by Robert Thier
Yep. I could - if I wanted her to send Captain Carter and half the British Army after me and her beloved son. Not good.
Well…that leaves only one option. The tried and trusted last resort of magnificent misfits: lying like a rug.
‘Lady Samantha? Lady Samantha?’ Pushing open the door, I strode inside. Something in my tone must have alerted her, because she was already rushing towards me.
‘Yes, Mr Linton? What’s the matter? Is everything all right? Is my son-’
‘He’s fine,’ I hurried to reassure her. ‘Nothing has happened to him. But we met someone out in the woods - a messenger from Newcastle. He told us that, um…one of Mr Ambrose’s friends there is sick.’
‘Oh dear!’ Covering her mouth with one dainty hand, Lady Samantha took an involuntary step towards the door, as if she wanted to reach out and comfort her far-off son. ‘That’s terrible! I’m so sorry to hear that someone is ill. But…’ She glanced at me, guiltily. ‘Does it make me a horrible person when I say that, in a way, I’m almost relieved? I didn’t know my son had any friends.’
Oh yes, he has made lots of friends. And they’re all shiny and golden, with the face of King George III embossed on one side.[6]
So, in a way, what I was telling her was even true. For Mr Rikkard Ambrose, any enterprise that could potentially make money but currently didn’t was probably the closest thing to a sick friend he was ever likely to have. Great justification, right? I had always been brilliant at justifying fibs. Still, the next one was a bit, well…
I cleared my throat.
‘His friend might die.’
Any hint of gladness disappeared from Lady Samantha’s face.
‘Goodness gracious!’
‘And he would like to see Mr Ambrose one last time. So you see-’
‘Yes, yes, of course!’
Stepping forward, she clasped both my hands in hers, her eyes shimmering with tears of sympathy. It was almost enough to make me feel bad for lying - which was saying something. I didn’t normally apologise for my favourite hobbies.
‘Of course you must go, but…oh dear.’ Shaking her head, she through a regretful glance down the hall into the house, from where the sound of music and merry laughter came. The sounds of approaching Christmas. ‘I had so hoped that Rick would…well, it can’t be helped. Will you tell your sister, or would you like me to deliver the news?’
‘My sister? Oh, she will be coming with us.’
Lady Samantha’s face lit up in a manner that was not entirely appropriate for a lady who had just been told one of her son’s friends was about to take a trip to the hereafter.
‘She will?’
‘Yes, My Lady.’
‘And…how long do you think you will be gone?’
‘A few days, certainly.’
‘And…you will all be staying in the same house?’
‘I imagine so.’
‘And…will Miss Linton be spending a lot of time with my son?’
‘Oh yes. Definitely. Why?’
‘Oh, nothing, nothing.’ Hurriedly, she waved my question away. ‘By all means, go. Of course you must, it’s the right thing to do. I shall have Hastings get the coach ready for you.’
Woah! I had not seen that coming. Wracking my mind, I desperately searched for an excuse why it would be difficult for a coachman to take me, Mr Ambrose and my non-existent sister to Newcastle.
‘That…um…that won’t be necessary. Mr Ambrose has already procured transportation.’
‘Oh.’ She appeared positively surprised. ‘And is it appropriate for a lady such as your sister?’
If you consider a saddle-bruised butt to be appropriate… ‘Yes, absolutely.’
Lady Samantha smiled. ‘He really has changed for the better. Could it be that you and your sister are having a mellowing influence?’
Ha! In my most outlandish dreams!
‘Thank you for the compliment, Your Ladyship.’ I bowed. ‘I’m afraid I will have to take my leave. I still have to prepare things for the journey, and-’
‘Of course, of course! Go attend to your duties, Mr Linton. If you need any supplies, let the cook know that I said to let you have anything you want. The sky is the limit.’
‘Thank you so much, Your Ladyship.’ Although, actually, the size of my saddle bag is the limit. ‘We’ll be back as soon as we can.’
‘Oh, don’t you worry.’ She smiled at me reassuringly. ‘And do give your sister my warmest regards, will you?’
*~*~**~*~*
We were on the road to Newcastle within half an hour. It was just the four of us - Mr Ambrose and me, Mr Baker and Karim, whom I had fetched from his room back at Battlewood. While we rode, Mr Coal-Blackened Assistant Manager laid out the details for us. The farther we got, the blacker things seemed. And that wasn’t just because of the thick black smoke we saw, rising up from the horizon.
‘They’re completely out of control,’ Baker panted. Underneath his coating of coal dust, he looked pale, and he was hardly able to keep himself on his horse. Naturally, Mr Ambrose hadn’t suggested we stop and rest yet. ‘They’re rioting all around the mine, seizing anyone who even looks as though he might be management. Some have even gotten pickaxes, and are roaming through the town, smashing shop windows and plundering.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Yes, Sir! They absolutely refuse to go back to work. After all the accidents we’ve had recently, that explosion was simply the last straw. They-’
‘There were more accidents?’
‘Yes, Sir. As I was saying-’
Mr Ambrose didn’t particularly seem to care what Baker had been saying. ‘What kind of accidents?’
‘Oh, well…ropes snapping, brakes on mine cars giving out, that sort of thing.’
‘Did those kind of things always happen that frequently at your mine?’
‘No. We had a stroke of really bad luck, recently.’
‘Indeed? How interesting.’
There was something in the tone of his voice…
Ice.
Lots of it. Much more than usual.
Spurring on my horse, I caught up to him. ‘What are you thinking, Mr Ambrose, Sir?’
‘I am thinking, Mr Linton, that we should ride faster.’
And he spurred his horse to a brisk canter, almost a gallop.
Soon, we came to the bottom of a hill. Mr Ambrose didn’t slow when we started upwards, and the horses began to pant, sweat running down their flanks even in the bitter cold. He didn’t pay any attention, and didn’t let up even a bit until we reached the crest of the hill and looked down onto the town beyond.
On our way south, we had come past several towns and villages - delightful little places with busy markets, fresh snow sparkling on the rooftops and carol singers going from door to door.
Newcastle was not such a town.
Oh, there was snow - coloured various shades of grey, sometimes leaning towards black. And there were plenty of markets, to judge by the stench of tar and old fish drifting up towards us. There was even singing of a sort - though these singers had probably consumed a little more alcohol than the average caroller. Still, this was no happy little country town.
Cheap brick houses stretched as far as the eye could see. Black smoke rose from nearly every chimney, attesting to the city’s one and only abundance: coal. The spires of several churches rose above the rooftops, competing for dominion over the town with the massive towers of the castle keep. Beyond it stretched the river Tyne, sparkling in the light of the sinking sun. And beyond that…
‘Oh my God,’ I breathed.
Thick columns of smoke were rising from an area beyond the river, more than could ever be produced by any factory. Flames were licking at the sky, mingling with the red glow of the sinking sun. It looked like a scene straight from Dante’s Inferno.
‘The mine is still burning?’ I turned to Baker. ‘I thought you said it was only an explosion.’
‘An explosion in a coal mine.’ He looked gri
m. ‘Coal burns well.’
Between the flames and the smoke, figures were moving. I could hear distant shouts of ‘Get them! Get them,’ punctuated by screams of pain.
‘Looks like we arrived just at the right time,’ Mr Ambrose stated coolly. ‘Let’s go.’ And he spurred his horse into a gallop, down the hillside, straight towards the city.
Pandemonium
Unlike I expected, we didn’t go directly to the mines. I soon realised why. If Mr Ambrose was anything, he was a cool-headed tactician. And appearing amidst a blood-thirsty mob in a rush, alone and on exhausted horses would not be a good move.
Instead, he led the way to a small two-storey town house on the safe side of the river. It was painted a dark brown colour that made soot stains hard to see, and ivy was climbing up one side of it. The door stood half open, and I could hear the voices of people whispering accompanied by soft crying.
‘What is this place?’ I asked.
‘The mine manager’s house,’ came Mr Ambrose’s curt reply. ‘Since he won’t need it anymore, we shall be using is as base of operations while we are in Newcastle.’
‘Um…will his family let us stay?’
