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‘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.
