‘Bloody…!’
We stood at the entrance to a large courtyard, surrounded by high, Doric columns[47], which gave the yard a stark appearance in the cold moonlight. Under a portico at the far end of the yard stood Mr Ambrose’s chaise, the grey beast of a horse already attached to it by an assortment of leather straps the names of which I didn’t care to know. A driver already sat waiting for us.
‘Mr Ambrose!’ A portly little man with a reddish nose came hurrying forward, wearing an anxious expression and a uniform-like tailcoat on which several buttons were missing. Mr Ambrose’s night porter, I deduced. Only Mr Ambrose would be stingy enough not to replace missing buttons on his employees' uniforms.
‘I’m honoured, Mr Ambrose, so very honoured.’ The little man bowed, and then bowed a second time for good measure. ‘So honoured that you would come down to give me your orders personally, Sir, I can hardly-’
‘Yes, yes, you said that when I came down earlier,’ Mr Ambrose cut him short. The porter swallowed and froze in the midst of his third bow. It was obvious he had taken the night shift in the hope of never ever coming across his formidable employer - and now his worst nightmares had been realized.
‘Is all ready?’
‘The coach is prepared, Sir, all is prepared, Mr Ambrose, Sir. I have seen to everything myself. The horse has been watered and fed, the coachman awaits your orders, Sir, Mr Ambrose, Sir.’
‘Adequate. And where is Mr Linton’s tailcoat?’
The porter paled.
‘I… I don’t know that it’s dry yet, Sir. I will have to go and check.’
‘Then do so. Now!’
‘Of course, Sir, of course. I shall go immediately. Just you wait, Sir, I shall run like the wind, Mr Ambrose, Sir!’
And he was off, as if the hounds of hell were after him, or maybe even Patsy jabbing him with her parasol.
Mr Ambrose strode over to wait beside the carriage, and I followed him. There was something weighing on my mind. To be honest, there were several things weighing on my mind, all of which were feeling distinctly unpleasant and started giving me a headache. But this particular thing was weighing even weightier than the other weighty weights.
I gathered all my strength to speak.
‘Um… Mr Ambrose?’ My voice sounded slurred, even to my own ears.
‘Yes, Mr Linton?’
‘I have a question, Sir.’
‘Indeed.’
I waited, but he didn’t say anything. Then I remembered that I hadn’t actually asked the question yet. By Jove, I was a tiny bit confused tonight, wasn’t I?
I cleared my throat.
‘Are you… are you sure that nothing else happened? Up there in your office? Nothing else but me passing out?’
He hesitated. I saw his hand tighten around the walking stick that concealed his sword. His lips parted.
‘I…’
‘Here, Mr Ambrose, Sir!’ Like a fat little ball of lightning, the porter shot around the corner, and I mentally cursed the man and all his descendants to the seventh generation. Or maybe the eighth. ‘Here is the gentleman’s tailcoat! Dried and cleaned as requested!’
Although it was my tailcoat he carried, he handed it to Mr Ambrose, an action that didn’t endear him to me any more than his sudden appearance had. I added a few curses for the ninth and tenth generations. They probably more than deserved it. And I was sure my good friend Napoleon would see to it that they were adequately tortured if I asked him.
Mr Ambrose nodded to the man.
‘You’re dismissed. Take up your post again.’
‘Yes, Sir! Immediately, Sir!’
Emitting relief like a beacon did light, the man hurried off, and Mr Ambrose held out my tailcoat to me.
‘Here.’
‘About what I said,’ I tried to return to the earlier subject. ‘About what happened up there in your office… I’m pretty sure I can remember something about you and me-’
I didn’t get any further than that. Suddenly, I was cut off by a violent hiss. Mr Ambrose’s fingers had clenched into the material of the tailcoat, around a lengthy tear in the black cloth. He stared at the damaged garment with eyes like icicles.
‘Look at this,’ he told me, his voice matching the coldness of his eyes. ‘Look at this, Mr Linton. Now!’
Uncomprehendingly, I stared at the tear in the coat.
‘Yes? I see it. And? I must have ripped it somewhere. Maybe on a nail or something like th-’
‘That’s no tear,’ he interrupted me with deadly calm. ‘Do you not see that the whole is round? Do you not see the blackened edges of the cloth where it is ripped open? Those are gunpowder stains!’
My fuzzy brain tried to grasp the meaning of his words. It needn’t have bothered. Stepping so close to me that our faces were almost touching and I could see the darkness of his eyes, Mr Ambrose told me: