Storm and Silence

by Robert Thier

  ‘You think he’d be interested?’ I asked curiously.

  ‘Interested is too mild a word for it. Come.’

  He led me straight across the hall, past the receptionist’s desk and towards a large door at the back of the vast room. Though it was only illuminated by the scant moonlight that filtered in through the narrow windows, the hall was behind us in a matter of seconds. He seemed to know his way around perfectly, and never reduced the tempo of his long, rapid strides. The door where we ended up was large and double-winged, almost as impressive as the entrance. I wondered why one would need such a large door inside a building. The question was answered only a second later when the double-door swung open and revealed what lay beyond.

  ‘Bloody…!’

  We stood at the entrance to a large courtyard, surrounded by high, Doric columns[47], which gave the yard a stark appearance in the cold moonlight. Under a portico at the far end of the yard stood Mr Ambrose’s chaise, the grey beast of a horse already attached to it by an assortment of leather straps the names of which I didn’t care to know. A driver already sat waiting for us.

  ‘Mr Ambrose!’ A portly little man with a reddish nose came hurrying forward, wearing an anxious expression and a uniform-like tailcoat on which several buttons were missing. Mr Ambrose’s night porter, I deduced. Only Mr Ambrose would be stingy enough not to replace missing buttons on his employees' uniforms.

  ‘I’m honoured, Mr Ambrose, so very honoured.’ The little man bowed, and then bowed a second time for good measure. ‘So honoured that you would come down to give me your orders personally, Sir, I can hardly-’

  ‘Yes, yes, you said that when I came down earlier,’ Mr Ambrose cut him short. The porter swallowed and froze in the midst of his third bow. It was obvious he had taken the night shift in the hope of never ever coming across his formidable employer - and now his worst nightmares had been realized.

  ‘Is all ready?’

  ‘The coach is prepared, Sir, all is prepared, Mr Ambrose, Sir. I have seen to everything myself. The horse has been watered and fed, the coachman awaits your orders, Sir, Mr Ambrose, Sir.’

  ‘Adequate. And where is Mr Linton’s tailcoat?’

  The porter paled.

  ‘I… I don’t know that it’s dry yet, Sir. I will have to go and check.’

  ‘Then do so. Now!’

  ‘Of course, Sir, of course. I shall go immediately. Just you wait, Sir, I shall run like the wind, Mr Ambrose, Sir!’

  And he was off, as if the hounds of hell were after him, or maybe even Patsy jabbing him with her parasol.

  Mr Ambrose strode over to wait beside the carriage, and I followed him. There was something weighing on my mind. To be honest, there were several things weighing on my mind, all of which were feeling distinctly unpleasant and started giving me a headache. But this particular thing was weighing even weightier than the other weighty weights.

  I gathered all my strength to speak.

  ‘Um… Mr Ambrose?’ My voice sounded slurred, even to my own ears.

  ‘Yes, Mr Linton?’

  ‘I have a question, Sir.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  I waited, but he didn’t say anything. Then I remembered that I hadn’t actually asked the question yet. By Jove, I was a tiny bit confused tonight, wasn’t I?

  I cleared my throat.

  ‘Are you… are you sure that nothing else happened? Up there in your office? Nothing else but me passing out?’

  He hesitated. I saw his hand tighten around the walking stick that concealed his sword. His lips parted.

  ‘I…’

  ‘Here, Mr Ambrose, Sir!’ Like a fat little ball of lightning, the porter shot around the corner, and I mentally cursed the man and all his descendants to the seventh generation. Or maybe the eighth. ‘Here is the gentleman’s tailcoat! Dried and cleaned as requested!’

  Although it was my tailcoat he carried, he handed it to Mr Ambrose, an action that didn’t endear him to me any more than his sudden appearance had. I added a few curses for the ninth and tenth generations. They probably more than deserved it. And I was sure my good friend Napoleon would see to it that they were adequately tortured if I asked him.

  Mr Ambrose nodded to the man.

  ‘You’re dismissed. Take up your post again.’

  ‘Yes, Sir! Immediately, Sir!’

  Emitting relief like a beacon did light, the man hurried off, and Mr Ambrose held out my tailcoat to me.

  ‘Here.’

