by Robert Thier
Immediately, Mr Ambrose’s eyes turned sharper, more focused. They seemed to drill into the man who was standing at the entrance to the old mine, right in front of a worm-eaten old sign that said: Danger! Ne pas entrer!
‘Hm. Well, if I can forge a uniform, then so can Dalgliesh. He might not even need to. Maybe he is actually in league with the French. They cannot like the idea of a canal at Suez under the control of an Englishman any more than he does.’
I stared at him, incredulously.
‘You… you actually think he’d consider treason?’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’
There was a moment of silence while I tried to digest that piece of information.
‘All right,’ his voice finally cut through the silence, cold and controlled. ‘There are two possibilities. Either this guard is genuine, in which case he will turn us back with a few polite “Pardon, Messieurs”…’
‘I told you he isn’t genuine!’
‘…or you are right and he is in Dalgliesh’s pay, in which case he should take us for soldiers of the Presidency Armies and let us pass.’ He shot me a dark look. ‘But in that case, there is no return. Once we’re out in the open, we have to keep going, down into the mine. Do you understand, Mr Linton?’
I hesitated - then nodded. ‘Yes, Sir.’
‘I assume it would be of no avail trying to convince you to stay behind?’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘After I’ve come this far, you want me to stay here and miss all the fun? Are you mad?’
‘You have a strange definition of “fun”, Mr Linton.’
‘And you don't have one at all.’
‘Mr Linton?’
‘Yes, Sir?’
‘Be quiet.’
‘Yes, Sir!’
Methodically, he took his watch out of his pocket and fiddled around with the dials. I wanted to ask what he was doing, but that would have been rather incompatible with staying quiet. Finally, he seemed to be content, and put his watch away.
‘Mr Linton?’
‘Yes, Sir?’
‘Are you ready?’
‘Yes, Sir, I am, Sir.’
‘Then follow me.’
Slowly, he rose to his full height. Stepping out from behind the bush, he advanced on the guard in French uniform, his stride perfectly confident, as if nothing in the world could turn him back. I followed close at his heels. The guard turned his head, and spotted us.
Bugger! Please don’t shoot us, don’t shoot us, don’t shoot us…!
He didn’t make a move. Was he just too startled to react? For one moment, I questioned my own memory. Was he really one of Dalgliesh’s men? His French uniform looked perfect to the last button. He could have come from a parade on the Champs-Élysées. But if he was Dalgliesh’s man, and saw through our disguise…
He reached into his pocket. Oh God! What was he going for? His gun?
He pulled out a pipe and lit it. We were only ten yards away now. His eyes followed us closely. Seven yards. Six. Five.
Please don’t get suspicious! Please don’t! Please!
He took the pipe out of his mouth. Three yards. Two. One.
We were past. He hadn’t stopped us, hadn’t acted as if we were there at all. The tunnel swallowed us, and we continued on, down into the darkness. I had been right. This was Lord Dalgliesh’s lair.
*~*~**~*~*
I don't know how long we wandered down the gloomy tunnel. In the half-light, interrupted only by the occasional burst of brightness from an opening in the ceiling, time seemed to stand still. Or at least, to me it did. To Mr Ambrose, as the quiet ticking of his pocket watch reminded me, time was always running, and he had to catch up.
At some point, rusty rails began appearing on the ground beside us, and we saw one or two mine carts lying keeled over on the ground. Spiderwebs hung from the rusted iron and from the low, vaulted ceiling over our heads. Ahead, a point of light appeared.
‘What is that?’ I asked.
‘That,’ came Mr Ambrose’s reply, his voice as dark and cold as the tunnel around us, ‘is where Lord Dalgliesh is.’
His pace quickened. I almost had to run to keep up with him. The light in front of us grew larger and brighter, until the tunnel finally opened up spat us out. My mouth dropped open. And this time not because of seeing women display their knees on the beach.
We were standing at the edge of a huge natural cave. The ceiling high above our heads was a monster’s jaw, armed with stalactites as tusks and teeth. Torches hung from iron brackets on the walls, their smoke disappearing through a dark hole in the ceiling. With the view thus not obscured by smoke, as it usually would have been in any mine, I could clearly see the figures that stood and marched all around the giant cavern: soldiers.
