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‘What was all that about?’ I wanted to know. ‘That chasing him over the rooftops. Why didn’t we just grab him there in the room?’
Mr Ambrose didn’t look at me. Instead, he kept his dark eyes fixed on the unconscious Simmons. But he replied, in his usual curt tone: ‘To make things easier for us.’
‘I don't understand. How is having to chase him over the rooftops making things easier for us?’
Apparently not in the mood to give lengthy explanations, Mr Ambrose waved to his hired henchmen.
Warren cleared his throat. ‘It’s easier because if we had brought him out through the hotel’s front entrance, or tried to drag him out of the window by force, he would have screamed for help. The guests or hotel staff would have heard and called the police. This way, he attempted to flee, believing that there was still a chance to make a quiet escape. We caught him without anyone being able to interfere.’
‘Ah.’ Slowly I nodded. ‘I see.’
Mr Ambrose nodded, too. ‘Exactly. And now…’ He took a deep breath. If he were capable of something like emotion, I could have sworn it sounded satisfied. ‘Now I can deal with him as I see fit.’
Deal with him as I see fit.
The sentence reverberated in the air with dark promise.
Mr Ambrose raised his cane and knocked against the roof of the coach. ‘Take us to Empire House,’ he called to the driver. ‘The back entrance. We have something to deposit safely in the cellar.’
The cellar? What did he want to put in the ce- oh.
My eyes flicked to Simmons. Of course.
Unbidden, something I had once read in one of my father’s old history books fluttered into my mind. What did earls and lords do when they discovered a traitor among their men? If I remembered correctly, after prolonged torture in some dark dungeon, the traitor in question would be hanged, drawn and quartered.
Oh my God. If Mr Ambrose really was an aristocrat, I fervently hoped he wasn’t one to keep up old traditions.
Making Lieutenant-Pancake
My ear pressed against the solid metal door, I listened intently for any sound of torture. Not that I knew exactly what torture would sound like, apart from the screaming, of course, which was pretty much a given. Still, it couldn’t hurt to try. Not me, at least, I thought with a tiny shiver.
Considering Mr Ambrose’s words, and even more than that the expression of his eyes, I had no doubt that something terrible was happening in there right now. But I couldn’t hear a single sound. Was something the matter with my ears?
But then I suddenly heard footsteps approaching from the other side and hurriedly stepped backwards. A key turned in the lock, and Mr Ambrose exited the room, a ring with a large assortment of keys in his hand.
‘And?’ I asked. God, I was becoming as monosyllabic as he.
‘We’ve managed to get him awake, but he won’t talk.’ Looking down, I saw that Mr Ambrose’s hand was clenched to a fist around the ring of keys. ‘Whoever paid him to do this, they must be powerful and frightening.’
‘How do you know this?’
He fixed me with his steely dark gaze. ‘Because I am powerful and frightening, and he hasn't told me a single thing yet. But he will, eventually.’
How do you know that? How can you be so sure?
Yet those thoughts were not what I spoke out loud. Instead, out spilled the question that had been plaguing me the entire way back to Empire House, the question which I never thought I would have the gall to ask:
‘Will you torture him?’
He looked at me, supreme disdain in his eyes. ‘No. Of course not.’
A momentous weight, which I hadn’t really known was there, dropped from my shoulders. ‘Thank the Lord!’ I breathed. ‘I almost thought…’
‘Why would I sully my own hands?’ he continued, cutting me off. ‘I have people who attend to tasks like that for me.’
‘Oh.’
The weight slammed right back in place.