  ‘About what I said,’ I tried to return to the earlier subject. ‘About what happened up there in your office… I’m pretty sure I can remember something about you and me-’

  I didn’t get any further than that. Suddenly, I was cut off by a violent hiss. Mr Ambrose’s fingers had clenched into the material of the tailcoat, around a lengthy tear in the black cloth. He stared at the damaged garment with eyes like icicles.

  ‘Look at this,’ he told me, his voice matching the coldness of his eyes. ‘Look at this, Mr Linton. Now!’

  Uncomprehendingly, I stared at the tear in the coat.

  ‘Yes? I see it. And? I must have ripped it somewhere. Maybe on a nail or something like th-’

  ‘That’s no tear,’ he interrupted me with deadly calm. ‘Do you not see that the whole is round? Do you not see the blackened edges of the cloth where it is ripped open? Those are gunpowder stains!’

  My fuzzy brain tried to grasp the meaning of his words. It needn’t have bothered. Stepping so close to me that our faces were almost touching and I could see the darkness of his eyes, Mr Ambrose told me:

  ‘A bullet grazed you and ripped your coat open! Another inch and it would have buried itself in your flesh!’

  The way he said your flesh sent shivers down my back. Shivers of fear, anger and… something else I couldn’t quite grasp.

  He wasn’t shivering, though. He was colder and harder than I had ever seen him.

  ‘You could have died.’ He seemed to be speaking to nobody in particular. His icy eyes were staring right through me. ‘You really could have died.’ They were looking so far into the distance, those eyes of his - as if he was seeing some other world, another reality altogether. Suddenly, they refocused on me again, and he thrust the tailcoat into my arms.

  ‘Here. Let it be a reminder, Mr Linton.’

  I staggered back, clutching the coat in my arms.

  ‘A reminder of what?’

  His hands, empty of cloth now, once again curled tightly around the handle of his hidden sword. ‘A reminder to never, ever cease to be careful.’

  He turned in the direction of the chaise and started towards it.

  ‘You’re right.’ I swallowed. Somewhere on the edge of my consciousness was hovering the knowledge that a piece of lead could have buried itself in me tonight. But my mind was so exhausted, it wasn’t quite ready to let that realization in. Not yet. Hurriedly, I started to follow him. ‘Now… about that thing in your office… I could swear that you-’

  ‘Nothing happened in the office!’ His voice cut through the air like a blade of ice. Without looking back at me, he swung himself into the carriage and slammed the door shut behind him. ‘You fell, you hit your head, no more. Nothing happened. Nothing at all. Let’s go!’

  *~*~**~*~*

  Nothing happened. Nothing at all…

  Those were the last words he had spoken to me that night. Leaning out of the chaise, he had flung a command at the porter, who’d hastily opened the large outer gate of the back yard. I had yanked open the door on my side and clambered in. The driver hadn’t needed prompting after that, he appeared to be well familiar with Mr Ambrose’s distaste for wasted time.

  ‘Gee up!’

  The cry of the coachman was followed by the crack of the whip. Seconds later, the coach lurched forward and we were rattling over the cobblestones, out under the massive archway, into the street. The blurry shapes of gas lanterns rushed past us like ghosts on their way to the underworld. I wondered if any of them could be bot
hered to stop and haunt us, maybe rattle their chains for a few minutes or something like that. Mr Ambrose certainly looked like he could use the company.

  He was staring out of his window, his face turned away from me. He was even more cold and taciturn than usual. What was the matter?’

  ‘Mr Ambrose?’

  Silence.

  ‘Mr Ambrose, Sir?’

  More silence. Really quite extraordinarily silent silence.

  But then, why should that surprise me? This was Mr Ambrose I was trying to talk to, after all. Still, for some reason I had expected him to be more talkative. I had expected him to want to talk about something… something important. The memory hovered on the edge of my consciousness. Once more, I reached up and touched my lips. In his icy, silent corner I saw Mr Ambrose shift, almost imperceptibly.

  Had I… had we…?

  No. I just couldn’t remember.

  The streets rushed past as if in a dream. The houses shrank, the streets narrowed. No more palatial mansions and memorable marble façades, we were now driving past honest middle-class homes, the comfortable little brick houses of greengrocers, shoemakers and probably also piano-tuners and their sons who had illicit affairs with young blonde ladies.

