Hunting for Silence (Storm and Silence Book 5)

by Robert Thier

  ‘Oh.’ For a moment, thoughtful silence reigned under the table. ‘Do you mind if I give it a try, then? She’s quite easy on the eyes, and maybe…’

  I kicked the table.

  ‘Eat! And be quiet!’

  ‘Yes, Sir! Right away, Sir.’

  *~*~**~*~*

  I put the rest of my ‘be-an-arsehole’ plan into effect that very day. When I met Miss Harse and her mother on the promenade deck later that day, I gave no greeting, but instead marched past them in sullen silence.

  ‘Mr Linton!’

  I turned. Apparently, my egregious lack of manners wasn’t sufficient. Oh well…time to fire a bigger calibre.

  ‘Mr Linton, have you heard? The captain said we’ll reach the French coast tomorrow. Oh, I’m so excited.’

  ‘Well, I’m not,’ I snapped. ‘And neither should you be!’

  Taken aback, she retreated a step. ‘Mr…Mr Linton?’

  ‘France isn’t as safe as England.’ Where you get robbed by highwaymen on public roads. ‘Two women travelling alone? It would be insupportable!’ I let my derisive gaze slide over them, channelling every chauvinistic bastard I had ever heard. ‘Women are weak. Women are defenceless without a strong man to protect them. You should turn around the moment we land in France.’

  Wow. It was amazing how easy it was to spout this sort of nonsense while you were wearing this getup. Maybe it was something about the big pair of socks stuffed down the front of my trousers. They seemed to have taken on a mind of their own.

  Regardless of where they’d come from though, I could see that my words were having the desired effect. Emilia’s cheeks had paled, and her mother had taken a step backwards.

  ‘Mr Linton…Mr Linton, are you…’

  A total and utter asshole? Yes!

  ‘…concerned for me?’

  What? No! No, no, nononono!

  ‘That’s so sweet!’ Not giving a damn that people were watching, Emilia rushed forward and hugged me as if I were a big piece of solid chocolate. Good God! If she felt the socks…

  ‘Oh, Mr Linton!’ Glancing up at me, her cheeks reddened, and a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. ‘You rogue!’

  I want to die. I want to die right here and now. Spontaneous combustion would be nice. Or maybe some kind of horribly painful, quick-acting poison?

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she whispered. ‘I won’t be travelling through France alone. I’ll have you to protect me.’

  And with a wink and a giggle, she scurried away. Her mother sent a beneficent smile my way, and I felt a sudden yearning for the good old days, when prospective mothers-in-law had despised me at first sight. Good God! Did I make for a better son-in-law than a daughter-in-law? Would I have to get a permanent pair of socks?

  Shrugging off the horrifying thought, I quickly made my way across the deck. As soon as I was out of sight of the two harpies, I started to run and didn’t stop until I reached my destination. Panting, I kicked the side of the lifeboat.

  The tarpaulin lifted a fraction of an inch. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Move over!’ I commanded. ‘I’m coming in.’

  *~*~**~*~*

  I sat in the dark, happily breathing in the smell of rotten fish. The time in the lifeboat, in spite of the smell and the boy’s sharp elbows, was a blissful respite. Yet sooner or later, the problem of Miss Emilia Harse would have to be dealt with. What could I do? She had me backed into a corner. She was a woman on the prowl, and I was nothing but a poor, hapless gentleman, defenceless in her clutches.

  My last hope was that, surely, the two ladies weren’t planning on going to Paris, like I was. After all, there were hundreds of towns all over France, and a whole continent of people beyond. What were the chances of them going to the same city I was?

  I couldn’t deal with distractions like this now. Mr Ambrose was in trouble, and that was what I had to focus on. I had to concentrate on getting to him, not getting some infatuated country damsel to keep her hands off my extra pair of socks!

  Surely, they wouldn’t go to Paris.

  Surely.

  Probably.

  The Admiral’s Operation

  ‘Mr Linton! What a happy surprise! We didn’t know you would be travelling to Paris, too.’

  Excruciatingly slowly, I raised my eyes until, through the coach window, I gazed into the beaming faces of Miss and Mrs Harse. The sight led me to revise my earlier plans. I wasn’t just going to kill Fate. I was going to throw the witch into a deep, dark dungeon and think up some nice tortures for her before ending her misery.

  ‘And I’m here, too.’ Stretching up, Mr Edgar Phelps waved at me over the ladies’ heads. Winking at me and pointing at Emilia, he mouthed, I think she really likes you. Go for it!

  ‘How fabulous,’ I groaned. ‘And here was I thinking this was going to be a boring trip.’

  Beaming, Mr Phelps slid aside, making room for me between him and Miss Emilia Harse. How nice of him. I wondered, was it legal to shoot people for good manners?

  ‘So,’ I said, for lack of anything better to say as I settled in the only free seat. ‘I heard correctly? You’re travelling to Paris, as well?’

  Please say no. Please say no. Even if it means that my hearing was malfunctioning earlier, please say no!

  ‘Yes.’ The girl beamed up at me, stars sparkling in her eyes. ‘I don’t know whether you heard…I…well…’

  A blush rose to her cheek.

  ‘Heard what?’ I enquired, curious against my better judgement.

  ‘My singing,’ she said with downcast eyes. ‘I was singing in my room the other day.’

  ‘Oh, that.’ I nodded, a painful grimace flicking over my face. ‘Trust me, I heard.’ And so did half of Dover, probably.

  ‘Well…’ Taking a deep breath, she raised her eyes again, and suddenly there was fire in her gaze and steel in her backbone. I blinked, taken slightly aback. I hadn’t seen this side of her before. ‘I love to sing. Especially opera. It’s my dream to become a prima donna and sing on the great stages in the city of love. To perform The Marriage of Figaro or Fidelio in front of all of Paris…’

  She gave a dreamy sigh.

  I considered her words carefully.

  ‘You want to become a famous singer? In France?’

  She nodded earnestly. ‘The French operas are the best.’

  ‘And, um….’ How to put this? She obviously had not yet considered the repercussions. ‘You don’t think there will be any problems when a French gentleman steps onto the stage and announces that Miss Emilia Harse will be singing for them next?’

  She was still looking at me, complete innocence in her eyes. ‘Problems? What problems?’

  Oh my God. The poor girl had no idea.

  ‘Err…none. None whatsoever.’ Clearing my throat, I struggled mightily not to burst out laughing. Had she ever heard a French accent before? Probably not. Oh the poor, poor, girl. Still, who was I to ruin her dream?

  I patted her shoulder encouragingly.

  ‘Go to Paris.’ I told her with a smile. ‘Sing to your heart’s content. Every girl should live her dream.’

  Her eyes lit up with joy and…crap! More than just joy. Lots more. ‘You really think that?’

  Crap, crap, crap! Why couldn’t I keep my trap shut? I was supposed to be an arsehole! An overbearing, arrogant, dictatorial male asshole! I couldn’t suddenly start being nice and reasonable to females. To judge by the look she was directing at me…crap!

  ‘Oh, Mr Linton, I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you believe in me. Aside from my dear mother, you’re the only one, the only one who’s ever…’

  Trailing off, she gently touched my hand, making her meaning abundantly clear. Groaning, I sank back into my seat. This was going to be a very long drive.

  *~*~**~*~*

  ‘…and three hundred divided by six makes fifty.’

  ‘By Jove, you’re right! I can’t imagine how I missed that mistake.’

  Neither could I. But I was kind
enough not to mention that. Although he didn’t know it, Mr Phelps was doing me a huge favour by leeching off my math skills. Nothing was so effective at putting people to sleep as watching other people solve complex math problems. Miss Harse’s eyelids were already drooping, and the rest of the passengers had long since started snoring. It wasn’t long before the young lady joined them, and Mr Phelps did, too.

  ‘Oh dear.’ Blinking, I gazed down on his head, resting on top of my calculations. I hadn’t reckoned on my strategy working quite this well. Carefully, I shoved him aside so he slumped against the door, and concentrated on the math again. It was soothing and familiar, and kept my mind—at least for a while—from the thing it really wanted to worry about.

  Him.

  With every passing minute, I was getting closer. With every passing mile, the moment was approaching when I’d have to face him, and whatever trouble he was in. Math was a welcome distraction, filling my head with number after number.

