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‘I was? Well…thanks. About what, precisely?’
‘You were never meant to be a housewife in a traditional marriage. It would never have worked.’
I blinked. ‘Well…thanks for the
agreement. Now can you explain what the heck you meant?’
He didn’t say anything. Instead he just motioned for me to follow and, hiding in the shadow of the wall, led us around the back of the house where Lord Dalgliesh was staying. There, in the open courtyard, between beds of kitchen herbs, rose two wooden posts. And between the posts…
‘Washing line,’ Mr Ambrose said, gesturing towards the object in question. ‘Laundry. Clothes without people in them.’
I gave him a sour look. ‘I know what a washing line is!’
‘Indeed?’
‘You wait until we’re back home, and I’ll give your neck a demonstration of just how well I know how to use a washing line!’
‘I look forward to it, Mr Linton.’
‘Hm. Well…then let’s go and—’
‘Shh!’
Darting forward, he clapped a hand over my mouth. For a moment, I struggled out of instinct—but then I remembered who this was, and what he was to me. If he did this, he had a good reason.
My body went limp.
Quickly, Mr Ambrose dragged me behind a tree, while Karim made a desperate leap for the largest bush in the kitchen garden. Only an instant later, I heard someone whistling, and a rotund woman opened the back door of the house. She had an empty wicker basket in her arms and headed with determination towards the washing line. The washing line from which, I noticed only now, three bright red-and-blue uniforms dangled, just begging to be snatched. My gaze snapped back to the woman.
Oh no you don’t! The laundry is mine!
A thought I’d had for the first, and probably last, time in my life.
Stooping, I snatched a pebble off the ground and let it fly. It sailed through the night and, with unfailing aim, landed straight in the chicken pen. Letting loose an unearthly racket, the animals scattered in all directions. The housekeeper—if that’s what she was—swerved around and sent a suspicious glance towards the disturbance.
‘Hello?’
She was speaking English. Dear me, had Lord Dalgliesh actually brought his own staff with him from England? The man really travelled in style. But the chickens were distinctly unimpressed. The only answer the housekeeper received was more panicked clucking.
‘Mr Jeffries, if that’s your boy messing with the chickens again, I’ll spank ‘im till he ain’t gonna sit down for a week!’
Still, no answer. Shrugging, the woman turned back towards the washing lines—and I sent another pebble flying! Once again, the chickens erupted in chaos. Behind me, Mr Ambrose’s hand landed on my shoulder, giving me an approving squeeze. I smiled.
‘Gordon Bennet! What the ‘ell is going on there?’ Whirling back towards the chicken pen, the woman marched over, brandishing her empty basket like a club. Her back was towards us, and towards the laundry.
‘Now!’ I hissed.
Neither of the men moved. Both of them looked at me.
‘What?’ I demanded. ‘You expect me to do it?’
‘It’s laundry,’ Karim said as if that explained everything.
‘Laundry which we’ll need to prevent an assassination that could spark a global war!’
Karim considered this for a moment, then said: ‘It’s still laundry.’
My gaze slid to Mr Ambrose, looking for help. I guess I should have known better.
