?’
‘Oh, forget it! Just get me a drink!’
‘Aye, Sir.’
I watched her bustle away and gave a derisive snort. Blast Mr Ambrose! Don’t drink any more my foot! I would show him!
‘Here, Sir.’
Ah, my mug had arrived. I took the tiny little thing, sniffed - and broke out into a coughing fit. By George, that smelled sharp! But I had already ordered it now, so I might as well drink it. And anyhow, it wasn’t as if it could do much harm. The mugs were much smaller here, after all…
*~*~**~*~*
I had to confess, after a while I got rather fond of the stuff that came in small mugs. Admittedly, at first it made your throat burn and your eyes water, but in the long run, it had the most interesting effects. For instance, not so long ago, a troop of jolly little yellow pigs had come out of the chimney and started to dance on the back wall. They were performing quite excellently, all thanks to this amazing liquid that had opened my eyes to a new world.
I pounded the table with my fist.
‘Another one! Another cow’s ear… or was it pig’s tail… Darn it! Another cup of this stuff!’
The maid hurried to my table and deposited another cup in front of me with an anxious expression. Was she afraid of me? Maybe it was this miraculous substance that I was consuming, making my voice all rough and manly, that made me more intimidating. I grinned. I liked the idea.
Swiftly, I grasped the metal cup and gulped down its contents. Yes, I could really grow to like this drink. It made you feel pleasantly woozy.
‘Ey there, little fellow! Are ye planning to drink the whole River Thames in one night? Leave something for the rest of us.’
Somebody laughed. I looked up from my empty cup and saw that the words had come from the other chap sitting at the table. He hadn’t said a word before, but now he was grinning at me.
I gave his question a few moments of serious contemplation.
‘No,’ I finally decided. ‘I don't want to drink the Thames. There’s too much crap swimming in it.’
That got another laugh from him and a few of the other people around us.
‘Blast it,’ my table partner told me, raising his cup to me, ‘I’m impressed. Ye 'old your licker well, considering.’
‘Considering? Is that supposed to mean that wom- that little people can’t drink as much as a big fellow like you?’
He grinned, displaying several missing teeth that gave his gnarled old face a jaunty look.
‘No. They just usually end up unconscious under the table if they give it a go.’
‘Well, I’m not nearly drunk enough for that yet!’
‘Let’s drink to that.’ He raised his cup. ‘Bottoms up!’
‘No,’ I told him, raising my cup but shaking my head. ‘Bottoms down. I won’t take my bottom off this chair until I am completely intoxi… intoxiwhatsy… well you know what I mean.’
‘No, I ain’t got no clue, to be honest, lad.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
We sat there and drank for a few minutes in companionable silence. I studied my counterpart as I did so. He was an old chap, sixty years or more, a sailor’s cap covering his bald head, and his wiry figure wrapped in an old, faded jacket. I liked him. He didn’t seem to be in a very good mood, though. He was staring into his cup dejectedly, and whenever he showed his charming toothless grin, there was a tinge of melancholy to it.
‘The world just ain’t what it used to be no more, lad,’ he said, smiling sadly and raising his cup again.
‘We can agree on that,’ I said, and we clinked cups and drank. After all, I was sitting in the back room of a disreputable pub in the East End, getting thoroughly and royally drunk. If somebody had told me a few months ago I would be doing this, I’d have suggested they see a doctor.
‘No honesty, you know,’ he added dejectedly. ‘Nowhere.’
‘Quite right.’
We clinked cups again. We drank.
I wondered what would happen if I told him that he was having this conversation with a girl in disguise. Maybe he would be angry about my dishonesty? Though something about the glassy look in his eyes made me think that maybe he’d laugh at the good joke, or maybe just not understand what I was saying.
‘Makes me really want to get drunk,’ the gnarled old sailor said.
I nodded.
We clinked cups. We drank.
‘So… why do you want to get drunk?’ He asked.
I scowled.
‘Because somebody I despise told me not to.’
He laughed. ‘Is that so? You don't despise him, little fellow!’
‘And how would you know? You don't even know who I’m talking about!’
‘Because if ye despised him, ye wouldn’t care what he told you to do. Ye'd just ignore him for the puddle of piss he is. Ye respect him. And ye want him to respect ye. That’s why ye ain’t doing what he’s told ye. So ye can show him ye've got your own 'ead on your shoulders!’
‘What are you? A doctor or gipsy fortune-teller or what?’
The sailor’s shoulders slumped. ‘Nay, lad, just an old man who’s seen too damn much of the world.’
‘So what about you?’ I asked, eager to change the subject. ‘Why are you getting drunk?’
The shoulders slumped even farther.
‘I told ye. Dishonesty.’
‘Yes, but what kind of dishonesty? Were you tricked?’
‘Aye, tricked, lad. Tricked as surely as ever a fellow was.’
He gave a deep sigh.
‘So you really want to ‘ear my sad story, lad, do you? I warn ye, it’s as sad a story as ever you ’eard.’