  Finally, the last one was deducted, the last zero dealt with, and I was left only with the snoring of the other passengers and the landscape rushing past outside to distract me. A landscape which, I noticed, was already growing considerably more urban. We were quickly approaching Paris and, along with Paris, Mr Rikkard Ambrose.

  A shiver travelled down my spine as I remembered our last exchange.

  ‘Mr Ambrose, where are you going? Where?’

  ‘It’s better if you don’t know, Miss Linton. Dalgliesh will be waiting for just such a chance. Where I’ll be going…he’ll be lying in ambush.’

  ‘And you think that argument will convince me to let you go?’

  ‘No. It’ll tell you why I cannot take you with me.’

  With a grim smile, I glanced down at the slip of paper in my hand onto which, under threat of horrible torture, Karim had scribbled an address. An address that was only ever meant for me to send mail to—not to visit in person.

  Ha!

  I’m not that easy to get rid of, Mr Ambrose. I’ll have your back, whether you want it or not. And, since your derrière is attached to your back, I’ll use the opportunity for some long overdue kicking!

  Still, my desire to be with Mr Ambrose, and my foot’s desire to meet with his backside, didn’t mean that I wasn’t terrified. I knew perfectly well what Lord Daniel Eugene Dalgliesh was capable of. What I didn’t know was what kind of devilry he had cooked up this time. What kind of danger could Mr Ambrose be in? It had to be something really bad for him to leave me behind. We had tracked through jungles and deserts, fought our way through bandits and rebels together. What could possibly be in store for me in the capital of France that was bad enough for him to leave me behind?

  Taking a deep breath, I put my calculations away and raised my chin, staring belligerently out at the French landscape, as if daring it to be dangerous. I might have no idea what kind of perilous situation I would be walking into, but no matter what, I would fight for him tooth and claw!

  Outside, the sun slowly sank towards the horizon. As the sky turned darker, my thoughts of Mr Ambrose slowly turned into daydreams, and then the day disappeared, and only dreams remained, which gradually faded into darkness.

  I was jerked awake when we hit a bump in a road. Blinking, I glanced outside and saw a sea of lights below. We were driving down a shallow hill, and below us, twinkling lights stretched out as far as the eye could see, separated by a glittering band of darkness.

  ‘Is that…?’ I whispered.

  Mr Phelps nodded, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. ‘Paris. The dark band in the centre has to be the Seine.’

  He reached out towards Miss Harse to shake her awake.

  ‘Wait!’

  He glanced at me, taken aback. ‘But won’t the ladies want to see it?’

  ‘Err…no.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Best let them sleep. They’ve had an exhausting journey. Why not let them rest until I’ve had time to esca– um, I mean until I’ve fetched someone to help them into the posting inn.’

  ‘Oh, well, if you think so.’ He patted me on the back. ‘I’m sure you know better what’s best for Miss Harse, eh?’

  And he winked at me.

  Winked!

  I had to find Mr Ambrose. Firstly, because I had to save him from Lord Dalgliesh. And secondly, and most importantly, because I needed to be saved myself. Urgently.

  We plunged towards the lights below. Racing past buildings growing ever taller, we fast approached Paris. The first suburbs started to appear on either side, and the smells and sounds of a foreign city began to engulf us.

  ‘Citrouilles! Citrouilles fraîches!’[5]

  ‘Je te déteste, trou du cul!’[6]

  ‘Sais-tu combien de temps ta mère prend pour chier? Neuf mois![7]

  ‘Ah,’ Mr Phelps sighed. ‘French, the language of love. It sounds so romantic. If only we knew what they were saying.’

  ‘Yes, um…’ I cleared my throat. ‘If only.’

  Passing under a great arch, we entered the city proper, and the noise exploded around us. I could already tell that in one respect, this city was going to feel just like London—it never slept.

  Is Mr Ambrose sleeping? Or is he wide awake right now, just like me?

  The coach slowed. Gradually, it came to a stop and, glancing out, I saw what was undoubtedly a coaching inn.

  ‘Well,’ Mr Phelps sighed. ‘Time for something to eat, don’t you think? Are you as eager as I to taste the French cuisine, Mr Linton?’

  ‘No.’ Abruptly, I rose. ‘I just remembered that I have some very urgent business to take care of. Very urgent indeed.’

