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‘You would have, wouldn’t you?’ I asked the one that was standing in the corner and playing with the long tails of Napoleon’s army uniform. It nodded solemnly.
‘What?’ Mr Ambrose asked.
‘I wasn’t talking to you. Come on. I want to get out of here before the floor tries to eat me.’
*~*~**~*~*
The whole way down the stairs Mr Ambrose kept a tight hold on my elbow for some unfathomable reason. Only when we had arrived in the cavernous entrance hall did he let go of me. But when I started towards the front door, he shook his head.
‘Not that way.’
‘But that’s the way we came in, Sir.’
‘Still, it will not be the way we leave.’
‘Why not?’
He stared at me pointedly.
‘Why not, Sir?’ I amended, exasperated.
‘Lord Dalgliesh is sure to have this place watched. It is of no matter whether his men saw us enter - but they must not see you leave. Not when your next stop is your family home, from which he might infer your true identity. Have you any idea what Lord Dalgliesh would give for the news that I have lowered myself to employing a female as my private secretary?’
‘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.
