The East End.
Every child in London knew that name. The worst fear of every wealthy citizen of London was to get lost and end up right here: in the stinking, rotting liver of London, where all the refuse its heart didn’t want to deal with was dumped until further notice. It was a labyrinth of small streets and dirty houses where poor people crowded together because they had no money to go anywhere else. They looked for work at the docks or at one of the numerous factories. The smoke, unending hard labour and poisonous food slowly killed them off, one by one.
And when they happened to stumble across some unlucky member of the upper classes in their home territory, they weren’t shy about expressing their displeasure at these circumstances. Sometimes with the help of knives and cudgels.[46]
Shuddering, I took in my bleak surroundings once more, then looked back the way we had come. Maybe…
‘Do you wish to return to Empire House?’ Mr Ambrose asked curtly. ‘Karim can drive you back, Mr Linton.’
I hesitated. A scream sounded in the distance. It wasn’t the kind of harmless little scream that came from a sleepwalker just having put his foot in a puddle of water, either. Wind howled through the street, driving the fog past us. It seemed thicker here, somehow, than in the rest of the city. Darker. As if a thousand sinister things were hiding in its depths.
Mr Ambrose seemed to sense my hesitation.
‘It is no problem,’ he said, and there might actually have been something akin to compassion in his voice. ‘You can leave if you are afraid.’
Immediately, I raised my chin and met his eyes.
‘I? Afraid? Of course not, Sir. What do we do now?’
A muscle in Mr Ambrose’s jaw twitched. It seemed, just for a moment, as though he might be going to argue. In the end, though, he turned towards Karim.
‘Where in this building is the file?’ he snapped.
‘I do not know, Sahib. Warren told me that they had found what we had been looking for, and I rushed to you without delay.’
‘I see. Then call Warren. Now.’
Not taking his right hand from his sabre, the Mohammedan raised his left to his lips and put two gnarled fingers in his mouth. He blew twice, and the whistle-tones echoed from the dilapidated houses.
Suddenly, Warren appeared out of the darkness. He was dressed in dockworker clothes and had a man on either side of him.
‘Sir.’ He gave a little bow to Mr Ambrose.
Mr Ambrose didn’t waste any time on social niceties. ‘The file, Warren. Where is it?’
‘I do not know, Sir.’
‘But you said-’
‘I said we had found what we had been looking for. But not the file. Not exactly. We found the man who bought the file from Mr Simmons. The middle man of the deal.’
Mr Ambrose took a step forward.
‘I dislike inaccurate reports, Warren,’ he said, pinning the other man with his eyes of dark ice. ‘I know you have not been in my employ long, so I tell you now: I dislike them intensely.’
Warren swallowed and hastily bowed again, while I tried to hide a grin. I could have told Warren that much. ‘Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir. Of course, Mr Ambrose, Sir.’
‘This man… He’s in that pub now?’
‘Yes, Sir. The Plough and Anchor, Sir. We have the place surrounded.’
‘By how many men?’
‘A dozen.’
‘Only a dozen?’
Mr Ambrose’s mouth, normally a thin, exquisite line, turned into nothing more than a scratch on his chiselled face. Other people might not have noticed the minuscule change in expression - I, however, had learned to read the signs foretelling of approaching storms.
‘Tell me, Mr Warren, how often have you conducted investigations in the East End before?’
‘Um…’ Warren nervously tugged at his collar. ‘Never before, to be honest, Sir. I was mostly employed in the more reputable parts of London, seeing as my clientele were wealthy citizens. To be honest, I expected that in your employ, too, Sir, I would not be venturing into these-’
‘Your expectations do not concern me, Mr Warren!’
‘No, Sir! Of course not, Sir.’
‘Indeed. Now listen to me. I know this kind of place.’ He indicated the shady street with a sweep of his arm. ‘As soon as we try to grab the man we’re after and drag him out in the street, fifty of his cronies will be on us with knives and broken bottles.’
Knives and broken bottles? Unconsciously, I moved a little closer to Karim and the safety of his large sabre. I was too preoccupied by the mental image of a grinning thug with a broken bottle in his fist to wonder how on earth a phenomenally rich financier would know this kind of place.
‘Is that so? But then what should we do, Sir?’ Warren asked.
‘There’s nothing for it.’ Mr Ambrose, his narrow mouth still nearly invisible, held out his hand. ‘Give me your jacket and cap.’
‘W-what, Sir?’
‘That grimy little jacket and that disgusting cap of yours. Give them to me. I’m going to go in there in disguise and see what I can squeeze out of our friend by means of friendly conversation.’
Warren started at this, flabbergasted. ‘You? You are going to have a conversation, Sir?’
‘Yes! You, meanwhile, go back to headquarters and get backup. Pray that you return in time, before our prey decides to leave!’
‘B-but Sir,’ Warren stuttered, ‘you can’t… I mean… you’re a gentleman of good family. You couldn’t possibly go into a place like this and pretend to be part of that scum in there!’
The look Mr Ambrose gave his subordinate could have frozen lava.
‘I’ve had a lot of practice in dealing with scum. Now give me your clothes.’
Warren was out of his cap and jacket before you could say “God save the Queen!”.’ He handed them to Mr Ambrose, who in return gave him his carefully folded back tailcoat.
‘I don't want to see a single stain on it when you give it back,’ he commanded. ‘It is only ten years old and still in mint condition.’
‘Um… yes, of course, Sir.’
Warren took the jacket, which in my opinion was definitely not in mint condition, handling it like a newborn babe. Mr Ambrose shrugged on the workman’s jacket and placed the cap onto his neatly trimmed black hair, drawing it deep into his face. I had expected the workman’s clothes to look odd or unnatural on him, expected that everybody would be able to tell immediately that this was Mr Rikkard Ambrose, one of the richest men of the city.
I could not have been more wrong.
What the heck…?
My mouth fell open and I stared. I blatantly stared.
The filthy cap and jacket transformed him as if they were a second skin: All of a sudden, he looked darker, rougher around the edges. He looked like a delinquent who would beat the stuffing out of you if you even looked at him wrong. A man who lived hard, and by his own rules.
I had to admit, the look suited him, suited him very well indeed.
At a motion of his hand, Warren and his two associates hurried off down the street. Mr Ambrose looked after them, shaking his head.
‘Were did you find him, Karim?’ he asked, grimly. ‘He has no clue what he is in for.’
Karim shrugged. ‘He had good references, Sahib. This is not the colonies. This is the city. It is not easy to find people good with their guns and their brains.’
Mr Ambrose gave a curt nod of acknowledgement. ‘You two, wait here,’ he ordered. ‘I’m doing this on my own.’
‘But Sahib-’ Karim began, yet one glance from Mr Ambrose cut him off. I, for my part, knew better than to argue. Without hesitation, Mr Ambrose marched off towards The Plough and Anchor, leaving Karim and me behind.
I waited until the door had closed behind him and Karim was looking after Warren, disappearing in the distance. Then I stole away from the giant bodyguard and followed Mr Ambrose into the pub.
I indeed knew better than to argue. Simply disobeying was so much easier.