‘I thought,’ he said, every syllable studded with shards of ice, ‘I told you to gather significant information.’
‘I have,’ I said, pointing to the crescent-shaped object in my hand, half of which I had already devoured. ‘For example, I found out that the French are fantastic bakers. They have invented this thing called a “chocolate croissant”, which is a kind of crescent shaped bun with chocolate mousse inside, and it tastes simply divine. Do you want to try?’
‘It appears,’ he said, his tone climbing a few more steps down on the thermometer, ‘that you and I have very different ideas of what constitutes significant information, Mr Linton.’
‘Probably, Sir.’
‘Unfortunately, I myself have not been able to ascertain anything useful about the island. People seemed not very inclined to engage in a conversation with me.’
‘In spite of your manner being so warm and friendly? Fancy that.’
‘Mr Linton?’
‘Yes, Sir?’
‘Be silent!’
‘As you wish, Sir.’ I took another bite of my croissant. ‘Hm… Something useful like… maybe the fact that there is a ferry service down at the harbour on the other side of the island? Would you consider that useful?’
His eyes darkened. ‘How do you know that?’
I took another bite of my croissant and licked a bit of chocolate mousse off my thumb. Then, I jerked it over my shoulder at the smiling man with the pointy moustache, who was just now selling a piece of cake to a young lady in blue.
‘My friend over there mentioned it. It’s amazing what people tell you once you’ve bought a cup of tea and a chocolate croissant - for which you will have to pay, by the way. Did you know, for instance, that there is an abandoned salt mine up in the mountains? None of the locals or tourists dare to go there, because it’s supposed to be haunted. They know it’s haunted, because now and again, they see strange lights up there at night, and because the few people who did go up there, never came back.’
‘Indeed, Mr Linton?’
I licked another bit of chocolate mousse off my finger. Somehow, I managed to suppress a grin. ‘Yes, indeed, Sir.’
Raising his hand, Mr Ambrose stroked his chiselled chin thoughtfully. His gaze wandered to the mountains rising in the centre of the island. ‘Well, in that case, I think we'll have a look at this mine. I would like to meet a few of these ghosts.’
‘Can I have another chocolate croissant, first?’
‘Mr Linton!’
‘Coming, Sir! I’m coming!’
Mine and Yours
It only took me one look over the bush to be certain we were in the right place. Quickly, I ducked down again and whispered: ‘That’s it! Lord Dalgliesh is here!’
‘How do you know?’ Mr Ambrose enquired, not looking at me, but staring through a gap in the foliage at the man standing at the entrance to the abandoned mine. ‘That’s not Dalgliesh! I don't see him anywhere.’
‘Yes, but the guard at the entrance…!’
‘He’s wearing a French uniform. He’s not one of Dalgliesh’s men.’
‘Oh yes, he is! That’s just it! I recognized him the moment I saw him. He was one of the men on the ship, one of those who were on deck when I climbed aboard.’
Immediately, Mr Ambrose’s eyes turned sharper, more focused. They seemed to drill into the man who was standing at the entrance to the old mine, right in front of a worm-eaten old sign that said: Danger! Ne pas entrer!
‘Hm. Well, if I can forge a uniform, then so can Dalgliesh. He might not even need to. Maybe he is actually in league with the French. They cannot like the idea of a canal at Suez under the control of an Englishman any more than he does.’
I stared at him, incredulously.
‘You… you actually think he’d consider treason?’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’
There was a moment of silence while I tried to digest that piece of information.
‘All right,’ his voice finally cut through the silence, cold and controlled. ‘There are two possibilities. Either this guard is genuine, in which case he will turn us back with a few polite “Pardon, Messieurs”…’
‘I told you he isn’t genuine!’
‘…or you are right and he is in Dalgliesh’s pay, in which case he should take us for soldiers of the Presidency Armies and let us pass.’ He shot me a dark look. ‘But in that case, there is no return. Once we’re out in the open, we have to keep going, down into the mine. Do you understand, Mr Linton?’
I hesitated - then nodded. ‘Yes, Sir.’
‘I assume it would be of no avail trying to convince you to stay behind?’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘After I’ve come this far, you want me to stay here and miss all the fun? Are you mad?’
‘You have a strange definition of “fun”, Mr Linton.’
‘And you don't have one at all.’
‘Mr Linton?’
‘Yes, Sir?’
‘Be quiet.’
‘Yes, Sir!’
Methodically, he took his watch out of his pocket and fiddled around with the dials. I wanted to ask what he was doing, but that would have been rather incompatible with staying quiet. Finally, he seemed to be content, and put his watch away.
‘Mr Linton?’
‘Yes, Sir?’
‘Are you ready?’
‘Yes, Sir, I am, Sir.’
‘Then follow me.’
Slowly, he rose to his full height. Stepping out from behind the bush, he advanced on the guard in French uniform, his stride perfectly confident, as if nothing in the world could turn him back. I followed close at his heels. The guard turned his head, and spotted us.
Bugger! Please don’t shoot us, don’t shoot us, don’t shoot us…!
He didn’t make a move. Was he just too startled to react? For one moment, I questioned my own memory. Was he really one of Dalgliesh’s men? His French uniform looked perfect to the last button. He could have come from a parade on the Champs-élysées. But if he was Dalgliesh’s man, and saw through our disguise…
He reached into his pocket. Oh God! What was he going for? His gun?
He pulled out a pipe and lit it. We were only ten yards away now. His eyes followed us closely. Seven yards. Six. Five.
Please don’t get suspicious! Please don’t! Please!
He took the pipe out of his mouth. Three yards. Two. One.
We were past. He hadn’t stopped us, hadn’t acted as if we were there at all. The tunnel swallowed us, and we continued on, down into the darkness. I had been right. This was Lord Dalgliesh’s lair.
~~*~~*
I don't know how long we wandered down the gloomy tunnel. In the half-light, interrupted only by the occasional burst of brightness from an opening in the ceiling, time seemed to stand still. Or at least, to me it did. To Mr Ambrose, as the quiet ticking of his pocket watch reminded me, time was always running, and he had to catch up.
At some point, rusty rails began appearing on the ground beside us, and we saw one or two mine carts lying keeled over on the ground. Spiderwebs hung from the rusted iron and from the low, vaulted ceiling over our heads. Ahead, a point of light appeared.
‘What is that?’ I asked.
‘That,’ came Mr Ambrose’s reply, his voice as dark and cold as the tunnel around us, ‘is where Lord Dalgliesh is.’
His pace quickened. I almost had to run to keep up with him. The light in front of us grew larger and brighter, until the tunnel finally opened up spat us out. My mouth dropped open. And this time not because of seeing women display their knees on the beach.
We were standing at the edge of a huge natural cave. The ceiling high above our heads was a monster’s jaw, armed with stalactites as tusks and teeth. Torches hung from iron brackets on the walls, their smoke disappearing through a dark hole in the ceiling. With the view thus not obscured by smoke, as it usually would have been in any mine, I could clearly see the figures that stood and marched all around the giant cavern: soldiers.