‘They don’t have any say in the matter. The house doesn’t belong to them, but is on loan from the mining company.’
I opened my mouth to suggest whether we maybe shouldn’t intrude on them in a time of mourning - but then I remembered whom I was talking to, and shut my mouth again.
Riding up straight to the front porch, Mr Ambrose slid of his stallion.
‘Karim, Mr Linton - with me!’
We followed wordlessly as he strode up the stairs towards the open door. The whispers and crying from inside continued. We stepped into the house, Mr Ambrose in the lead, and through the first open door into a room where a sort of impromptu pre-funeral seemed to be going on. There were lots of people in black, and a sniffling woman wearing a veil. Mr Ambrose marched right up to her and placed himself before her, giving her a look as if she were a soldier whose bravery was in doubt, not a woman who had just lost her husband.
‘Stop crying. Now!’
Everyone turned to stare. A hush fell over the room, and - voilà - the woman stopped sniffling. She blinked up at Mr Ambrose. ‘W-what…who…’
Mr Ambrose didn’t let her finish. ‘Where are your guestrooms?’
‘P-pardon?’
‘I said, where are your guestrooms?’
‘Why would you want to know? Who in heaven’s name are you?’
‘I’m the man who’s going to avenge your husband and see to it that the people responsible dangle from the gallows by the end of the week. Now, for the last time, madam - where are your guestrooms?’
Slowly, the woman reached up and pulled her veil aside. Tears were still glittering on her cheeks. But there was a look in her eyes that I bet hadn’t been there a moment before.
‘Y-you can do that? You can get justice for my Jack?’
‘Not justice. Vengeance. And yes, I can.’
‘Who are you?’
He leaned forward just an inch or two. The woman seemed incredibly small and breakable in his shadow. ‘Rikkard Ambrose.’
If it had been quiet in the room before, that was nothing compared to the absolute nothingness of silence that suddenly fell over the gloomy space. You could have heard a pin thinking of maybe dropping in a couple of hundred years. A ferocious gleam entered the woman’s eyes, making one thing a hundred per cent clear: she knew the name. And she wasn’t the only one.
‘The Rikkard Ambrose?’
‘Yes.’
The woman’s face hardened, and she said something that made my respect rise for her a hundred miles. ‘How do I know that it wasn’t you who was responsible for my husband’s death? It was chaos down there! Nobody knows who or what killed him. Maybe it wasn’t one of the miners but the explosion. Your mine, your explosion. Maybe it is you I should want to see dangling from the gallows.’
Well now, that was a brave woman. A woman to admire. Sure, she had just basically accused the man I loved of murder and threatened to see him hang, but between kindred spirits such small faults can be easily overlooked, right?
Mr Ambrose didn’t retreat an inch. He gave the woman his iciest stare. ‘All my miners are equipped with Stephenson safety lamps, the latest models of CGDIs, and-’
‘CGDIs?’
Mr Ambrose half-turned, throwing me an icy look for my interruption. ‘Canary Gas Detection Implements. If the canary dies, there’s gas in the mine and you had better get out.’[7]
‘Oh. I see. Pray continue.’
‘As I was saying, there are extensive security measures in place. The miners are checked for flammable material before entering the mine, and if any is caught with a dangerous object, he is dismissed immediately. So how could this explosion have been a simple accident? There is more to this than meets the eye, and I can find out what. The only question is - will you work with me, or against me?’
Silence. Mrs. Gibbons stood there, looking up at Mr Rikkard Ambrose. Really looking at him, deep into his hard, dark, unfathomable eyes. I knew what she saw there. It was the same thing I had seen there the first day I had crossed paths with this man. The message that was written in stone there for all the world to see.
You want to take me on? Try it, if you enjoy suicide.
‘Vengeance?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘Vengeance.’
There was another moment of silence - then, taking a deep breath, Mrs. Gibbons lowered her head and curtsied. ‘We have an agreement. How may I be of assistance, Mr Ambrose?’
‘First of all, I need you to stop feeling sorry for yourself. Stop this nonsense.’ With a dismissive gesture, he waved at the people in black. Eyes widened all around. Gentlemen murmured. Ladies gasped. ‘Get these people out of here. First comes revenge - then you can waste as much of your time crying as you want.’
