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As the last vestiges of sunlight dwindled, lights were lit inside of number 97. Squinting, I concentrated on one of the narrow windows, high, high above me. It wasn’t long before my earlier observations were confirmed: a flash of red and gold passed the window. And again! And again! Red and gold - like on the uniforms of a soldier of the Presidency Armies.
Suddenly, I heard a rattle and jumped, whirling around. But the rattle was not coming from behind me, nor was it coming from the main street. Rather, it sounded as if it was coming from a side street, parallel to the one in which I was hiding.
Quickly ducking into a narrow path between two brick houses, I made my way towards the origin of the sound. I thought it was somehow familiar - and I was not mistaken.
Looking around the corner of the house, I saw Mr Ambrose’s chaise coming up the street. It stopped, well out of sight or hearing of the guards in the towers of number 97. Mr Ambrose slid out of the passenger compartment with one fluid, precise movement. The tails of his black tailcoat fluttered around him like dark wings.
‘Warren?’ he called in a voice no louder than a whisper.
The black-clad figure of Warren stepped out of a doorway, where he had concealed himself. He bowed to Mr Ambrose.
‘We’ve been watching the place, observing the soldiers just as you instructed, Sir.’
‘Adequate.’
‘Thank you, Sir. Here is the report with their duty roster.’ He handed over a piece of paper to his master, who nodded in acknowledgement. ‘But…’
Warren hesitated.
‘But what?’ Mr Ambrose’s voice was cool and distant as ever.
‘But we think the soldiers are not the only guards, Sir. We have caught glimpses of movements on the roof. Understand me, we didn’t actually see anybody, we only caught a flash of dark brown and grey here and there.’ He shook his head, looking over his shoulder at number 97 nervously. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’
Mr Ambrose’s jaw muscles twitched, and Karim let out a long string of foreign words that were better not translated.
‘They are here!’ Mr Ambrose hissed.
‘They?’
‘A squad of special riflemen in the Presidency Armies who are at Lord Dalgliesh’s disposal alone.’ Mr Ambrose’s voice could have frozen lava. I gathered he had met this special squad before, and did not have fond memories of them. ‘They use a native plant to die their coats in mottled tones of brown and grey, which makes them hard to see in daytime, and helps them to disappear almost into nothing during the night.’[50]
‘But why should one wish for soldiers not to be seen during a battle?’ Warren asked, his mouth slightly open.
‘These special riflemen are not intended for open battles. Dalgliesh employs them for… different purposes.’
His tone of voice made it clear that nobody who wished to continue to sleep at night should ask what those purposes were. Warren looked slightly sick. Mr Ambrose didn’t seem to care. He said no more, but started to study the paper Warren had handed to him. After a while, he nodded.
‘Whether Lord Dalgliesh’s personal commando is here or not, this will have to suffice.’
Karim looked worried. And if I could see that from where I was standing, in the dark, and through the vast amount of beard blocking my view of his face, he must have been really worried.
‘Sahib, maybe we should…’
Mr Ambrose threw him a look, and the Mohammedan stopped in mid-sentence.
Warren was not as wise, however. He cleared his throat.
‘Um… Sir, forgive me for asking, but why exactly have we been noting down the guard changes and been keeping watch on this house?’
Mr Ambrose was studying the list again. He didn’t look up. ‘As preparation for a break-in, of course.’
‘What?’ At an angry gesture from Karim, Warren lowered his voice, but it sounded no less stricken than before. ‘Sir! You have to be joking!’
‘No, I do not have to be. In fact, I have never in my life felt any irresistible compulsion to joke.’
Warren swallowed. He seemed to realize with whom he was argui
ng here.
