by Robert Thier
Silence was the only answer I got.
Quickly, I turned towards him. ‘You do, don’t you?’
More silence. Cold. Hard. Icy. Silence. Grabbing his beautiful face in both hands I stood up on tiptoe to press my forehead pressed against his. Our breaths mingled in the cool evening air. Revelling in the feeling, I closed my eyes.
‘It’s not because of you,’ I whispered. ‘I love you. But…those vows…I…I…can’t…’
I can’t swear to obey a man. Not even you. And you won’t take me unless I do.
Opening my eyes, I gazed up at him, hoping he would read in my face what I couldn’t put into words right then.
His left little finger twitched.
‘Maybe we could come to some kind of…compromise.’
Pardon?
Screech! Pull the brakes. Halt the universe for a moment. Had I just heard correctly? Had Mr Rikkard Ambrose, Mr I’ll-grind-you-into-the-dust-before-I-shift-an-inch-from-my-conditions Ambrose just offered to compromise?
‘Did I fall off the cathedral, break my neck and go to heaven?’ I enquired.
To judge by the look on his face, he didn’t appreciate my attempt at humour. His eyes narrowed infinitesimally. ‘Not that I’m aware of, Mr Linton. However, that can be arranged.’
‘Ah. I must be dreaming, then.’ Dropping all humour, all defences, everything that stood between the two of us, I slid my arms around him and pulled him close.
A compromise. A compromise! What does it that mean?
Should I dare hope it meant he wanted me more than he wanted to own me?
He hesitated for a moment—then roughly pulled me against him and held me so tight I almost couldn’t breathe. I didn’t complain.
‘And what a dream it is,’ he whispered. ‘What a dream.’
‘In a dream, we could be together forever.’ My grip on him tightened even more, as if I never wanted to let go. ‘Just imagine it…no society, no judgements, no laws, no stupid vows of obedience…just the two of us, able to do whatever the heck we want.’
His grip tightened, too. Now I really couldn’t breathe—but for the moment, I didn’t care. I’d always thought about starting a career as a Caribbean pearl diver. Didn’t they have to hold their breaths for over eight minutes?
‘Adequate.’
‘So…how do we make this dream reality?’
Loosening his grip, he took my chin in one hand and made me look up at him.
‘I’m master of my fate,’ he told me, and his cold, hard face had never looked as beautiful as in that moment. ‘Making dreams reality is what I do.’
‘I thought that was making massive amounts of money.’
He raised one eyebrow about half a millimetre. ‘As I said—making dreams reality is what I do.’
I narrowed my eyes. Suddenly, a very important question occurred to me. A question which, all things considered, I probably should have asked before now. ‘Which is more important to you—me or your money?’
He considered the matter for a moment. And another moment. And another.
Finally…
‘Is that a trick question?’
I stomped on his foot.
‘You…you…bloody son of a bachelor!’
‘Language, Miss Linton. Language.’
‘Just shut up and hold me.’
He did. And so we stood there, high above Paris, watching the sun set, safe in each other’s arms. And deep, deep inside, I didn’t need to hear the answer to my question, because I already knew with a hundred percent certainty which of the two was most important to Rikkard Ambrose.
Well…ninety-nine percent. But that was all right.
Soon, the sun had disappeared behind the horizon, and the cool blanket of night spread across Paris. Still—neither of us felt like returning home already and breaking the spell of the evening. So we went to the Luxembourg Gardens[23] and settled down in a quiet corner of the magnificent park. Spreading out a chequered blanket, we unpacked our dinner and tucked in. For entertainment, we had a little disagreement.
‘No,’ Mr Ambrose said, his face immovable, ‘it is not.’
‘Oh, come on!’ I jabbed my elbow into his ribs, nearly giving it a bruise. ‘How can you say that?’
‘Quite simply. It. Is. Not.’
‘Mr Ambrose—we are in the middle of a beautiful park, which by the way we have nearly all to ourselves at this late hour—sitting on a chequered blanket, eating sandwiches and watching the stars glitter in the night sky. How does this not qualify as a romantic picnic?’
