I wanted to help him.
Blast!
Resigned, I dragged my feet over to Mr Ambrose’s desk and slumped into his chair. Not even the thought of what he might say, were he to know I was sitting in the chair reserved for the master of the house, could improve my mood right now. I sat there, in endless anxiety, horrible images flitting through my head the entire time: Mr Ambrose faced by a platoon of the Presidency Armies, Mr Ambrose being led off to a firing squad…
The thought sent a shock of pain through my heart.
But why? Why did I feel pain? For the future I might lose if he died? My job? No. This pain was not for me. It was for him. Maybe… maybe I didn’t detest him quite as much as I had always imagined.
This is getting you nowhere, you lazy idiot! Think of something!
My fist came down on the desk, hard. Curse him! Curse him and his chauvinistic ways! How dare he go without taking me with him! Hadn’t I earned the right to be a part of his life, to go where he went and support him in what he did? And he left me behind simply because I was no man!
But then, whispered a nasty little voice in my head, maybe, if you were a man, you might not want to go with him so badly.
Angrily, I sprang up and marched over to the window. The sun had risen by now. I could see people coming down the street. It wasn’t difficult to pick out the ones who were heading to work at Mr Ambrose's: they were the ones running like scared rabbits.
Suddenly, it occurred to me that some of those people might know me from sight. If I smashed the window, and called out to someone who worked here, telling them that I had locked myself in and couldn’t find my keys…
Even before the thought was finished thinking, I started pounding on the glass. If I had managed to break it, I would probably have cut my hands to ribbons. Yet the glass held firm, no matter how hard I pounded it.
Of course it did. This was Mr Ambrose’s office. His walls were hard, his chairs were hard, his head was hard, why shouldn’t his windows be hard, too? Plus, they were next to his archive and safe. Whatever these windows were made of, I would not be able to break them, not even with a hammer.
I went back to the chair of the man who had locked me in here and sat down again. A humourless smile spread on my face. My entire life I had been afraid of being trapped by a man. Most of my imaginings had contained such gruesome horrors as engagements, wedding bells and a honeymoon in the south of France followed by a slow death by domesticity. Never had I imagined being literally trapped by a man, in a room, high up in London’s largest monument to Mammon. And, also, unlike in my imaginings, where the man himself would have been my prison and I would have wanted nothing more than to get away from him, now the room was my prison and I wished nothing more than for the man to be with me, or for me to be with him.
But not because I felt anything for him, of course! I was a strong, independent woman and would never have any sort of silly, soppy feelings for any man, least of all Rikkard Ambrose. I just…
My eyes slid shut, trying to keep the tears in.
Well, I just wished I were with him. That was all.
If only there were a way to have someone come and open a door…
Slowly, my eyes opened again - and fell on the pneumatic tube with the basket of message papers right beside it.
Slowly, as if I feared they might run away should I approach them too quickly, I stretched my hands out in the direction of quill and paper. My fingers were only a few inches away from the pen, my way to freedom. It didn’t seem to want to make a run for it. My fingers closed.
Yes! A way to get out. A way to get to him.
But one thing after another.
Putting one of the little squares of message paper right in front of me, I dipped the quill into the ink. For a moment, the quill hovered hesitantly over the paper. I thought of the pale man who staffed the desk downstairs. What was Sallow-face’s name again? Mr Ambrose had mentioned it to me once, not appreciating the accuracy of the nickname I had come up with…
Ah yes: Pearson!
Quickly, I wrote in my best imitation of Mr Ambrose’s neat, precise handwriting:
Dear Mr Pearson,
Be so kind as to bring me a list of all last week’s visitors, which I require for a project I am currently working on. I may not be in my office when you arrive. If that is the case, unlock the door and leave the list on my desk. Thank you.
Yours Sincerely,
Rikkard Ambrose
For a long moment, I stared down at what I had written. Then I crossed it out, grabbed another piece of paper and wrote:
Mr Pearson
Deposit a list of last week’s visitors on my desk immediately.
Rikkard Ambrose
‘There,’ I murmured. ‘Much more realistic.’ My heart fluttering excitedly, I put the message into its metal container, shoved it into the tube and then examined the control board right beside it. This one was much more complicated than the one in my office, with innumerable dials, levers and buttons to reach every part of the vast complex which served Mr Ambrose as his headquarters.
I selected a lever labelled ‘E.H.’ and hoped fervently it stood for ‘Entry Hall’ and not ‘Excrement Hatch’. Why did men have to make all technical devices so infernally complicated? With bated breath, I sat and hoped for a result from my wild plan.
Only two minutes later, hurried footsteps approached from outside. Very hurried footsteps. A grin spread over my face. Yes, my plan had worked. Whoever was coming did indeed believe the message to originate from Mr Ambrose.
It didn’t take the runner long to reach the office door. He tried to turn the doorknob and, finding the door locked, hesitated. A moment later, I heard the sound of salvation: the jingling of keys. The lock made a clicking sound, and the door swung open, revealing Sallow-face, standing in the doorframe.
‘Mr Ambrose,’ he began, holding up a sheet of paper, ‘I have your…’
Then he noticed that the figure he was facing had little resemblance to his master.
‘Mister Linton!’
‘Mr Pearson!’ My smile widened into a joyous grin. ‘You don't know how glad I am to see you.’
‘Mr Linton,’ the pale bureaucrat managed, obviously having to struggle hard in order to contain his tumultuous emotions, ‘why, pray, are you sitting in Mr Ambrose’s private chair?’
‘Oh.’ Looking down, I saw he was absolutely right. I had completely forgotten that I was reposing on my employer’s official chair with my feet propped up on his desk, something that secretaries were probably not supposed to do. ‘Well, I just thought I’d give it a try, you know?’ I wiggled my behind for emphasis. ‘To see it if is comfy or not.’
Sallow-face’s features turned a little more yellow, which seemed to be his version of getting angry red blotches on the cheeks.
‘It is no concern of yours how “comfy” this honoured seat is, Mr Linton,’ he informed me, glaring at me as if I had sat on a king’s throne and committed high treason. ‘You shall never have another chance to sit there! Where is Mr Ambrose?’
‘Oh, he… he is in the safe, checking something,’ I lied and, when Sallow-face turned in the direction of the safe, hurriedly added: ‘And he doesn't want to be disturbed.’
‘I see.’ Sallow-face turned back to me. I, by now, had risen from my traitorous position on Mr Ambrose’s throne and was thus not quite as fiercely glared at as before. ‘Mr Linton, Mr Ambrose told me to bring him this.’ He held out the list of visitors. ‘Should I wait here for him, or…’
‘Leave it with me,’ I told him. ‘I’ll see that he gets it.’
He narrowed his eyes mistrustfully. ‘On your honour as a gentleman? This is very important business material. Mr Ambrose trusts me with the most important tasks of all his employees. He told me himself that he needs this information as soon as may be.’