steamship. Passengers were just getting on board the shiny, new vessel, all looking like wealthy tourists returning to England after a wonderful holiday. For a moment, my eyes fixed on the cursive word emblazoned on the ship’s hull: Urania.
Quickly, I threw a sideways glance at Mr Ambrose and saw in his eyes the mirror of my own thought: our only chance. We rushed forward, slipping into the line at the gangway of the luxurious ship, and ignoring the protest of a thick-set French gentleman right behind us.
‘Two tickets to England, please,’ I gasped, slamming my hands on the counter of the official at the gangway to steady myself.
‘I beg your pardon, Monsieur?’ the man asked, looking at me with his nostrils instead of his eyes. But I worked for Mr Rikkard Ambrose! This little Frenchman’s derisive glances were nothing in comparison to the ones I had learned to withstand.
‘Tickets. To England. You do sell tickets to England, don't you?’
‘Naturalement, Monsieur - since this is our vessel’s only destination.’
‘Well, then, you heard my companion.’ Mr Ambrose stepped up beside me and fixed the official with an icy glare. ‘Two tickets to England, third class.’
The official didn’t back down. If anything, his look became even more disgusted. ‘Third class, Monsieur? I am afraid you have the wrong vessel. This is a ship of a respectable line, offering its services only to the better classes of society. We have no cabins of third class on board.’
Behind the granite mask on Mr Ambrose’s face, a momentous struggle seemed to be going on. A muscle in his jaw twitched. His left little finger jerked erratically. Finally, he managed to say: ‘Fine! Second class, then! How much does it cost?’
The official seemed to decide that looking at us with his nostrils was too great an honour for us, and he switched to regarding us with his wobbly chin instead.
‘There is no second class, either, Monsieur. Please remove yourself. You are holding up the line.’
I saw Mr Ambrose’s little finger twitch again, violently.
‘Two tickets, first class, to England,’ I said, before he could do anything he would later regret.
His head whipped around to stare at me. ‘What are you doing?’ he demanded, his tone low and hard.
‘Saving our skins from your miserly ways,’ I shot back amiably. ‘I hope you have enough money on you.’
He opened his mouth to reply, but was cut short by the official.
‘First class? As you could pay half the sum required! I have no time for your silly jokes, Messieurs. Remove yourselves immediately, or I will be forced to call security.’
Slowly, Mr Ambrose turned back towards the man. When the Frenchman caught sight of his eyes, he flinched back.
Mr Ambrose reached into his jacket and drew out a wallet. Opening it with deliberation, he pulled out two one hundred pound notes and slammed them down on the counter.
‘You can give me my change when we arrive in England,’ he said, his voice cold enough to freeze sunlight in mid-air. ‘I wish to be shown to my cabin. Now.’
‘W-why, certainly, Monsieur. At once, Monsieur.’
Staring incredulously at the banknotes, the official waved one of his underlings over. ‘Quick! Pierre! Take these two gentlemen to the best cabins on the ship. Now!’
‘But Monsieur, the best cabins on the ship are occupied by…’
‘Do it!’
As we were led off by the bewildered young man, who kept sneaking glances back at his superior, Mr Ambrose leant over to me and whispered:
‘The money for the tickets shall be deducted from your wages, Mr Linton.’
And for some reason, this didn’t make me want to snarl back at him. It made me smile.
*~*~**~*~*
‘Get them! Get the-’
The soldiers fell silent the moment they stumbled out of the undergrowth onto the seaside promenade, and several hundred people turned to stare at them. They seemed to realize several things at once: firstly, their prey was nowhere to be seen, secondly, they were wearing British Indian Army uniforms on French territory, and thirdly, the crowd did not seem to appreciate the guns they were waving around.
‘Ehem.’ One of the soldiers, probably the commanding officer, cleared his throat. ‘S-sorry if me and my friends gave you alarm. We… just had a bit too much to drink. Got a bit above ourselves, that’s all.’
Weak though the explanation was, it was generally accepted, and as the soldiers lowered their guns, the crowd slowly returned to their business. The men - there were only two; Mr Ambrose had indeed hit the third one, apparently - huddled together and began