‘Easy. It is merely a simplified work dinner. It relieves one of the need to expend money on useless items such as chairs, tables, knives, forks and plates. I am actually considering implementing a similar eating environment at my various offices and factories.’
‘I’m sure your staff will be thrilled.’
In answer, Mr Ambrose pulled out a baguette and started cutting it into neat, equal slices. Somewhere in the distance, a nightingale started to sing. Other than that, there were no sounds audible here, deep in the park, shielded by the trees and the night.
We’re totally alone.
As if sensing my thoughts, Mr Ambrose glanced up. He didn’t stop his preparations for his simplified work dinner, his hands continuing to move with the effortless precision of someone who’d had to make his own meals many a time. His eyes bored into me.
We’re even more alone than we were on top of Notre Dame. Nobody else is in the park at this hour. All the fine people of Paris are probably preparing to go to the opera, looking forward to hearing sweet songs about love.
The nightingale sang again, this time closer. Mr Ambrose put the knife aside and leant towards me.
I don’t think I’m going to need to go to the opera.
‘Miss Linton?’
‘Yes?’ I breathed.
‘Hand me the bacon.’
I blinked. ‘Pardon?’
‘The bacon. To put on the baguette. And the bowl of scrambled eggs.’
What the…? Was he serious? He wanted to eat? And, even more disturbing…
‘You’re out on a romantic midnight picnic in the middle of Paris, and you brought eggs and bacon?’
‘This is not a picnic. And certainly I did.’
I reached into the basket and pulled out the bowls with the eggs and bacon. For a moment, I considered smashing them over his head—but then concluded that would probably hurt the bowl more than him.
Doesn’t he know? Doesn’t he feel what’s happening between us?
Before I could fling the questions or the bowls in his face, he reached out to take them. And when his fingers touched mine, I realized: he did know. He did feel. He was just very good at hiding underneath a hard shell of ice.
Heat surged between us as our fingers brushed against each other. His hand lingered. One moment. And another. And another.
‘Let go of the bowls, Miss Linton.’
‘You let go of my fingers.’
He didn’t.
I let go of the bowls.
He still didn’t.
A branch cracked nearby, and we started apart, relaxing only when the shadowy form of a bunny raced across the lawn. If someone saw two gentlemen in tailcoats having a romantic picnic in the moonlight, probably not even the liberal-minded Parisians would be willing to look the other way. Still, I couldn’t seem to make myself care. It felt as we were in our own little world, as if the night around us was protecting us and our special moment.
Opening the bowls, Mr Ambrose started to prepare sandwiches. I didn’t really feel hungry anymore. Not for food. But when he lifted one tasty morsel into the air and held it out towards me, that didn’t keep my mouth from watering.
His eyes met mine.
‘Come here!’ he ordered.
I shook my head. ‘No. You come here.’
A muscle in his jaw twitched. But…it wasn’t the usual kind of twitch. ‘Maybe we could meet in the middle?’
A smile tugged at the corn
ers of my lips. ‘You mean…like a compromise?’
‘Yes,’ he said, leaning forward. ‘Exactly like that.’
I leant forward, too, and by the time we reached each other, food was long forgotten. Our lips met and we clung to each other, in the silence and the dark, not needing anything or anyone except each other. Deep inside me, a beautiful, inescapable knowledge settled.
This is the beginning. The beginning of us.
Dalgliesh’s Plan
Most couples would probably have strolled back from their rendezvous hand in hand, exchanging kisses. The two of us marched back at top speed, exchanging arguments about Paris real estate prices—and I loved every single minute. Who the heck said you had to be like other couples, anyway? I was myself, and he was he, and neither of us would make apologies. The fact that he still wanted me, that he valued me, meant a thousand times more to me than any conventional romantic gestures.
He’s willing to make a compromise. A compromise!
We reached the opera house just as the show for the evening performance was opening. People were standing in a line that reached all around the block, which Mr Ambrose promptly ignored. Someone opened his mouth to protest as my dear employer cut in line—until he met Mr Ambrose’s eyes and shut up faster than I could blink. We reached the door with minimal fuss. This time, the other doorman I happened to know was standing there, smiling at the crowd—a smile that disappeared the instant he saw me.
