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‘Yes, yes, enough of that.’ Impatiently Mr Ambrose waved his hand. ‘Why are you here? What has happened?’
‘It’s Dalgliesh.’
Those words were enough to make an icy tingle of fear shoot down my spine and make my fists clench, instinctively preparing for a punch. I had known this would be coming. Dalgliesh himself had warned us before leaving: I will have to return to London, to develop a new strategy.
I just hadn’t thought that developing a new strategy would happen so fast.
‘What is it?’ Mr Ambrose demanded. ‘What has he done?’
Kenward, as his name apparently was, looked uncomfortable. He cleared his throat, then glanced at me.
‘What?’ I demanded. ‘Do you need some cough syrup?’
‘I believe, he is indicating that this is a sensitive business matter that we require privacy, Miss Linton.’
I looked around. ‘But we’re in the middle of an empty road. How much more private can you get?’
Leaning over, Mr Ambrose hissed: ‘You are not currently dressed appropriately for the post of secretary, Miss Linton.’
‘Oh.’
‘Indeed.’
Apparently not in the mood to explain the intricacies of crossdressing feminists to Mr Kenward, Mr Ambrose stepped over to the man and leaned down so Kenward could whisper in his ear. The more he listened, the colder Mr Ambrose’s face became. His left little finger started twitching in prestissimo. Then he suddenly straightened, teeth clenched tight.
‘You’re not serious!’
‘I swear to you, Sir, it’s true!’
‘But there, of all places…How did Dalgliesh even know it?’
‘I have no idea, Sir. But he obviously does. And he wants it.’
‘Over his dead body!’
‘But Sir, you’ll hardly be able to get there in time, let alone-’
‘Let that be my concern!’ Mr Ambrose cut him off. ‘You get back to London and make sure things run smoothly. I shall expect everything to be as if I’d run things myself on my return, understand?’
Kenward paled, but nodded. ‘Yes, Sir! I understand, Sir!’
‘Adequate.’
Without another word, Mr Ambrose whirled and marched back to the coach. I followed silently, burning to know what was going on, but instinctively knowing that now was not a moment for wasting time with questions.
‘Karim!’ Mr Ambrose slammed the knob of his cane against the roof of the coach. ‘About-turn! Take us to Newcastle!’
My eyes went wide.
‘Um…Mr Ambrose?’
‘Yes, Miss Linton?’
‘Newcastle as in “we were nearly roasted and stoned there”-Newcastle?’
‘Yes, Miss Linton. And?’
‘Nothing. Just curious.’
