Storm and Silence (Storm and Silence 1)

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. W

hen 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?’