by Robert Thier
Did I mention something about finding peace and quiet?
Well, it didn’t quite work out that way.
*~*~**~*~*
Mr Linton
Bring me file 38XI201.
Rikkard Ambrose
Springing up from my chair, I ran towards the shelves containing the file boxes. I needed about two seconds to reach my goal, three seconds to grab the books, and another three seconds to return. By the time I reached my desk with the correct file in hand, another message had already landed beside the first one.
I didn’t need to open it to know it said Hurry! or Faster! Mr Rikkard Ambrose was a tiny bit impatient and acrimonious these days.
I could guess why. A deadline was looming over us like the shadow of an evil giant - a giant with a hawk-beak nose, a golden mane of lion’s hair, and piercing steel-blue eyes. Soon it would be time. Soon, Mr Ambrose would try to get back what was his, by force. And I would not join him in the venture.
That fact gnawed at me like a pesky rat, not willing to let go of its dinner. After all, I had found out where this precious file, the contents of which he still hadn’t deigned to share with me, was being kept. And I wouldn’t be part of the retrieval! If only he had, at least, kept his mouth shut about the file’s contents. His vague, sinister statement was driving me to distraction.
The centre of the world.
Whose world? Surely, he didn’t mean it geographically, as in the earth’s core? Something like that couldn’t be contained in a piece of paper. But then, what?
Not knowing was making me imagine all sorts of terrible things. What did Mr Ambrose consider the centre of the world? Money? Was the file, in fact, a deed signing his entire fortune over to another?
All of a sudden, I thought of Edmund and Ella. He was the centre of her world, and she of his. Could it be…? Could the file contain illicit notes revealing a romantic relationship with somebody who was the centre of Mr Ambrose’s world?
Maybe… said a nasty little voice in my mind, Maybe the writer of the pink letters?
No. Mr Ambrose wouldn’t go berserk over a woman. The possibility of losing all his money, yes, that would make him bite off heads. But I couldn’t see him fretting over a lady’s reputation. Not even that mysterious femme fatal who continued her pink missives with infuriating regularity. The pile of letters in my bottom drawer was growing larger. And Mr Ambrose was growing more persistent in keeping up my working morale every day.
I tried to talk to him, to get his permission to accompany him on the secret mission that loomed on the horizon, or at least get some information out of him about what the centre of the world might mean, might be - what centre of the world was worth risking his life for.
To no avail. He remained silent.
Now there’s a surprise!
Well, it didn’t mean I was giving up.
‘Mr Ambrose?’ I knocked against his door. ‘I have file 38XI201 here, Sir. Don’t you want me to bring it in instead of sliding it under the door? It must be tedious for you to always have to stand up and get it from the door. Won’t you open up?’
I heard another plink from the desk. Without letting go of the file, I reached over and open the message container.
No. The file. Now.
You couldn’t get much clearer than that, could you?
Sighing, I bent to push it under the door. I was just about to rise again when suddenly, an idea struck me.
For a moment, I froze where I was. Then, a grin spreading across my face, I rose and knocked against the door.
‘Mr Ambrose, Sir? I need to talk to you. It’s important. You should open the door.’
Silence.
‘Really! I’m not just making this up. Something important happened, and you should know. Open up, please.’
More silence. A bucket full of silence.
I gave an especially dramatic sigh. ‘Oh well, if you don’t want to hear what Lord Dalgliesh said…’
There was a crash from the other side of the door. It sounded as if somebody had jumped up from his chair so violently that it had been hurled over and smashed onto the floor.
About half a second later, keys rattled in the lock, and the office door was ripped open. Mr Ambrose stood in the doorway, looking like a Beethoven bust on a bad day. Except for the weird hairstyle.
‘Ah, Mr Ambrose,’ I said, smiling at him with innocent delight. ‘How nice of you to honour me with your presence. I thought you were too busy for poor little me this fine morning.’
My comment didn’t improve his mood. With a sharp jerk of his hand, he directed me to enter his office.
‘Inside. Now.’