  ‘Oh gosh,’ I mumbled. ‘I almost forgot about them!’ My gaze wandered to Napoleon, who was sitting between me and the ice-cold statue in the corner that was Mr Ambrose.

  ‘You couldn’t take care of that for me, could you?’

  The Emperor shook his head sombrely. I sighed.

  ‘I thought so. Blast! You’re an abominable slacker, you know that, don't you?’

  Mr Ambrose slowly turned his head towards me. His gaze cut into me like a deep-frozen razor.

  ‘I didn’t mean you,’ I clarified. ‘I was talking to Napoleon.’

  Mr Ambrose turned his head slowly away from me again. He didn’t speak.

  ‘Where to exactly, Sir?’ called the coachman from the box. It seemed Mr Ambrose hadn’t given him an exact address. I perked up. Surely, now he had to open that stubbornly silent mouth of his.

  Wrong. He sat in the corner, staring silently out of the window, just as before.

  ‘Err… Sir? I ain’t got no idea where to go!’

  Nothing but perfect silence came from the granite monument at the window.

  Raising my hand, I knocked against the roof of the chaise.

  ‘Driver?’

  He turned around to face me.

  ‘Yes, Sir?’

  A strange feeling ran through me at having somebody else call me ‘Sir’ - the same hated respectful address I had been forced to give Mr Ambrose day after day, week after week. I felt a surge of power rush through me at hearing the word.

  ‘Do you know St James’s Square?’ I yelled over the rushing wind.

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Take us there. I can find my way from there.’

  ‘Yes, Sir!’

  He turned towards the street again, and I settled back into the seat, a contented smile on my face. Napoleon nodded at me, approvingly.

  Not long after, the chaise began to slow down, and we then came to a halt. Looking out of the window, I saw the familiar three- and four-story houses around St James’s Square, looming up out of the darkness. Only in a few windows was light still visible.

  I turned to Mr Ambrose.

  ‘Well… I guess that was it, then,’ I mumbled.

  Silence.

  ‘I don't suppose you want to congratulate me on my excellent work? You know, finding the place where the file is for you, and all that?’

  More silence.

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ Sighing, I pushed the door open and clambered out of the carriage. I was careful when I set my foot on the cobblestones of the square. St James’s was familiar, a friend - completely unlike the floor in Mr Ambrose’s office. Still, you never knew. Tonight, all flat surfaces seemed to have it in for me.

  I already wanted to walk away, but then I hesitated one final time.

  ‘Mr Ambrose?’

  Silence.

  ‘Good night, Si-’

  ‘Driver!’ he cut me off. ‘Get moving!’

  Behind me, the whip cracked, the grey horse whinnied. I jumped out of the way, just in time to avoid getting sprayed by the chaise as it drove through a puddle. It raced across the empty square and out of sight as it plunged into the darkness of nocturnal London.

  *~*~**~*~*

  Said darkness of nocturnal London proved a not inconsiderable hindrance in reaching my uncle’s house. It wasn’t far away, of course - most of the streets were lit by gas lanterns and I knew the area well - but I had never considered how different things might look at night. For example, there were all those pretty lights dancing in the air around me. Were they there every night? If so, I should be out this late more often. London seemed much more interesting at nighttime.

  There was a strange pounding in my ears, getting louder as I stumbled forward. It was probably Napoleon and a regiment of cavalry, riding off to conquer the world. Oh well, I wished him luck with all my heart. I probably had to abandon that particular project. I felt so tired… Conquering all the world seemed too exhausting an idea.

  Maybe you could take over just half the world? Or only Eurasia?

  Yes, that sounded acceptable. But the rest would have to wait until tomorrow.

  Finally, I found my way to the little wooden door in the wall surrounding my uncle’s back garden. After some groping around in my pockets, I managed to unearth the key and insert it into the one of the three fuzzy-looking locks that proved most substantial. Safe inside the garden, out of sight of prying eyes, I slipped into the shed and changed my clothes. Taking the garden ladder with me, I approached the window, gazing up at the mountainous height I had to climb.

