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‘The manager died in the explosion!’
‘Did he? A manager’s job is to do paperwork. To write reports and sign cheques. You think he was doing that down in the mine shaft before it exploded?’
The men shifted. Again there was whispering.
Mr Ambrose fixed his most arctic stare on them. ‘If he was down there, there must have been something wrong. Something happened that shouldn't have happened. Let me pass. Let me find out what was behind that explosion.’
‘Why should we believe anything ye say?’ one of the men spat. ‘We don’t mean nothing to ye!’
Mr Ambrose met the man’s glare with a gaze of frost-coated iron. ‘You’re right. You don’t. But the coal down that mine does. That is a fortune burning down there. My fortune. So if you think that I am stupid enough to let my own mine catch fire and kill several people in the process - then by all means, try and kill me. Get your “justice”. But if you don’t - then you will get out of my way and let me do what I came here to do!’
The mob hesitated. Our fate hung in the air, suspended by a thread. I had never trusted threads. The darn things always refused to go through the eye of the needle.
Almost against my will, I glanced at Mr Ambrose.
Would we die tonight?
Would the two of us never get a chance to-
‘All right!’ Growling, the scarred man stepped aside. ‘Go through! Do whatever it is ye wanna do, and find out who did this. But I’m warning ye: if ye dunno have names for me in half an hour, I’m coming in there after ye!’
And, with a barked command, the crowd parted, opening the path to the mine’s office building. It was a stark brick structure, one side scorched by the heat of the fire, but as yet completely intact. Nodding to the scarred man, Mr Ambrose nudged his horse forward, and we rode through the gap in the muttering crowd.
We still weren’t completely through when I leaned over to Mr Ambrose, whispering: ‘How exactly are you going to find out in half an hour how an explosion was caused in a mine that you can’t enter, because it’s still burning?’
‘I’m not.’
‘Y-you’re not?’
‘No.’
‘And you are not even slightly worried about the heavily armed mob who said they’d kill you if you don’t do what you just told me you have no intention of doing?’
‘No.’
I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to grab him by the throat and shake him, and kiss him, and-
No. No kissing! Forget about the kissing!
And I had better forget about the yelling, too. At least while we were still in hearing distance of the mob. So I seethed quietly instead, following Mr Ambrose and Karim up to the smoke-blackened office building. Sliding down from his horse, Mr Ambrose strode up to the main door and straight inside. I rushed after him, fire blazing in my eyes.
‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’ I demanded as soon as Karim had closed the door behind us.
Ignoring me completely, Mr Ambrose grabbed a nearby desk and with an ease that betrayed the hard muscles under that unassuming old black tailcoat, shoved it towards the door.
‘I said what are you doing?’
‘Barricading the door, Mr Linton.’
‘I can see that!’
‘Then why ask?’
‘Gah! You’re impossible!’
‘Karim?’
That one word was enough. With a muttered ‘As you wish, Sahib,’ the big Mohammedan grabbed a huge shelf full of files and shoved it against the desk.