‘Hello there.’ I winked at him.
The man gave a yelp and jumped behind a nearby potted plant, cowering down, out of the line of fire.
‘A very nice evening to you, too!’ I called as we stepped inside. Turning, I met the piercing gaze of Mr Rikkard Ambrose.
‘Something the matter, Sir?’ I enquired innocently.
‘What is the matter with those men?’ He jabbed one finger at the spot where, a moment ago, the doorman had stood. The trembling cap of the man was still peeking out from behind the potted plant. ‘This is the second time today! Have they lost their senses?’
I gave him a sweet smile, and flexed my non-existent biceps. ‘Can’t you tell? They find me intimidating.’
Mr Ambrose gave me a look. One of those looks.
‘This is no time for jests, Mr Linton.’
And, whirling, he marched away. I, meanwhile, glanced back at the doorman who was just peeking out from behind the potted plant. Raising my hand, I pointed a finger gun at him and mimed shooting. Quickly, the poor man ducked down again. Giggling to myself, I hurried after Mr Ambrose. The poor man. If he only knew what he was in for in the years to come…
Hurrying across the entrance hall, I caught up with Mr Ambrose.
‘What is being performed tonight?’
‘Some new thing by a local composer.’ He gave a dismissive wave.
‘Can we see it?’
He gave me a startled glance. ‘I’ve already watched one performance, Mr Linton. That was sufficient to assess the capabilities of the performers and remove the inadequate ones.’
‘I meant,’ I said in the tone of someone explaining the meaning of ‘entertainment’ to a granite boulder, ‘watch it for fun. You know, fun? That thing where you do something to enjoy yourself?’
‘That, Mr Linton, would be a complete waste of time and—’
Batting my eyelashes, I looked up into his eyes.
‘Mr Linton!’
‘Yes, Sir, Mr Ambrose, Sir?’
‘Cease that immediately!’
‘What, Sir? I’m not doing anything.’
‘Cease looking at me like that!’
‘Like what, Sir?’
He held out for another three impressive seconds—then gave an indistinct noise in the back of his throat and turned around.
‘Maybe I should assess the performers’ capabilities a second time, just to be sure.’
‘I think that’s an excellent idea,’ I agreed primly, and followed him up the stairs to the box he had apparently reserved from himself. I wondered if I should start whistling in triumph, but decided that would probably be pushing things a little too far.
We settled in the luxurious box, and my derrière got to enjoy the rare experience of sitting next to Rikkard Ambrose on something that wasn’t a bare plank of wood, the hump of a camel or a slab of stone in a South American ruin. Sighing contentedly, I leant back and prepared to enjoy the show as the curtains opened.
Since I didn’t understand much French besides merde, the plot was a little difficult to follow. If I grasped matters correctly, the heroine was in love with a gentleman who was in love with another lady who was in love with a man who was in love with the heroine. Everyone was very brave and noble and suffered in silence, except for the villain, who was villainous and sang for about a quarter of hour about how he was going to kill everybody, not seeming to care that the heroine was within hearing distance, and so on, and so on.
I must admit, the performance wasn’t quite what I had been hoping for. I had been expecting a little bit more intrigue, more passion, more action on the stage. But all I got was another aria about two characters in the woes of love. I was about to lean over to Mr Ambrose and ask how long the performance would still last, when suddenly, a body dropped from the higher levels of the scenery and hit the stage with a thud. Gasps rose from the startled audience, and a bit of fake blood trickled down from a stab wound on the actor’s chest.
‘Now this is what I’m talking about!’ Clapping my hands, I leant forward. ‘Finally! I was waiting for something exciting to happen. It’s done so well! Especially the fake blood. How did they get it to look so realistic?’
Slowly, Mr Ambrose leant over. His face seemed even stonier than usual.
‘This,’ he informed me, ‘is not part of the performance.’
