‘…still in mint condition.’ I nodded. ‘Yes, I know. You’ve told me before. I’m not stupid, you know.’
‘Maybe not. But you are drunk.’
‘Drunk? Me? Of course I’m not drunk!’ Outraged, I staggered out of the chaise. How dare he suggest such a thing? I was stone-cold sober! And I had plenty of witnesses to the fact. Grasping the carriage wheel to support me, I pointed with my free hand at the yellow piggy sitting beside the driver. ‘Ask him over there, if you don't believe me.’
‘Me?’ The driver looked taken aback. ‘Well, Sir, I could not hazard a guess as to-’
‘Not you! The Pig.’
‘Pig? What pig?’
The driver’s nervousness seemed to increase. What was the matter with him? A yellow pig wasn’t something you could miss easily, was it?
‘Forget it, Godwin.’ Mr Ambrose appeared beside me. With a jerk of his head, he indicated to the driver and the yellow piggy that they should leave. ‘Take the chaise away and care for the horse.’
He was obviously bent on ignoring my logical arguments! So typically male!
‘Yes, Sir, only…’ the driver hesitated. ‘What about the other men, Sir? I should go back and-’
‘Warren will have reached the tavern by now with all the reinforcements he could muster,’ Mr Ambrose cut him off. ‘Do as you’re told. I and Mr Linton will go inside now.’
‘Yes, Sir. As you wish, Sir.’
Climbing from the box, the driver and the yellow piggy started doing Mr Ambrose’s bidding, leading the horse and carriage away. The power of this man was unbelievable! Even little yellow animals were under his power, even though I was sure they weren’t on his payroll!
‘Come along.’ Mr Ambrose strode ahead, gesturing for me to follow with a flick of his fingers. Taking a cautious step forward I lifted my head - and my eyes widened in shock. Before me stood the vast, gaunt fa?ade of Empire House. The chaise had deposited us in Leadenhall Street, right in front of Mr Ambrose’s business headquarters. Like the bow of a gargantuan wreck in the dark depth of the ocean, the two-columned portico loomed up in front of me, white and ghostly. Ornate gas lanterns were spread out all along the street, throwing their yellowish light across the empty street. The whole scene looked even colder now than it had in daylight.
What were we doing here? Why wasn’t I at my own home? I was sure I had one of those, tucked away somewhere in London.
My eyes flicked to Mr Ambrose. Honestly, surprisingly enough, he had not strode ahead, ignoring me - instead, he was waiting for me at the foot of the stairs, tapping his foot on their foot in impatience.
I smiled. His foot on their foot. That sounded funny.
Leisurely, I strolled towards him. With fuzzy curiosity, I gestured up at the towering monument of mammon above me.
‘Why here?’ I asked, directing my unsteady smile at Mr Ambrose. ‘I don't live here. Not that I’m aware of, anyway,’ I added, as an afterthought. Nothing seemed to be too sure, lately. ‘Do I?’
Mr Ambrose’s face was hidden in shadow, his voice as terse as ever.
‘No, you don't. But I thought I would bring you here first and give you the chance to clean up. Unless you want to go home in blood-spattered clothes, that is.’
‘What?’
He gestured, and I looked down at myself. Even in the pale light of the gas lamps, it was undeniable that the upper part of my uncle’s old tailcoat had distinct signs of red on it. If they weren’t blood spatters, they were the experiment of a deranged tomato-enthusiast.
‘Hell’s whiskers!’ A giggle escaped me. ‘That looks dashed nifty!’
‘Nifty, is it?’ The dark figure of Mr Ambrose took a step towards me. ‘You consider blood spattered all over your clothes nifty? Maybe even chic? You have interesting fashion tastes, Mr Linton.’
‘Why, thank you, Sir.’ I bowed and nearly toppled over. Strong arms caught me and put me upright again.
‘Still,’ his cool voice continued, ‘I doubt your aunt shares your tastes in that direction.’
Thoughtfully, I tugged at my lower lip. He might be right about that. Aunt Brank was often completely unreasonable in regard to modern fashion.
‘Might be interesting to see her reaction, though.’ I giggled again. ‘The look on her face…’
‘…would undoubtedly be a sight to be seen. Still, in the interest of secrecy, I would advise against it.’
‘Oh, all right! Don’t be such a stickin-the-mud.’
He turned. ‘I assure you I am not in the habit of sticking sticks into mud, Mr Linton. Follow me.’
Marching up the stairs, he pulled a ring of keys out of his coat pocket. I had never before met anyone who could truly march on stairs, not without breaking their toes, anyway, but he managed it just fine. He reached the door well ahead of me and had unlocked it in a jiffy.
The huge wooden doors squealed like the tortured souls of the undead as they were pushed open. I looked around with interest, just in case some of the tortured souls of the undead happened to be around and wanted to swap recipes, but there was only Alexander the Great, atop his horse, winking at me from the other side of the street.
‘Nighty night, Alexander! Conquer Persia for me!’ I called, waving to him energetically - until Mr Ambrose grabbed me and pushed me towards the door.
‘Hey! There’s no need to be so rough,’ I protested, resisting his grasp. ‘I was only being polite.’
‘To a hallucination. And you were waking the whole street up in the process, which is not a good idea. Or have you forgotten that the headquarters of the East India Company is right across the street?’
I furrowed my brow in concentration. For some reason, I was sure that was important, but I couldn’t for the life of me remember why.
‘Well, no,’ I explained, and started grinning again. It was easy to grin right now, and very difficult to frown. ‘Actually, I hadn’t forgotten. I just don't care. I mean… Alexander the Great conquered parts of India, right? He’s surely not afraid of some stuffy old company board members.’
‘Mr Linton?’
‘Yessir?’
‘We need to get you inside.’
‘Yessir! Why, Sir?’
Without answering, he renewed his grip and began to push me forward again. This time, I didn’t react fast enough, and he managed to manoeuvre me through the entrance into the darkness of the hall beyond.
‘Why do we have to go?’ I demanded, trying to push my heels into the ground. But it was no use. My shoes just slipped on the polished stone floor. ‘I was talking to Alexander the Great!’
That didn’t seem to make Mr Ambrose want to let me go, the ill-bred lout! Didn’t he know you couldn’t behave like that to an Emperor?
‘We have go back. I didn’t get to say goodbye properly.’
‘We can’t go back. We have to go upstairs, and you have to sit down.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you are drunk, Mr Lin-’
‘I’m not! Just ask the yellow piggies!’
There was a pause.
‘Well… then let’s just say that I’m not on the best of terms with Alexander the Great. I wish to avoid him, if possible.’
‘Oh.’ Now this was interesting news, and my curiosity spiked immediately. ‘Why’s that?’
There were a few moments of contemplative silence.
‘He kicked my favourite dog once.’
‘Really, Sir?’
We had reached the other end of the hall by now. There, the floor suddenly vanished, and instead there were these angular thingamies… what were they called again?
‘Yes, really, Mr Linton. And a very harsh kick it was.’
Oh yes. Steps! Pride flooded through me! I had actually managed to remember what steps were called! And Mr Ambrose thought I was drunk. Hah! I’d show him.
I took a confident step forward - and a hand shot out to grab me.
‘No, not those stairs, Mr Linton. Those lead to the cellars, that’s why the steps go down. We want to go to my office and need to find some stairs that go up.’
I pondered this. He might actually be right, I finally decided.
‘How clever, Sir! I would never have thought of that.’
‘Indeed.’