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‘Is that…?’ I whispered.
Mr Phelps nodded, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. ‘Paris. The dark band in the centre has to be the Seine.’
He reached out towards Miss Harse to shake her awake.
‘Wait!’
He glanced at me, taken aback. ‘But won’t the ladies want to see it?’
‘Err…no.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Best let them sleep. They’ve had an exhausting journey. Why not let them rest until I’ve had time to esca– um, I mean until I’ve fetched someone to help them into the posting inn.’
‘Oh, well, if you think so.’ He patted me on the back. ‘I’m sure you know better what’s best for Miss Harse, eh?’
And he winked at me.
Winked!
I had to find Mr Ambrose. Firstly, because I had to save him from Lord Dalgliesh. And secondly, and most importantly, because I needed to be saved myself. Urgently.
We plunged towards the lights below. Racing past buildings growing ever taller, we fast approached Paris. The first suburbs started to appear on either side, and the smells and sounds of a foreign city began to engulf us.
‘Citrouilles! Citrouilles fraîches!’[5]
‘Je te déteste, trou du cul!’[6]
‘Sais-tu combien de temps ta mère prend pour chier? Neuf mois![7]
‘Ah,’ Mr Phelps sighed. ‘French, the language of love. It sounds so romantic. If only we knew what they were saying.’
‘Yes, um…’ I cleared my throat. ‘If only.’
Passing under a great arch, we entered the city proper, and the noise exploded around us. I could already tell that in one respect, this city was going to feel just like London—it never slept.
Is Mr Ambrose sleeping? Or is he wide awake right now, just like me?
The coach slowed. Gradually, it came to a stop and, glancing out, I saw what was undoubtedly a coaching inn.
‘Well,’ Mr Phelps sighed. ‘Time for something to eat, don’t you think? Are you as eager as I to taste the French cuisine, Mr Linton?’
‘No.’ Abruptly, I rose. ‘I just remembered that I have some very urgent business to take care of. Very urgent indeed.’
Mr Phelps looked startled. ‘In the middle of the night? Surely Mr Ambrose wouldn’t mind you taking a little time to rest.’
Even though, inside, my heart was hammering against my ribs in anxiety, I couldn’t keep a smile from spreading across my face. ‘If you think that, Mr Phelps, you don’t know Rikkard Ambrose. Au revoir.’
And with that, I jumped out of the carriage, past the startled landlord and his big moustache, out onto the street. Grabbing my suitcase from the coach, I squared my shoulders, triangled my self-confidence and octagonalled my meagre knowledge of French. Then I set out into the strange world of wonder that was Paris at night.
I had progressed about five yards into this wonder before a street vendor tried to sell me a bowl full of snail soup. The other offers were more tempting – paintings, postcards, toys, souvenirs, and, oh, the flowers, how many flowers! Sir Philip Wilkins would have fainted with joy at the sight, but I ignored it all, forging ahead, only one single goal in mind.
Get to him. Get to him. Get. To. Him.
Approaching the first kind-looking face in the crowd, I bowed before the old lady and enquired
‘Um… Excoosay ma, poo way woo me dear commaw…?’ Pulling the precious piece of paper out of my pocket, I glanced at it, tried to form the words—then decided to forget about it and just showed her the damn thing.
Her eyebrows rose.
‘Oh, vous êtes admirateur de l’opéra?’[8]