  Mr Phelps looked startled. ‘In the middle of the night? Surely Mr Ambrose wouldn’t mind you taking a little time to rest.’

  Even though, inside, my heart was hammering against my ribs in anxiety, I couldn’t keep a smile from spreading across my face. ‘If you think that, Mr Phelps, you don’t know Rikkard Ambrose. Au revoir.’

  And with that, I jumped out of the carriage, past the startled landlord and his big moustache, out onto the street. Grabbing my suitcase from the coach, I squared my shoulders, triangled my self-confidence and octagonalled my meagre knowledge of French. Then I set out into the strange world of wonder that was Paris at night.

  I had progressed about five yards into this wonder before a street vendor tried to sell me a bowl full of snail soup. The other offers were more tempting – paintings, postcards, toys, souvenirs, and, oh, the flowers, how many flowers! Sir Philip Wilkins would have fainted with joy at the sight, but I ignored it all, forging ahead, only one single goal in mind.

  Get to him. Get to him. Get. To. Him.

  Approaching the first kind-looking face in the crowd, I bowed before the old lady and enquired

  ‘Um… Excoosay ma, poo way woo me dear commaw…?’ Pulling the precious piece of paper out of my pocket, I glanced at it, tried to form the words—then decided to forget about it and just showed her the damn thing.

  Her eyebrows rose.

  ‘Oh, vous êtes admirateur de l’opéra?’[8]

  My mouth went dry. Good god! Someone was being operated on? Had someone been shot? But it couldn’t be Mr Ambrose, right? She said something about an admiral. What the heck was a naval officer doing posing as a doctor? And had he gotten his hands on Mr Ambrose yet? I shuddered. Whatever dark, twisted intrigue was going on here, I was putting a stop to it!

  ‘Where?’ I demanded, grabbing the lady’s wrist. ‘Où? Où?’

  Startled, she drew back and pointed down the street. I whirled and sprinted in the direction she had indicated. As I ran, a thousand dark scenarios flashed through my head. Was I going to march into some kind of murderers’ den? Who was the admiral? And what did he have to do with Mr Rikkard Ambrose? Pumping my legs like never before, I raced down the street like a favorite at the Ascot races. Every now and again, I stopped and waved the scrap of paper with the address under someone’s nose. But always they pointed farther ahead, always I had to run on and on and on, until—


  ‘Là.’ The portly man pointed to the other side of the street. ‘Juste là.’

  ‘Merci bon coup!’ I squeezed his hand. ‘Merci bon coup d’etat!’

  Turning, I faced the building he had pointed out—and gaped. If out of all the buildings in Paris I’d had to pick one place that I would least expect to find Rikkard Ambrose in, this would be it. No, that wasn’t quite true—the donation office of the biggest Paris orphanage would probably be topmost on my list, but this would come in as a close second. The building was magnificent. The façade in baroque style was majestic and at the same time playful, with tall columns topped by curly decorations cut from stone and elegant arches connecting the row after row of pillars. Above rose a majestic dome, supporting glittering golden statues of ancient gods and goddesses.

  Golden statues.

  Luxurious decorations.

  And Mr Ambrose was supposed to be in there? Had the world gone mad?

  I was just contemplating whether or not to pinch myself—just to check if I was still in the coach, fast asleep and caught in some strange dream—when from inside the building, a terrible, ear-splitting scream erupted. The scream of a woman in terror. Instinctively, my hand went to my revolver.

  Not a dream, Lilly. Just a nightmare. Time to face it!

  And, pulling my revolver, I dashed forward, up the steps and into the building.

  The Truth

  I can tell you, the doorman seemed pretty surprised when an armed man dashed past him into the building. Not nearly as surprised as I was, though, to meet a doorman at the entrance of a villain’s lair. What kind of bloody place was this? The Villain Hotel for Megalomaniacs and Masterminds?

  Another scream ripped through the air. If I’d had any doubt left that there was danger threatening in this place, it was gone now. Whoever that poor woman was, she sounded as if she were having her toenails pulled out with hot tongs. I had to find her! I had to find Mr Ambrose!

  Following the distant sound of voices, I rushed down a corridor, the doorman’s shouts echoing behind me—but I was too fast for him to catch up! Soon, I reached a big set of double doors, and in front of them—damn! Another doorman!