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Mr Ambrose patted one of his mysterious bags. ‘Doors are not impenetrable, Mr Linton. What did I say about interruptions?’
‘So sorry, Sir.’
‘Karim?’
The Mohammedan stepped forward. ‘Sahib?’
‘Since you were so obliging as to provide three uniforms, you surely have also brought three of the cloaks?’
‘Certainly, Sahib.’
From his bag, Karim withdrew three mottled brown-and-grey cloaks. A strangled gasp came from Warren, and I remembered what Mr Ambrose had said about the special unit of riflemen under Lord Dalgliesh’s command.
Mr Ambrose threw Warren a look. ‘Yes. It is not only Lord Dalgliesh’s men who can steal up on you unsuspected, Mr Warren. Remember that. Remember it well.’
He threw one of the cloaks at me, wordlessly. As I caught it, he threw the second around his shoulders and, a moment later, seemed to melt into the darkness. I saw only a vague shape moving away.
‘Come, Mr Linton,’ his voice called out, cold and imperious.
I made a move to follow him. Suddenly, Warren, who had watched the whole scene from the background, his mouth slightly open, was stirred into motion. Quickly, he took two steps forward and grasped me by the arm.
‘Mr Linton! You are not truly going to accompany them, are you?’
I looked down at his hand. Quickly, he removed it.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I am.’
‘I hope you do not think I am speaking out of term, Mr Linton, but I would strongly advise against it. The man they are going up against…’ Warren drew his coat closer around himself, as if he were suddenly feeling the cold night air more strongly. ‘Let us just say, you hear rumours when you serve the members of London’s high society like I do. I council you, Mr Linton, desist. Go home. It is nothing any man would have to be ashamed of.’
I gave him a scathing look.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Any man wouldn’t have to be.’
Then, without staying to explain my words, I turned and, drawing the cloak around me, followed Mr Ambrose into the darkness.
Bifurcated
I nearly had to run to keep up with Mr Ambrose as we passed through the dark streets of Chinatown. We circumvented number 97, always keeping a great distance between ourselves and the wall. Not once did he or Karim slow down, his long legs swinging as regularly as a pendulum, the strange, mottled cloak fluttering around his shoulders.
‘Why… are we… in such a hurry?’ I gasped, out of breath.
His voice as he answered was, of course, perfectly calm and collected. ‘Your unexpected appearance and the necessity for an explanation of our plans has cost us time. Time we do not have. The distraction for the guards is scheduled to occur in exactly…’ Fishing his watch out of his pocket, he let it snap open. For a moment, I saw the coat of arms on the lid shining in the moonlight. ‘…six minutes and thirty-seven seconds.’
‘What is this distraction?’ I panted.
‘Wait and see.’
Apparently, he was not in a talkative mood. What a great surprise.
By the time we stopped behind a cart parked on the side of the street that ran along the eastern side of number 97, my lungs felt fit to burst. I leaned against the cart, and for the next few minutes concentrat
ed fully on getting my breathing under control again. I really had to find some way of building up my stamina if this sort of thing would come up regularly in this job.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Mr Ambrose glancing around the cart. My lungs feeling normal enough by now to allow some movement, I followed his example and saw the bright red figures of Presidency Army soldiers, parading on the walls. Decoys only, as I now knew. The real guards were hiding in the shadows.
‘We can thank God this cart is standing here,’ I whispered. ‘Or else we would be clearly visible - perfect target practise for Lord Dalgliesh’s personal team of pheasant hunters.’
‘Thank me instead of God,’ Mr Ambrose told me without taking his eyes off the roof of number 97. ‘I had one of my men park the cart here this morning.’
