can see, I had all the reasons in the world to avoid home for now and seek refuge in another place that afforded me more peace and quiet. And the only other place available to me was number 322 Leadenhall Street.
Did I mention something about finding peace and quiet?
Well, it didn’t quite work out that way.
*~*~**~*~*
Mr Linton
Bring me file 38XI201.
Rikkard Ambrose
Springing up from my chair, I ran towards the shelves containing the file boxes. I needed about two seconds to reach my goal, three seconds to grab the books, and another three seconds to return. By the time I reached my desk with the correct file in hand, another message had already landed beside the first one.
I didn’t need to open it to know it said Hurry! or Faster! Mr Rikkard Ambrose was a tiny bit impatient and acrimonious these days.
I could guess why. A deadline was looming over us like the shadow of an evil giant - a giant with a hawk-beak nose, a golden mane of lion’s hair, and piercing steel-blue eyes. Soon it would be time. Soon, Mr Ambrose would try to get back what was his, by force. And I would not join him in the venture.
That fact gnawed at me like a pesky rat, not willing to let go of its dinner. After all, I had found out where this precious file, the contents of which he still hadn’t deigned to share with me, was being kept. And I wouldn’t be part of the retrieval! If only he had, at least, kept his mouth shut about the file’s contents. His vague, sinister statement was driving me to distraction.
The centre of the world.
Whose world? Surely, he didn’t mean it geographically, as in the earth’s core? Something like that couldn’t be contained in a piece of paper. But then, what?
Not knowing was making me imagine all sorts of terrible things. What did Mr Ambrose consider the centre of the world? Money? Was the file, in fact, a deed signing his entire fortune over to another?
All of a sudden, I thought of Edmund and Ella. He was the centre of her world, and she of his. Could it be…? Could the file contain illicit notes revealing a romantic relationship with somebody who was the centre of Mr Ambrose’s world?
Maybe… said a nasty little voice in my mind, Maybe the writer of the pink letters?
No. Mr Ambrose wouldn’t go berserk over a woman. The possibility of losing all his money, yes, that would make him bite off heads. But I couldn’t see him fretting over a lady’s reputation. Not even that mysterious femme fatal who continued her pink missives with infuriating regularity. The pile of letters in my bottom drawer was growing larger. And Mr Ambrose was growing more persistent in keeping up my working morale every day.
I tried to talk to him, to get his permission to accompany him on the secret mission that loomed on the horizon, or at least get some information out of him about what the centre of the world might mean, might be - what centre of the world was worth risking his life for.
To no avail. He remained silent.
Now there’s a surprise!
Well, it didn’t mean I was giving up.
‘Mr Ambrose?’ I knocked against his door. ‘I have file 38XI201 here, Sir. Don’t you want me to bring it in instead of sliding it under the door? It must be tedious for you to always have to stand up and get it from the door. Won’t you open up?’
I heard another plink from the desk. Without letting go of the file, I reached over and open the message container.
No. The file. Now.
You couldn’t get much clearer than that, could you?
Sighing, I bent to push it under the door. I was just about to rise again when suddenly, an idea struck me.
For a moment, I froze where I was. Then, a grin spreading across my face, I rose and knocked against the door.
‘Mr Ambrose, Sir? I need to talk to you. It’s important. You should open the door.’
Silence.
‘Really! I’m not just making this up. Something important happened, and you should know. Open up, please.’
More silence. A bucket full of silence.
I gave an especially dramatic sigh. ‘Oh well, if you don’t want to hear what Lord Dalgliesh said…’
There was a crash from the other side of the door. It sounded as if somebody had jumped up from his chair so violently that it had been hurled over and smashed onto the floor.
About half a second