It took a moment for his words to sink in. My eyes flicked back to the prone actor on stage and the fake—or maybe not-so-fake—blood trickling from his stab wound. A cold tingle travelled down my spine.
‘Oh.’
‘Indeed, Mr Linton.’
For one single moment, there was fateful silence. For a moment, everything hung in the air. What would happen? Screams? Chaos? A scandal that Paris would never forget?
Then one of the violinists struck up a timid note. Others joined in, rising in a sinister crescendo, and the singers on the stage resumed their aria, sounding slightly shriller than before.
‘They’re singing! Why the heck are they singing?’
Mr Ambrose cocked his head, listening to the French words. ‘Ah. Apparently, the clandestine romantic meeting of the two characters has been interrupted by the ghoul of a former lover, who, in his undead wrath, has decided to haunt them and bleed on their shoes. An innovative storyline. Perhaps I should suggest to the playwright that he incorporate this into his libretto.’
‘They put the corpse in the opera?’
Mr Ambrose gave me a look. ‘You might have heard of a saying that is popular among performing artists, Mister Linton: the show must go on. Especially when the man paying your wages is watching.’
‘I don’t quite remember that second part.’ I still couldn’t tear my gaze away from the dead man on the stage. The pool of blood was widening, and the actors were having increasing difficulties not stepping in it while they finished their aria about the woes of love.
‘Innovation is everywhere, Mr Linton. Especially in the opera.’ Leaning forward, he raised an opera glass to his eye. ‘Ah. Apparently, even in the face of this daunting haunting, the two protagonists remained faithful in their unending love. How romantic. And profitable.’
‘There’s a dead body on the stage. A dead body!’
In the audience, tears sparkled and handkerchiefs were raised to eyes. Here and there, some noses were cleared, and applause rose as the aria came to its climax. With an energetic kick, the lady singer kicked the corpse off the stage. With a thump, it fell down into the opera pit on top of some hapless tuba player, and to frantic applause from the audience, the two lov
ebirds sank into each other’s arms, kissing passionately. The curtain closed, and several people rose to their feet, shouting ‘Da capo! Da capo!’
‘That was a truly ingenious ending wasn’t it?’ an elderly Spanish lady in the box next to ours said to her friends, who nodded energetically.
‘Oh yes! I haven’t seen such a marvellous opera in a long time. This fellow Berlioz will go far.’
Again, shouts of ‘da capo, da capo’ rose from the audience. Wasn’t that Italian for ‘again’? Cautiously, I glanced at Mr Ambrose. If a paying audience was calling for opera with mayhem and murder, would he…?
‘Cease looking at me like that, Mr Linton.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like you’re concerned I’ll start snatching people of the streets for a realistic re-enactment of the French Revolution in operatic form.’
‘I would never think such a thing of you!’
Actually, I had been thinking rather along the lines of Hannibal and the Battle of Cannae.
‘Just in case you are not clear about this, Mr Linton,’ he told me, his icy eyes boring into me, nailing me to my seat, ‘I’m not pleased about what happened. Not at all.’
I blinked. ‘You aren’t? But I thought…’
‘Oh, I’m pleased about the outcome.’ He nodded at the happily chattering audience that was slowly getting to its feet and filing out of the hall. ‘No one noticed what happened. There wasn’t a hint of scandal. But am I happy about what occurred?’ Slowly, he flexed his fingers, as if wrapping them around an imaginary neck. ‘Most assuredly not. And you can trust me when I say that, once I find out who is behind this, they are going to pay.’
‘In pounds or francs?’
‘Mr Linton?’
‘Yes, Sir?’
‘Shut up, and up on your feet!’
‘Yes, Sir!’
‘Let’s have a look around the stage, shall we?’
While the audience was still happily chatting about the wonderful performance and the singers returned to the stage for a second round of bows, Mr Ambrose and I slipped out of our box. He started down the corridor, his long strides eating up the distance, and I hurried after him, nibbling at the distance as best I could. Inside, my mind was whirling. A murder! An actual murder! Was it Claudette? Had they gotten to her?