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Secret preparations. Scouting. These words sounded familiar. They sounded like something you would do when you were planning something illegal.

‘Sahib… I must once more raise the matter of-’Advertisement

‘No! Karim, we discussed this.’

‘Still, Sahib, going in there by yourself…’

Violently, I jerked away from the keyhole and stared at it in disbelief. But as soon as they started speaking again, I pressed my ear back against the metal. Surely I could not have heard right!

‘I have always done what needed doing myself.’

He had? Damn and blast the arrogant bastard!

‘Yes, you have, Sahib. In the colonies, when we were dealing with bandits, and gold-diggers and other fools who thought too highly of themselves. This is an operation of Dalgliesh’s, Sahib.’ Karim’s voice hesitated. ‘You know what happened the last time you faced him, Sahib.’

The silence that erupted on the other side of the door could have cut iron.

What? What happened? Lord Dalgliesh and Mr Ambrose have met before? Go on! What happened? I want to know!

Silence.

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Speak up, blast you!

Silence.

Then, a voice. But not the one I had been hoping to hear.

‘I… am sorry, Sahib.’

‘I will go alone.’ Mr Ambrose voice was as cutting and cold as his silence had been. ‘Who else can I trust to do it right?’

‘You can trust me, Sahib.’ If I wasn’t very much mistaken, I could hear something like hurt in the bearded mountain’s voice.

‘I know. Which is why I need you to say here to keep an eye on things.’

‘I… Very well. As you wish, Sahib.’

To the dickens with the Sahib’s wishes! Mr Ambrose was not going alone! I was going to stick with him, if it was the last thing I did!

If there had been other men in the room, they might have exchanged a few pleasantries before breaking up the meeting. But I had learned enough about Mr Ambrose by now to know that he wasn’t given to chatter. Karim left the room, and I hastily got up off the powder room floor, dusted off my knees and cracked the door open, peeking out.

Mr Ambrose was sitting behind his desk. When I entered, he looked up from the papers he was studying, meeting my gaze coolly. I had to catch my breath when I looked into his eyes. How come I had never noticed quite how beautiful their deep, dark depths were until this moment?

‘You heard.’ It was a statement, not a question.

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Then forget what you heard.’

‘I cannot do that, Sir.’

‘Oh? I gave you an order.’

‘You can take your order and stick it up your- um, I mean you can take your order and feed it to the ducks in Green Park! I’m coming with you!’

There was no need to say when and where. We both knew what I was referring to.

‘No.’

‘Yes, I am!’

‘No, you are not.’ His eyes glittered with frost. ‘Mr Linton - believe me when I say that if we could recapture the file by excessive consumption of alcohol, you would be in the front lines. Unfortunately, this is not the case, and I therefore decline your request.’

‘It was no request! I can’t let you go in there alone!’

‘You can, and you will.’

Dear God! Had he always been like this? Was this why his wife had left him and was bombarding him with pink letters? Were they living apart? But why would she be sending him letters if they were parted?

Although I had to admit to my shame that, in her place, I might be sending him letters, too, just to have him snap back at me.

In defiance, I shook my head. ‘I won’t let you go alone! I won’t!’

‘Yes, you will.’

‘But…’ For some reason my voice was unsteady. ‘But Karim said… he said armed guards. You could be hurt out there or… or killed.’

Silence.

‘At least tell me what it is,’ I pleaded. ‘Tell me what that damned file is! Tell me what is worth risking your life for!’

The silence stretched between us as we gazed at each other.

He swallowed.

‘You want to know what’s in the file?’ he asked, his voice like a raw winter blizzard. ‘You really want to know?’

‘Yes.’ My voice - small, tense, expectant - was nothing like his.

‘In the file,’ he said, ‘is the centre of the world.’

Different Sorts of Silence

I stared at him, uncomprehending. His words had registered, but I had no idea of their actual meaning.

The centre of the world.

‘Forgive me, Sir, but I don't…’

His eyes narrowed infinitesimally.

‘Get out.’

‘What?’

‘You understood me, I believe? I have told you what you wanted to know. Now get out! And shut the door behind you.’

‘But-’

‘This is an order!’

My hands opened and closed in helpless anger. I had no choice. I had to obey or be dismissed. And right now, I could see he was hungry for me to give him the chance. His words came back to me, ringing loudly in my head - affection is not among the services I require of you. What was I doing? Why was I arguing to risk my life alongside him? I whirled on the spot and stormed out of his room, into mine.

My room. The centre of my world. But not the centre of all the world.

The centre of the world… The words echoed in my head with ominous significance. What on earth could he have meant?

He didn’t give me much chance to ponder his strange revelation. As soon as I was in my office again, the door firmly shut behind me, I heard him get up from his chair and lock the door from the other side. It didn’t take long until I heard a familiar plink from the wall beside my desk.

The rest of the workday went by in a blur of fetching papers, and plinks and trying not to worry about the writer of the pink letters or what Mr Ambrose intended to do.

I shook my head. He couldn’t really be planning to break into Lord Dalgliesh’s…?

No!

I mean, he was a businessman, not the leader of some street gang. Though… he hadn’t practised his business here in London, I remembered, but in some corner of the former colonies. The West of America, if I remembered correctly? There was something about that region… I seemed to recall having heard it called the ‘Wild West’ once. pqdm.com