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‘As soon as I find out who it belongs to, I’ll have my man!’
‘Yes. Yes, I suppose you will.’
In front of me, in the faint light of the candles, glinted a beautiful curved dagger in an intricately worked mahogany and metal sheath. It was very oriental in design, and, what was more important, very, very familiar.
‘Do you see there, the strap, where it’s been torn loose? It could be easily matched if the owner were to be found.’
‘Oh. Yes, indeed.’
‘The only question is where I’ll keep it while I make enquiries. I don’t want to take it back to headquarters. There’s just a chance that one of the local officers did this as payback for our role in the suppression of the strike.’
‘Why don’t you leave it with me,’ I offered, reaching for the dagger as if to check whether it was truly real. It was. ‘I’ll…look after it.’
‘Would you? Thank you, Miss Linton. That’s very kind of you.’
‘Oh no,’ I whispered, my fingers closing around the dagger. ‘I think I’ll have a use for it.’
*~*~**~*~*
Quite a long time later, when the sun had set and Captain Carter had long departed, I still sat in the hallway, the dagger in one hand, the brandy bottle in the other. Whatever happened tonight, I would probably murder someone or need a drink, so it was best to be prepared.
I had to wait quite a long while. When finally the door opened, and a large, turban-wearing figure entered the house muttering low curses, I rose. With a flick of a finger, I lit a match and held it to the candle on the chair next to me. In the sudden light, Karim stood frozen in the door.
Smiling like a shark, I raised the dagger. ‘Looking for this?’
Patriotism à la Ambrose
I marched down the corridor like a train at full steam. All my energy, all my focus, all my considerable wrath was concentrated on the door at the end of that corridor - or, more precisely, on the man behind it.
‘Miss?’ a servant dared to step in my way. Bad idea. ‘Mr Ambrose does not wish to be disturbed at the mo-’
He met my gaze and broke off instantly, swallowing.
I raised an eyebrow. ‘You were saying?’
‘I, um…well, Miss…’
‘Out of my way!’
‘Yes, Miss! Right away, Miss!’
He jumped aside just in time to not get flattened to the floor. I marched past and slammed my foot against the door, kicking it open.
Mr Ambrose was sitting behind his desk, studying an open file in front of him with impeccable concentration. He didn’t even bother to look up when I stormed into the room, the son of a bachelor! Seething with righteous rage, I marched up to his desk and, gritting my teeth, bit out: ‘Tell me you didn’t do it!’
‘I didn’t do it,’ he said, then turned over a page in the file and proceeded to ignore me.
‘Liar! It was you! I know it was!’
‘Indeed?’
‘Who else could it have been? Oh, you…you’re going to pay for this! You…you…!’
Slowly, very slowly, Mr Ambrose raised his eyes from the document resting on the desk in front of him and met my gaze.
‘What are we talking of, precisely?’
That bloody son of a…!