  Ha! I would climb this peak! And if I was going to perish like all the brave explorers before me, who had boldly ventured where no man (or woman!) had gone before, then so be it! I had been planning on conquering the world, after all. Climbing a ladder would be easy.

  Well, it didn’t turn out to be, really, but I managed to hit the first rung with my foot after only three failed attempts. After that, things got a bit simpler. I climbed higher and higher until suddenly, there loomed an opening before me. What was this again?

  Your window, you idiot!

  Oh yes! Quite right. I wanted to climb through the window into my room. That was why I was up here in the first place. Funny how that had almost slipped my mind.

  Through the window, I could see Ella. She was sitting in bed - in my bed, to be precise -anxiously twisting the sheet on my empty mattress between the fingers of her small, ivory hands and staring down at my rumpled pillow.

  ‘Lill,’ she sighed, again and again. ‘Oh Lill!’

  Strange… Why was she trying to talk to me, when from what she knew, I wasn’t even there? And why was she up in the middle of the night? She should be in bed, recuperating from an evening of tiring love affairs at the garden fence. But there she was, sitting, awake, and for some reason, apparently quite upset, too.

  Taking the last few rungs, I swung my leg over the windowsill. When Ella heard a sound coming from the window, she sprang up and whirled around, clutching her hands to her chest. Her mouth opened to scream as she saw a sinister figure climbing in through her bedroom window.

  The sinister figure, that is to say I, sprang forward and clamped a hand over her mouth.

  ‘Be quiet, silly! It’s no burglar, only me!’ I hissed into her ear. ‘If you scream, you’ll chase the little yellow piggies away!’

  Her whole body relaxed in my arms.

  ‘Mmpf! Mgmpf nmm mpf.’

  ‘I suppose that means “Hello, Lilly, how nice to see you”?’

  ‘Mmmpf!’

  ‘I see. It’s nice to see you, too. If I let you go, do you promise not to scream?’

  ‘Ympf!’

  Seeing as that was the closest approximation to a ‘yes’ I was likely to receive, I took my hand from her mouth
. She turned to face me, grabbing me by the shoulders. Her eyes were large and moist with panic.

  ‘Dear God, Lilly! Where have you been? I was expecting you to come home hours ago, and I waited and waited, but you never arrived. I’ve had to tell the most dreadful, fiendish lies to explain your absence to Aunt. Where have you been?’

  ‘I?’ A small laugh escaped me. ‘I was with the little yellow piggies. Alexander was there, too.’

  ‘Little yellow… what? And who is Alexander?’

  ‘Alexander the Great. Haven’t you heard of him? Spiffing chap, absolutely spiffing.’

  Ella sniffed.

  ‘Lilly? What is that smell?’

  ‘Smell? I don't smell anything. What do you mean?’

  ‘That smell… It smells like the tables at balls where the drinks for gentlemen… are… served…’

  Her voice dwindled. Slowly, the colour drained from her face.

  ‘Lill! No, you can’t have! Lill!’

  I smiled broadly. She remembered my name! It was so nice that someone did. Mr Ambrose never called me by my first name, let alone a sweet nickname like Lill.

  ‘Yes, my delightful, dear little sister?’

  ‘Lill, have you…?’ She lowered her voice until it was only a hushed whisper, deserving of a dark and dingy crypt, where human sacrifices were conducted by some strange oriental cult. ‘Have you been drinking?’

  I pondered the question carefully.

  ‘Yes,’ I finally decided, nodding to emphasize the point. ‘I have. In fact, I have it on the reliable authority of a professional drunkard that I have emptied the entire River Thames. I must confess, I had no idea my belly could contain that much liquid.’

  ‘Lill!’ A moment later, I was in Ella’s arms and she was rocking me from side to side as if I were a small child who needed comforting. ‘Oh my dear, dear, sister, tell me, who is the man who has done this to you, the rake who has led you off the path of virtue and intoxicated you? I will help you, I promise!’

  She continued to rock me like a baby, making cooing noises all the time. By Jove! I had no idea she felt so strongly about me. That was gratifying. But I was also slightly irked by the fact that she thought I needed a man to lead me astray. I was perfectly capable of straying from the path of virtue on my own, thank you very much!