‘Well, you heard him. Out!’
Outraged whispers rose all around as the lady began herding her guests out of the room. One gentleman’s voice rose over the others: ‘…outrageous! Is there no respect left in the world?’
‘I have plenty of respect, Mr Bingham!’ Mrs Gibbons retorted, sharply. ‘Particularly for my dead husband. Which is why I am going to find out who the hell is responsible for this, and I’m going to grind them into dust! Outside, now!’
Well, well…the two of us really were going to get along well.
In minutes, the salon was empty. For the first time, Mrs Gibbons noticed the rest of our little party: Mr. Baker, sweet little me, and the not-so-sweet-or-little Karim. For a moment, her eyes lingered apprehensively on the latter before returning to Mr Ambrose.
‘What now?’
‘Now we need something to eat and fresh horses. We’ve been on the road since early morning to get here, and the mounts we arrived on can’t go another step. Who has good horses here in the city?
‘There’s Albright’s stables, and there’s Bell’s, and Blenkinsopp’s. Blenkinsopp’s is closest, but-’
‘It’s Blenkinsopp’s, then.’
‘But his stable is to the south, quite near the river! If someone were to go there, he might come across those…those…’
She shuddered and glanced out of the window at the flames in the distance. The faraway echo of men chanting and shouting drifted into the room.
‘That won’t be a problem.’ Mr Ambrose snapped his fingers. ‘Karim?’
‘Yes, Sahib?’
‘Get us horses.’
‘Yes, Sahib.’
‘And, Karim?’
‘Yes?’
‘If anybody should happen to get in your way…’ Mr Ambrose gave the big Mohammedan a long, long look.
‘I understand, Sahib.’
So did I. Those poor little striking miners. There were only a few hundred of them. This was so unfair.
‘Mr Linton?’
At hearing my name - well, sort of, anyway - I snapped to attention. ‘Yes, Sir?’
<
br /> ‘Get Mrs Gibbons to show you the kitchen. You and Mr Baker can eat there before we leave.’
‘Yes, Sir. And you?’
His face was stark. Looking away, he said, ‘I don’t need anything.’
‘Sir, you should-’
‘I said I do not need anything, Mr Linton!’
‘Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir.’
‘Let me know when Karim returns. I shall be in Mr Gibbons’s office, reviewing his records. Maybe I shall find a clue there as to what happened here.’
‘Yes, Si-’
Before I could finish, he had marched out of the room.
‘-r.’
‘Dear Lord.’ Shaking her head, Mrs Gibbons looked after him. ‘I pity the girl who that man sets his sights on.’
‘So do I,’ I sighed. ‘So do I.’
*~*~**~*~*
It was about an hour later when I knocked at the dark wooden door of the late Mr Gibbons’s office. There were footsteps, and a moment later, the door swung open, revealing the figure of Rikkard Ambrose looking just as indomitable and hard as ever, and not in the least as if he hadn’t eaten or rested for over eight hours.
‘It’s time,’ I told him.
‘Did Karim get horses for all of us?’
‘What do you think?’
If I were a stable owner and Karim showed up at my door demanding mounts, I would resort to begging my imaginary fairy godmother to turn rats into horses just to get him what he wanted.
‘So…we’re ready to go.’
‘Yes.’
I stood there, waiting. Waiting for Mr Ambrose to say: ‘Well, let’s go then! Knowledge is power is time is money, Mr Linton.’
But he didn’t.
Instead he took a step towards me and said, ‘I suppose there’s no way I can talk you out of this?’
I shook my head. ‘No.’
‘I didn’t think so.’
He moved so fast I didn’t have time to blink. In a flash, he had grabbed me by the arms and pulled me into the empty office. The door slammed shut behind us, and the next moment my back slammed up against it, and he was kissing me. Hard. Fast. Heedless of the consequences. And I was heedless, too. Headless. Mind completely blown. Everything around us vanished, and there was just him, fighting for control of my mouth, and me, fighting back with everything I had.