No French uniforms here. These were all soldiers of the Presidency Armies, proudly proclaiming their allegiance in colours of blood-red and blue. They rolled crates around on mine carts, patrolled along the walls, or carried messages. All was a buzz of activity. And over the heads of the busy little underground kingdom hung the sign of their king: the two golden lions.
‘He’s not very concerned about concealing who is behind this, is he?’ I asked, staring up at the huge banner.
‘He doesn't have to be, Mr Linton.’ Mr Ambrose wasn’t looking at the lions. His eyes were already wandering over the crowds of soldiers, as if he could wrest the file from them by the pure force of his gaze.
‘There!’ Breath hissed through his teeth, and he made a sharp motion with his head, not daring to attract attention by lifting his hand to point. ‘There, do you see him?’
I looked, and I saw. Lord Dalgliesh was stepping out of a wooden building that had been erected on a higher level of the cave, only accessible via a single staircase, built on wooden supports along the stone walls.
‘There,’ Mr Ambrose whispered. His eyes were not following Lord Dalgliesh, but were fixed on the wooden hut. ‘That is where he keeps the file. It’s the ideal place. High up, easy to guard, difficult to reach.’
Like an arrow shot from a string, he started towards the stairs. I had a hard time keeping up with him as he wove through the maze of stalagmites and soldiers. We reached the bottom of the staircase in no time at all.
‘What if we meet Lord Dalgliesh on our way up?’ I hissed into his ear.
With his usual loquacious eloquence, Mr Ambrose made a jerking movement with his hand over his jugular.
‘Thank you so much for your reassurance, Sir!’
‘You’re welcome, Mr Linton.’
Truth be told, I had expected nothing less, but still, the thought made sweat appear on my forehead. Slowly, we began to ascend. We were about halfway up when my worst nightmare happened. I heard footsteps from above us. Mr Ambrose’s steps didn’t falter. He continued upwards as if nothing had happened.
A man appeared in front of us, in the uniform of a colonel. He stopped dead as he saw us.
What now? Is he going to offer us iced lemonade?
‘Hey! You two! What the blazes are you doing here?’
Apparently not.
‘Private Williamson and Private Jones, Sir. Change of guard, Sir,’ Mr Ambrose said, deadpan, and snapped to attention. Thank the Lord I had enough presence of mind to emulate him.
‘Really?’ The colonel frowned and took a watch out of his pocket. ‘I didn’t think it was time yet… No, it isn’t time yet! You are early. What is going on here?’ His eyes narrowed suspiciously, and I had to work hard to resist wiping the sweat of my forehead.
‘Really? Early?’ Mr Ambrose’s voice rang with honest surprise. ‘Are you sure, Colonel…?’
‘Colonel Townsend.’
‘Are you sure that we’re early, Colonel Townsend, Sir?’ Taking his own watch out of his pocket, Mr Ambrose let it snap open. ‘Sorry, Sir, but according to my watch we’re exactly on time. Look.’
The officer stepped up beside Mr Ambrose and looked over his shoulder.
‘Struth! You are absolutely right, soldier. I
t’s just time for the guard to change. How the time flies.’
‘And my watch is very reliable, Sir.’
‘Looks like it.’ Colonel Townsend glanced at the silver pocket watch with admiring eyes. ‘Mine is such a modern piece of trash. Yours looks like a much nicer piece. A family heirloom?’
A muscle in Mr Ambrose’s jaw twitched. Suddenly, he didn’t look nearly as much like the obedient soldier of a second ago. ‘Yes! Why?’
The officer seemed taken aback by such abrupt tones from an underling. ‘I just asked because the crest on the lid looks a little familiar.’
With an obvious effort, Mr Ambrose forced a polite mask on his face. ‘My… father gave it to me, Sir’
His father? I stared at him out of the corner of my eye. Mr Ambrose had a father? Did that mean he had actually been conceived in connubial congress, not hewn out of the rock of some mountain, as I had always suspected? Could it be true? Or just another lie to put the officer off?
