The mountainous dark-skinned man wouldn’t have needed to wear his turban or sabre for me to recognize him on the spot; I remembered him all too well. Nevertheless, Karim’s accessories looked impressive. Considerably more impressive than the top hat I had with me.
Swallowing my apprehension, I walked down the hall.
‘Good Morning, Mr Stone,’ I said.
‘Good Morning, Mr Linton.’
I stepped past his desk and tried to move towards the office door. Karim did not budge an inch.
‘Excuse me, you’re standing in my way,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ he growled. He wasn’t looking at me, but staring straight ahead, which meant he was focusing on a point some five inches above my top hat. He really was big. Too big.
‘Well, would you mind getting out of the way?’ I persisted, trying to shove past him towards the door.
‘Yes.’
‘But I have to speak to Mr Ambrose.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yes, I do. So will you let me into the office?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
At last he seemed to feel that my question merited more than a single syllable. Still staring straight ahead, he proclaimed: ‘Mr Ambrose is busy.’
‘With what?’
‘With business.’
‘Well, thank you very much for that informative answer! When will he be finished, do you think?’
‘Mr Ambrose is busy for a long time.’
‘He has been like this all day,’ Mr Stone whispered when I turned away angrily. ‘I must say I am quite perturbed. Karim is Mr Ambrose’s man for… special tasks. You know, um… dangerous matters?’
He looked around anxiously as if waiting for an assassin to spring from the shadows.
‘He has never been posted here yet, Mr Linton. I am afraid that Mr Ambrose perceives some terrible threat to his person.’
Oh yes, a very terrible threat, I thought, staring venomously at the bearded figure in front of the door. A girl who doesn't want to be called 'Mister' all day! Mr Ambrose’s man for special tasks indeed!
‘Well, I’ll just have to talk to him later then,’ I said to Mr Stone, trying to rein in my stormy temper. ‘I’d better get into my office and start working.’
‘Oh yes, your work!’ Mr Stone slapped his forehead. ‘I almost forgot. These arrived for Mr Ambrose early this morning.’
And he held out a bunch of letters. My brow furrowed in thought. Somewhere I had heard of this. Secretaries took care of their employer’s correspondence, didn’t they? But what exactly did they do with the letters? Read them? Answer them? Eat them for breakfast?
‘Um… what am I supposed do with them?’ I asked.
If Mr Stone found the question strange, he didn’t let on.
‘You are to separate the important from the unimportant, and only the former is to be given to Mr Ambrose.’
Taking the letters, I inquired: ‘And how am I to know what Mr Ambrose considers important?’
He gave me a little smile. ‘The answer to that question will determine how long you keep your job here. Good luck.’
With that he sat down and returned to his own work. I strode over to the door that lead to the room I still had difficulty thinking of as ‘my office’. But it was. I had an office! Me! Sweet little me! Now all I had to do was keep it…
I laid the ominous pile of letters on my yes - yes, my desk! - and started looking through them.
There was a stack of invitations to various social events. Hmm. I looked at the firmly closed and bolted door connecting my office with that of my employer. Something told me that Mr Ambrose wasn’t a very social person. Plus, the invitations seemed to be issued by Lady Metcalf and her circle of friends. Apparently, the fine lady was not so disgusted by Mr Ambrose’s working for a living that she didn’t want him at her parties and dancing with her daughters.
I smiled and, with a great deal of relish, crumpled up those letters and chucked them into the bin.
Next there were charity requests. I wasn’t sure about those, but put them on the pile to go to his office, just in case. It couldn’t hurt to be charitable, right?
Then there were a few letters which, on being opened, revealed themselves to be about business. I didn’t understand above one word in ten they said, but it sounded important so I put them on the pile, too.
Last but not least came a letter like no other: It was no invitation. It wasn’t advertising. And it sure as hell wasn’t business. That was pretty obvious from the fact that it came in a pink, strongly scented envelope.
‘What the…’
I almost broke out laughing when I smelled the perfume! Mr Ambrose had a lady friend? A secret love, maybe? But then I saw the address of the sender and her name. In curly, old-fashioned writing was written: