By the time I had managed to get to my feet, he was already striding along the roof towards the distant figure of Simmons. Striding, not running.
Simmons, however, was running. Oh boy, how he was running. He already was off the flat roof of this building and onto the next, built right beside it. What was Mr Ambrose thinking? He still hadn’t sped up, and he would never catch up with the thief at this pace!
But Mr Ambrose didn’t seem to mind. He strode along the roof, his cane in his hand, his six men flanking him, as though nothing in the world could escape him. Getting to my feet, I hurried after them as quickly as I could.
But it would be no use. They weren’t going to hurry up, I could see that now, and I wasn’t in the best condition for a chase, wearing a broken hoop skirt and bruises in various places.
With a cry of triumph, Simmons jumped onto the next building. There was some sort of structure on top - the entrance to a staircase that led down onto the street! He would do it! He would get away!
Then the men appeared.
They appeared as sudden as could be: from behind chimneys, gables and bay windows. They stood between Simmons and his escape. As soon as he saw them, he froze.
I didn’t understand until I saw the giant turban-wearing figure right in the middle of the men, opposite Simmons. Karim. The pack of wolves had cornered their prey.
Catching up to Mr Ambrose, I hissed in his ear: ‘You were planning this the whole time, weren’t you? You sent Karim up on the roof before we went in!’
‘Yes.’
‘So why did you leave me stewing like this? Why didn’t you tell me?’
His face remained completely expressionless. ‘Hmm… I really can’t think why I did that. I mean, you have always been so open and honest with me.’
‘Oh ha, ha, ha.’
He threw a sideways glance at me and my hoop skirt, which now would have to be more appropriately described as a hexagonal skirt with severe sartorial malformation. ‘By the way, Mr Linton, I like your new look. The dress looks exquisite on you. Those tears down the side and the broken whalebones - quite haute couture[26], I must say.’
‘Thank you, Sir,’ I hissed. If looks could only kill, he would be already decapitated right now.
Up ahead, Simmons had turned around and was chasing back over the roofs. Apparently he had thrown a look back earlier and seen nobody following and now expected the way to be clear. When he caught sight of the eight of us approaching, he stopped dead.
Mr Ambrose nodded to his six men. They stopped walking, just standing still and watching. He himself took a few more steps forward until only a few yards separated him from his prey.
‘Simmons,’ he said in a level tone. That was all. Just the name.
The thief looked around him with wild eyes, searching for a way to escape. But there was none. Then he looked down into the street. The few people who were walking down there in the fog had not looked up and noticed anything yet. They were totally oblivious to the goings-on far above their heads.
Simmons opened his mouth.
‘I wouldn’t do that,’ Mr Ambrose warned. And there it was - that cool tone of superiority in his voice that solely belonged to old aristocracy. How come I had never noticed it before?
With great effort, Simmons swallowed. His eyes darted to Mr Ambrose, and away again.
‘D-do what?’
‘You were going to call out.’
‘Mr Ambrose, I never…’
‘Do you remember what I said would happen to you if I heard one more lie from your lips?’
The thin blonde man paled and took a step backwards.
‘Mr Ambrose, Sir, please…’
With a few bold steps, Mr Ambrose stood in front of the quivering Simmons. He looked cold, hard, and implacable - a lord or even a king sitting in judgement over his traitorous subject. I didn’t want to be in my predecessor’s shoes right now.
‘The file, Simmons. Where is it?’
The intensity in his voice… again, curiosity welled up in me as to the contents of that damned file. Maybe, if I asked Mr Ambrose again…
The other said nothing, but just continued to quiver where he stood.
‘Where is the file, Simmons?’
No answer.
‘For the last time - where is the file?’ Mr Ambrose’s voice had gotten colder as he spoke and now sounded sharp and dangerous as an iceberg. ‘You will give it to me, or… or… or maybe you cannot.’ His dark eyes widened a little. ‘The money on your bed… You have already been paid for your theft! You haven’t got the file anymore. It is…’
Simmons dashed forward and tried to push past Mr Ambrose. He grabbed the ex-secretary’s arm and Simmons whirled around. His hand disappeared under his tailcoat for a moment and reappeared holding a short but wickedly sharp-looking sword.[27]
I think I gave a shout or scream or something, I didn’t really know. Everything happened in a blur of motion. The blade of Simmons' sword came up and would have stabbed Mr Ambrose in the gut, but then it smashed against something I couldn’t see, and a metallic sound rang out over the rooftops.
Mr Ambrose sprang back, holding his cane defensively in front of him. His wooden cane? But then what had made that metallic sound?
Gripping its lower part with the left hand, Mr Ambrose pulled at the hilt of his cane with the right, and a slim blade shot out of the hollow wood. He raised it in a defensive position and waited.
Simmons came at him, giving a loud screech that sounded hardly human. Their blades met with a clang. Mr Ambrose held him in that position, blade to blade
‘You’re finished, Simmons,’ he said, voice still perfectly cool.
‘Really?’ Simmons grunted. ‘What makes you think you’ll beat me?’
‘He does.’ Mr Ambrose nodded to something behind Simmons.
Before the ex-secretary could turn around, Karim stepped up behind him and let the pommel of his sabre come down on his head with a resounding thud. Simmons crumpled to the floor like a marionette whose strings had been cut.
‘Simmons, Simmons.’ Mr Ambrose shook his head and looked down at the groaning man. ‘You really are a simpleton.’ Bending down, he pried the sword from Simmons' hand. ‘That petty stash of money we found in your room - you should have asked three times as much. Considering the trouble you’re in now, it would only have been appropriate.’
Grabbing Simmons by the neck he hauled him to his feet and more or less hurled the man at Karim, who caught him and delivered another blow to his head that knocked him clean unconscious.
‘Let’s go,’ Mr Ambrose said. ‘We’re finished here.’
The unconscious ex-secretary slung over one shoulder, Karim strode to the staircase entrance that Simmons had been heading for. Apparently, he and the other men had come up this way and had made preparations for coming down again, for when we had climbed down the stairs and left the building, a coach was waiting for us. Not a cab this time, but a real, large coach, with one of those discreetly-dressed men, of which Warren seemed to have an infinite supply, sitting on the box.
The coach was parked directly in front of the entrance, so nobody could see us as we climbed inside. I glanced at Mr Ambrose. Or was he more than just a mister? Images whirled through my head… A noble crest… A suitcase full of money… Flashing swords…
You should have asked three times as much.
Heavens above. What could be worth that much money? What would be worth the risk of betraying this man?
‘What an extravagant vehicle,’ I remarked, trying to dispel my dark thoughts. ‘I’m quite surprised that you would use something as expensive as this.’
‘I did a cost-benefit analysis,’ he replied, drily, pointing to Simmons limp body. ‘And I decided the benefit of not getting thrown into prison for abduction was worth the cost of a coach.’
‘Very wise, Sir.’
‘Agreed, Mr Linton. Pull down the blinds.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘You could at least say please.’