‘I see.’ The colonel shrugged. ‘Well, you may continue, men. I’ll have to go and reset my watch…’
And he went off, mumbling about unreliable modern mechanics.
We continued up the stairs. I did my best to try and appear calm, ignoring the fact that my heart was pounding and my head was buzzing with a thousand questions.
‘How did you know when they changed the guard here?’ I demanded in a low voice, as soon as he was out of earshot.
And do you really have a father? Well, do you? And if so, how did your poor mother ever survive giving birth to a living rock?
‘I didn’t, Mr Linton. I knew from Warren’s report when the guard changed at number 97 East India Dock Road, and, based on the hypothesis that all the Presidency Army soldiers were likely to operate on the same schedule, I set my watch to local time before we went into the mine.’
I had to admit, he had brains, even if they were frozen. But that answer wasn’t enough. I itched to ask him just one more question.
Was the watch really your father’s? Why is there a crest on the lid? Does it really belong to a noble family, and if so, what the heck are you doing with it? You’re no nobleman, right?
All right, maybe that was more than just one question. To be honest, I had a mountain of questions about him, his somewhat scary plans for the domination of all the trade in the world, and his past, and his future. But none of these things were actually any of my business, and with us sneaking into the villain’s lair, this was certainly not the right time and place for curiosity. So I swallowed my questions and followed him up the stairs, until we reached a large landing at the top, hewn out of the rock floor of the raised plateau.
We had hardly set foot on the stone when, from up ahead, we heard voices. Among the echoing noises of the busy cave, they were too indistinct for me to recognize - but not for Mr Ambrose.
‘Get down!’
Grabbing my arm, he shoved me behind one of the wooden buildings that stood right beside the landing. Stumbling, I fell to my knees, and remained like that, cowering on the cold stone, while the voices drew nearer. Mr Ambrose appeared beside me, his whole body tensed like a panther about to spring.
We waited, in silence. I didn’t dare move a single muscle.
‘…the men made any progress so far?’ A familiar smooth, magnanimous voice came from the other side of the building. It sounded so charming, so relaxed. Even now, knowing what I knew, I could hardly believe this was Lord Dalgliesh, chief shareholder of the Honourable East India Company and close friend to the Crown, discussing criminal enterprises.
‘No, My Lord. The code of the documents in question seems to be well developed.’
‘I see. Please be so kind as to see to it that they are properly motivated, will you? I wish them to understand how important this project is to me and to the Company.’
‘Um, yes, My Lord. I shall think of a suitable motivation.’
‘Excellent. I’m sure I can rely on you.’
‘Yes, My Lord. Certainly, My Lord.’
‘And what about the diplomatic treaties that were not encoded? The secret agreements with Muhammad Ali Pasha? Were they genuine?’
‘Oh yes, My Lord. Every word.’
‘I see. Do we have an East Indiaman scheduled to go to Egypt?’
‘Yes, My Lord.’
‘How fortunate. Please send one of my agents on board and instruct him to courteously discourage His Highness the Khedive from any such further action. Tell him it would be unwise. He would not want to lose my good will, now, would he?’
The words were so soft, so friendly - not angry at all. And yet, I caught a glimpse of the other man, who walked beside Lord Dalgliesh as they passed by the building behind which we were hiding. At the words ‘lose my good will’, he flinched as if hit by a whip.
‘Certainly not, My Lord,’ he said hurriedly. ‘The Khedive will surely take that into consideration.’
Lord Dalgliesh smiled.
‘Yes. I’m sure he will.’
They began to descend the stairs, their voices fading into the distance. I continued to cower on the stone floor, my heart still hammering like an insane woodpecker. After a while, I tried to get up, but found I couldn’t get my legs to move.
‘Who is this Khedive-person?’ I asked, my voice slightly unsteady.
Mr Ambrose had risen beside me. His legs didn’t seem to have been filled with pudding.
‘The ruler of Egypt,’ he responded curtly.
‘Lord Dalgliesh can tell the King of Egypt what to do?’
Mr Ambrose lowered his eyes until he met mine.