‘As I said,’ gesturing to the chair I was sitting on, ‘Bottoms down. I’m not going anywhere for a while. You might as well unburden your heart while we get drunk.’
‘You’re a good lad.’
The old sailor sighed again. ‘Oh, well… I’ve got this partner, you know? ’ad him ever since I came to London. When times are tough, we… do jobs together, ye know? The world ain’t what it used to be. Surviving can be 'ard, sometimes.’
I had the feeling that the 'jobs' he alluded to weren’t exactly legal. But I wasn’t feeling particularly judgemental tonight. He
seemed like a nice old fellow, for a man, and besides, the yellow piggies were still performing so delightfully at the back of the room - I just couldn’t be in a bad mood…
‘We were real pals, this fellow and me,’ the old man continued sadly. ‘Did everything together, shared everything together. If one of us found a job, we always got the other, and we split the cash. But then, the other night, he came in 'ere, drunk like the dickens, and started playing at cards, ye know. And he starts wearing fancy stuff he ain’t got the money for. So I go and asks him where the money’s coming from, and he tells me he’s got luck at the tables. But ye see, I know he’s not telling the truth. I know he’s found a good job and don’t want to share. So I follow him, and what do I see? Him going off to meet some posh geezer. Gives him something, and gets a bag full of cash in return, the little weasel!’
He took another large swallow from his cup, and gave a big, big sigh.
‘The world really ain’t what it used to be. I wouldn’t never have expected that of 'im. Not of old Tom Gurney.’
I nodded philosophically. Only a few seconds later did the name register in my befuddled brain.
I choked on my next mouthful of the burning drink.
‘W-what did you say his name was?’ I gasped, coughing.
‘Tom. Thomas Gurney, the little weasel. Can’t imagine he did that, and to me, who looked after him ever since his mum died. Aye, the world ain’t what it used to be no longer…’
‘Yes, yes, I’m sure it aintn't… um… isn’t. Tell me… where exactly was this house where your partner met this “posh geezer”?’
*~*~**~*~*
I had a nice, long talk with my friend, the old sailor, and afterwards sat and watched the amazing visions produced by the burning drink. The dancing piggies at the back of the room had performed about half of a Russian ballet when I heard a familiar arctic voice from the main room.
‘Mr Linton? Mr Linton!’
‘Ah.’ I sighed and nodded to my drinking companion. ‘Duty calls.’
He grinned at me.
‘Don’t be too hard on him, lad.’
‘I?’ I demanded, outraged. ‘Hard on him? He’s my superior, not the other way around.’
‘Exactly.’
Shaking my head, I stumbled towards the door. The old fellow was nice enough, but strange.
Out in the main room, Mr Ambrose awaited me, displeasure evident in every unmoving line of his face.
‘We’re getting out of here,’ he stated. ‘The lips of that man Gurney are sown shut! I cannot get a single word out of him. This was a waste of time. We'll have to try something else.’
I raised an eyebrow. Or maybe both. Control over my facial muscles was rather difficult to maintain at the moment.
‘Really?’
‘Yes, of course!’
‘You got nothing at all, did you?’
‘No.’
‘Not the tiniest-winiest tiddly bittly bit of information?’
‘I am not in the habit of repeating myself, Mr Linton. No, I got nothing. Now let’s go.’
‘Tut-tut…’ I smirked at him. Or maybe I drooled at him a little. What did it matter? This was great! The little yellow piggies were doing pirouettes, just for the special occasion of my triumph. ‘N-not so fast, Sir. I think I have some interesting news for you…’
*~*~**~*~*
‘…there was this drunk old fellow, you know, really drunk, you could really, really tell from the way he spockle- spak- spoke…’
Mr Ambrose listened to my account with his usual facial expression - or lack thereof. In fact, both Mr Ambroses did. There seemed to be two of him at the moment. Sometimes there were even three, but most of the time there were only two. They were swaying slightly and going in and out of focus.
‘…and I totally conned him! Just like that! And he started bubbleabable…babbling…and… what was I talking about again? Barman? Another round of pig’s snouts… no… eyes…? Oh, to hell with it! So I got him talking and…’
The blurry, stony-looking Ambrose in front of me morphed into two again, neither looking very pleased. Under normal circumstances, I might have been terrified - I mean, two Mr Ambroses to hound me all day, trying to drive me insane? Please! Every girl has her limits! But right now, there was this warm, fuzzy-glowy-gargantuan-greatly-gubbledly-wobbledy-wonderful feeling inside, and not even the thought of two Mr Ambroses to deal with at once could faze me.
Why should it? I was a strong woman! Strong and brilliant and all-powerful! Ha! Let all men cower before me! Right now, I knew I could squish them all like bugs and conquer the world - even if it did seem slightly blurred.
‘…and he said he followed him there,’ I finished my account, ‘and saw him there, because he went there, and he followed him. And he told me, and now we know. Isn’t that just peachy, slug? Um, I mean… Sir? We know what we wanted to know. Although I can’t for the life of me remember why exactly we wanted to know. Bugger! Well, I’m sure it'll come back to me once I’ve conquered the world. Do you think I should start with Spain, or rather France?’