‘And so loquacious! My, I would hardly have known you if not for your customary cheerful smile.’
He didn’t dignify that with a reply. As I entered his stark office, he shut the door behind me with a click. It wasn’t loud, but somehow managed to sound like the gates of doom slamming shut behind a poor soul trapped in hell.
I sat on the visitor’s chair, figuring that if I waited for the invitation to sit in Mr Ambrose’s talkative mood, I could stand until kingdom come. Actually, I could probably stand until kingdom came, drank a cup of tea and left again.
I was right. Without a word, he walked around the desk, took a seat in his armchair and fixed me with his dark, sea-coloured eyes. Looking into those eyes, I felt a shiver go down my back. Not the same kind of shiver I experienced when looking into Dalgliesh’s eyes - one of fear - or another man’s eyes - one of revulsion.
No, this was a shiver of excitement.
Well, life as his secretary had been pretty exciting. So why shouldn’t I be excited? It had nothing to do with him, personally, after all, so it was perfectly all right.
His eyes were so dark… they seemed to draw me in, somehow making it seem as though he and I were moving closer together, though our chairs hadn’t moved an inch.
‘Dalgliesh!’ he ordered, his voice cold and hard. ‘Tell me everything,’
And I did. Well, not everything. I told him how I had gone to Lady Metcalf’s ball, and how Dalgliesh had surprised and questioned me there.
I didn’t tell him about picking out a young blonde lady to distract my sister’s suitor from the object of his adoration. I also didn’t tell him about my meeting and dancing with Captain Carter, for some reason. It just didn’t seem important enough to mention.
Anyway, it was Dalgliesh he was interested in, surely, not some army captain with a strange tiger-waistcoat and an even stranger sense of humour.
So I told all I remembered of my encounter with the suave aristocrat. By the time I had finished, Mr Ambrose wasn’t looking at me anymore, but concentrating on a stack of papers in front of him. Strangely, however, although he normally was a fast reader, he had already stared down at one page long enough to read the complete works of William Shakespeare.
When the last words had left my mouth, he said, without emotion in his voice:
‘You are fortunate that this young man, Edmund, appeared. Had Lord Dalgliesh succeeded in luring you into the garden, you would have gone on very long walk with him. One from which you would not have returned before you had answered all his questions, if at all.’
His words gripped my heart like a fist of frost. So I had been right in wanting to run. But…
‘But he seemed so friendly,’ I burst out. ‘Not threatening at all.’
A muscle in Mr Ambrose’s jaw twitched.
‘Of course he did. He never threatens. He never strikes. He never says a word against the laws of England. And yet, wherever he goes, things happen. A wink from him means ruin, a twitch of his fingers means death. When he nods, wise men turn and run.’
‘He nodded when he met you.’
‘I’ve never claimed to be wise.’
There was a spell of silence, that complete silence that I only ever felt in the presence of Mr Ambrose. Shivering, I remembered Lord Dalgliesh’s friendly, harmless expression, back in the ballroom. Could anyone really be
that good an actor?
‘I still can’t really believe-’ I began.
I didn’t get any further. In a flash, Mr Ambrose was up and around his desk. Before I could move he had grabbed me by the shoulders and hauled me out of my chair. Forcefully, I was thrust against the wall of the office, cold stone pressing against my back.
‘Believe!’ he hissed. ‘Believe anything and everything where Dalgliesh is concerned. He’s the man who invented the word ruthless. If you get in his way, he will step on you and crush you like an insect.’ His dark, sea-coloured eyes were burning into me with deadly intensity. Slowly, the grip of his right hand loosened and left my shoulder. He raised it, almost unconsciously it seemed, until it touched my cheek. ‘Stay away from him!’
His hand fell.
Yes! a voice inside me screamed. Yes, I will! I’ll do anything! Just touch my cheek again! And maybe lean a little closer…!
My inner feminist slammed shut the door on that voice.
‘You can’t make me do anything,’ I whispered.
Why the heck did I whisper? My voice should be strong and independent!