‘Lord Dalgliesh can tell the Queen of the British Empire what to do. Ali Pasha hardly presents a challenge to him. And neither, apparently, do I.’ His left little finger twitched, once. ‘It cost me a fortune to negotiate these secret treaties! It will cost me another to renegotiate, now that Dalgliesh knows. This is… quite inconvenient.’
‘Inconvenient? Dear me. Such strong words, Sir.’
‘Mr Linton?’
‘Yes, Sir?’
‘Shut and get up.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Unsteadily, I got to my feet. ‘What now?’ I wanted to know.
Holding up a finger, Mr Ambrose took two quick steps to the corner of the building and spied across the corner.
‘There is only one other building up here,’ he said, his voice hardly audible. I leaned closer. ‘Two guards, one on either side of the door.’
‘How will we get past them?’
‘I will trick them the same way I tricked the officer on the stairs.’
‘And what if they don't fall for it?’
He didn’t answer. And he didn’t really need to. I already knew.
‘Ready, Mr Linton?’
I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders and tried to appear as male and soldierly as I possibly could.
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Three, two, one…now!’
We emerged from behind the building in what I hoped looked like lockstep, and not like a pair of gallivanting giraffes. The guards’ eyes immediately focused on us, and their hands closed more tightly around their rifles. Oh-oh. That was no good sign.
‘Afternoon, fellows.’ Mr Ambrose nodded to the men. He didn’t stop in his move towards them, obviously expecting them to step aside. ‘Ye can go and have a nice lie-down, now. Me and my mate, we’re taking over.’
The two men didn’t move an inch.
‘It ain’t time for the changing of the guard yet,’ Soldierly Exhibit A said. He was a broad-shouldered man with curly, blond hair and long ears. I had never trusted people with long ears. Spaniels had long ears, and so had the Prime Minister.
‘It ain’t?’ Again, Mr Ambrose took the watch out of his pocket and opened it. ‘Aye, it is. Look.’
Soldierly Exhibit A took a brief look at Mr Ambrose’s watch, then slid his hand into his pocket and took out his own.
‘Your watch is going wrong,’ he stated after a short examination. ‘I swear, it a
in’t time yet! It’s still more than half an hour.’
Mr Ambrose sighed. ‘My watch ain’t never wrong. Yours must be. Look, if ye don't believe me, go ask Colonel Townsend.’
The soldier’s long ears twitched at the name. ‘Colonel Townsend? He knows ye're here?’
‘He’s the one that sent us up here, pal. You can have it out with him, if ye want, but you ain’t gonna stop me and my mate from staying. This is our shift, and we’re gonna do as we was told.’
The long-eared guard bit down on his lower lip. The name of the officer had apparently eradicated his suspicions and simultaneously sown doubts in his mind about the reliability of his watch. You could almost hear the words - after all, the modern trash today ain’t very reliable, things ain’t what they used to be…
‘All right,’ he growled. ‘But if I find out ye've been pulling one over on me, pal, I’ll get back at you, don't ye doubt it.’
Mr Ambrose gave a little snort of derision. ‘Why d'ye think I’d wanna do that, eh? Do I look like I enjoy pushing my legs in my liver? I’d rather sit down and have a drink than stand around all day for no good reason.’
‘There’s a reason, all right,’ the guard growled. ‘Whatever’s in that place,’ he pointed to the hut he had been guarding, ‘is pretty important.’
‘Aye, aye, be off with you.’ Mr Ambrose waved them away. ‘Don’t ye fear. We ain’t gonna let anybody nick My Lord’s stuff.’
‘Ye'd better not.’
With that, the long-eared guard waved to his silent companion, and the two disappeared down the stairs.
I opened my mouth to speak, but immediately Mr Ambrose held up a warning hand. I shut my mouth again. With a jerk of his head, he indicated for me to follow him, and took up his position to the right of the door. I placed myself to the left and stood straight, arms hanging loosely down my sides, just as he did. In this position we remained - one minute, two minutes, three. I was beginning to wonder what we were waiting for, when I heard it, or rather its absence: footsteps. They were gone. We had been waiting until the guards were out of hearing distance.
As soon as there was silence, Mr Ambrose sprang into action. Fishing two small pieces of metal out of his pockets, he bent down in front of the door of the wooden hut and began fumbling at the keyhole.