His facial expression didn’t change. Somehow, he still managed to suddenly radiate twice as much cold disapproval. ‘Mr Linton?’
‘Yessir!’
‘You neglected to mention where this man you were conversing with actually went.’
‘Oh. Really? How strange. Um… well…’
‘Yes?’
I tried to sort through my foggy mind to find the answer to this conundrum. It wasn’t easy. Finally, the answer popped out of the mist.
‘Duck Road!’ I exclaimed. ‘He went to Duck Road, number 97!’
‘Mr Linton, there is no such place as ‘Duck Road’ in London.’
‘Sure there is! It wasn’t a native duck, though. Some kind of foreign little beast… from the East, I think.’ I snapped my fingers, or at least tried to. Somehow, my twenty-seven fingers got tangled up in each other. ‘East India Duck Road! He went to a large house on East India Duck road! Number 97!’
Mr Ambrose gave me a long, long look. Even in my current conquer-the-world mood, I felt that look.
‘Mr Linton… is it possible that you are talking about East India Dock Road, not Duck?’
I put my plans for conquering France and squashing all men like cockroaches aside for the moment and considered this. ‘Possible,’ I conceded.
‘Of course!’ Mr Ambrose’s eyes flashed, and he looked past me, half-speaking to himself. ‘East India Dock Road! The East India Company!’
‘I still think it was “Duck”, though,’ I told him. He didn’t pay any attention to me.
‘Yes, the East India Company… and Dalgliesh is the main shareholder. One more piece of the puzzle.’
I blinked up at him. ‘I always get those wrong. I always try to use the piece with the blackberry as the nose for the dog in the background. Are you going to help me conquer the world now, Sir?’
His gaze snapped back to me.
‘Mr Linton?’
‘Yessir! Right here, Sir!’
‘I again have a question for you.’
‘Shoot! But please not me.’
‘Mr Linton, did you consume even more alcohol?’
‘Certainly not, Sir! I never drink on dudelty… dudley… on duty.’ A burp escaped me, and I quickly covered my mouth with my hand. ‘That’s what the soldiers in novels always say when they’ve been drinking, anyway.’
‘You did drink even more!’
‘How did you know that?’ I demanded. ‘I told you no, like any good little soldier!’
He ignored my question, taking a threatening step closer. ‘Why did you consume even more alcohol? I gave you express orders not to!’
I nodded sagely. I remembered that.
‘Yessir! But then I remembered that I simply love disobeying your orders.’ I grinned. ‘I suppose I’m not a soldier, am I? Not so good with following orders.’
‘No, you’re not.’
‘Blast! Well, I’m still going to conqu
er the world. Want to help me?’
‘No.’ He sounded terse for some reason, and not at all eager to help me with my big project of world domination. Strange… Very strange…
‘At the moment, what I want to do, Mr Linton, is to go to number 97 East India Dock Road, and to tear it down brick by brick. But considering the state you are in, that will have to wait. Come on.’
A firm hand grasped my elbow and started to lead me towards the exit, away from the suspicious innkeeper and the dancing yellow piggies on the wall. I waved goodbye to them and smiled brightly.
‘Nighty night!’ I called over my shoulder. ‘Thank you all sooo much for your performance! You were mesnesmeresizing…mesmerizing.’
‘Will you hold your tongue!’ Mr Ambrose hissed.
I shook my head.
‘No, I don't think so. It’s too wet, I don't want to get my fingers wet.’
We were out of the pub now and walking down the street. Our progress was rather slow, though. For some reason, the world kept wobbling, and the two Mr Ambroses insisted on walking with one arm around me. Amazing how they both managed to use one and the same arm.
‘You see,’ I said, gesturing at the swaying houses on either side of us, ‘that’s why I want to conquer the world. If I could tell the world what to do, I’m sure it would sit still and not be moving around like this.’
‘Assuredly, Mr Linton. Come along.’
‘Plus, there’s this whole thing about equality of the sexes. I could fix that once I’d conquer the world, and kick all the chauvinists out of government, and make them tie the shoelaces of passing schoolgirls and clean public latrines.’
‘Very sound policy, Mr Linton. Now if you could walk a little faster…’
I was touched. I never would have thought a Mr Ambrose would actually agree with me. I just wish I knew which of the two it was. Maybe at least one of them would help me conquer the world after all, and we could rule it together - although he would act in a solely advisory capacity, of course. The power had to stay with women, where it belonged.
‘I’m so happy you agree with me,’ I said, snuggling up against him. I could feel him stiffen beside me, and his steps, which up to that point had been regular as clockwork, became uneven. ‘I mean… you normally act like the most cold, callous, cruel, dogmatically domineering bastard in the world, but sometimes… sometimes, like now, I get this crazy idea and I start thinking you could actually be quite nice. You know, if you wanted to.’
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