It’s those darn eyes of his! They’re sapping the strength out of you, making you feel all gooey and weak-kneed. No man should be allowed to have eyes like that!
‘I can,’ he bit out. ‘Stay away from him. That is an order, Mr Linton!’
I opened my mouth to argue - not because I really wanted to go near Dalgliesh; I mean, I’m not completely nuts - but because I refuse on principle to be ordered around by a man after working hours. But when Mr Ambrose’s head moved forward, the words caught in my throat. What was he doing? Why was he moving so close to me? He was just inches away!
He couldn’t possibly…
Could he?
For just one moment, it looked as though he was going to kiss me.
Then the moment passed, and he halted, his perfect granite face only a fraction of an inch away from mine. His hard body pressed into mine, a living threat, ready to deliver. His eyes narrowed infinitesimally, challenging me to dare and speak the words that were on my tongue. I swallowed.
Memories flooded my mind. Memories of him pressed against me, just like that - only back then, he had taken the plunge, and closed the last bit of distance that separated us. Today, he was in control - of himself and me. The hand that still gripped my shoulder, pressing me into the wall, was steady as rock.
But how long would he hold out? How long would he be able to refrain from reliving our memories?
They’re not memories! I told myself, fiercely. You imagined it! You imagined it all! You did not let yourself be kissed by Mr Ambrose! And you most certainly did not enjoy it more than you ever enjoyed anything else in your life, understood?
‘Will you stay away from him?’ Mr Ambrose demanded. His breath tickled my skin as he spoke, momentarily robbing me of the strength to answer.
‘Y-yes,’ I managed.
He gave a curt nod. ‘Adequate.’
‘But,’ I hurriedly tacked on, ‘not because you said so. I’ll stay away because I, as an independent, strong woman independently decided, on my own, to stay away from him!’
He cocked his head as if to say, ‘As long as you do what I say, why do you think I care about the why?’
I glowered at him. He ignored me.
‘Let me go!’ I demanded.
He still ignored me. Taking a deep breath, he leant forward just a little more.
The sensation that hit me was shocking! Not his lips, no - they were much softer than this. It was his forehead, resting against mine. I could feel a few wild strands of my hair tickling his forehead, and… my God! He really was hard-headed! In the literal sense of the word. And bloody heavy! It was downright uncomfortable.
Really? If it’s so uncomfortable, why don’t you want him to pull away?
His eyes bored into mine.
‘Swear!’ He demanded. ‘Swear to me you’ll stay away from him!’
Swear. Not promise, not pledge, swear. And I had a feeling that an oath sworn to Mr Rikkard Ambrose had better not be broken.
So I quickly crossed my fingers behind my back, just in case.
‘I swear.’
And suddenly he was gone. I swayed for a moment, used to the press of his body into mine. He was standing three feet away, standing tall and forbidding, as if we hadn’t just been pressed more tightly together than two flounders in a printing press.
‘Quite sensible of you, Mr Linton.’
Sensible? Sensible? I didn’t feel very sensible right now! Or reasonable, or cautious, or prudent, for that matter.
I sucked in a deep breath, my eyes still fixed on Mr Ambrose, fumbling for something to say. Something that wasn’t Come back here! I wasn’t finished with you!
‘But it doesn’t make any sense!’ Finally, some words had managed to find their way out of my mouth. And they sounded angry, not breathless. Good.
‘Indeed?’ Mr Ambrose regarded me coolly. ‘What are you referring to, exactly, Mr Linton?’
‘Lord Dalgliesh! Why would I have to try and stay away from him? What does he want from me? For some reason, at the ball he was determined to find out your reason for dancing with me. But it was just one dance! Why would he be interested in that? I mean… what’s one dance?’
‘He has been trying to find a weak spot in my armour for years now, Mr Linton. If he had reason to believe that I had formed a romantic attachment to someone, this would give him the hold over me he has always desired.’
‘But… why would he think that, after just one dance?’
There was a pause. Then he said, in voice so low I hardly caught it: ‘I don’t dance, Mr Linton.’
My heart made a jump. ‘Not ever?’
‘No. It’s a waste of time.’
‘But you danced with me.’
‘Yes.’ A muscle in his jaw twitched. ‘Apparently, that one dance was enough to convince Dalgliesh that I might have formed a romantic attachment to you.’ Abruptly, he turned and strode back to his desk. ‘Ridiculous, of course, but there you are.’
Unconsciously, my hands closed into fists.
Ridiculous, is it?
‘Oh,’ I said pointedly, ‘So he thought I was the centre of your world?’
He froze halfway to his desk. Slowly turning back towards me, he met my eyes with his own. Their dark force took my breath away.
‘Probably.’
‘What is it?’ Why was my voice so low and breathy all of a sudden? ‘What is the centre of the world for you?’
‘I’ll tell you what it is not, Mr Linton. It most certainly not a girl.’
Why this odd tugging sensation in my chest? Had I ever expected the centre of Mr Ambrose’s world to be anything emotional?
‘I asked what it is,’ I told him, forcing my voice to be firm. ‘Not what it is not.’
‘I know.’
‘So are you going to tell me?’
‘No.’
‘But-’
He cut me off with a jerk of his hand.
‘You,’ he said, ‘are not in here to question me. You were in here to answer my questions. You have done so. You can leave. Now.’
‘But-’
‘That is an order, Mr Linton!’
Slowly, I got to my feet and walked away. At the door, I turned to look over my shoulder a last time. He was sitting there at the desk, with that unfathomable lack of expression on his face that belonged solely to him.
‘The world is a heavy thing to bear,’ I told him, ‘whether at the centre or elsewhere. Why won’t you let someone help you?’
Without waiting for a reply, I turned, leaving him behind.
*~*~**~*~*
The longer the day stretched, the more fantastic my imaginings became. In my mind, the centre of the world became the name of a priceless diamond, an heirloom of the noble house Mr Ambrose was a member of, though he refused to acknowledge it. A moment later, it turned into the title of an ancient script that revealed the lost location of
Atlantis. In the next moment, it turned into Buckingham Palace, centre of the British Empire and home of its Queen, and maybe a plan to prevent her assassination.
Though, in the latter case, I couldn’t see Mr Ambrose risking his own life willingly. Not unless there was a healthy reward involved, or… or unless he had a secret affair with the Queen, and she was the writer of the pink letters…
It was probably better that, at this point, another plink from a tube message distracted me from my own thoughts. I wasn’t far away from imagining the missing file to contain a magical portal to Sleeping Beauty’s castle. Or, more likely, to the seventh circle of hell.
The hours flew by as I worked ceaselessly, and thought ceaselessly, always asking: What will happen? What will he do? What is the centre of the world?
I didn’t find any answers. The hours grew longer and turned into days. The closer the deadline came, the more insane became Mr Ambrose’s idea of an appropriate workload. Working seemed to be his way of dealing with anxiety - if he truly was anxious. He seemed just as cool and collected as ever. Maybe it was simply his way of earning more money.
Maybe…
On the last day before the great day, I sat at my desk and gazed out through the window over the city of London. The sun was just sinking beyond the horizon, flooding the city with blood-red light, half-obscured by the black smoke that rose from thousands of chimneys. It seemed like an omen to me. Darkness and blood.
Quickly, I rose from my chair and went to Mr Ambrose’s door. He hadn’t called for a new file yet, in fact, he’d been suspiciously undemanding the last few minutes, but I knew he was still in there. If he had left, I would have heard the keys in the lock.
After a second of hesitation, I raised my hand and knocked.
‘Mr Ambrose?’
No answer.
‘Mr Ambrose, I know you’re still in there!’
Silence.
‘Mr Ambrose, Sir, please, open up. I want to talk to you again. Maybe I can convince you! If you’d let me help you…’
I heard a plink from my desk.
Turning, I saw another message had arrived. Carefully, I opened the container and read:
No. Go! Tomorrow, you can remain at home. I will not require your services.