Silence Is Golden (Storm and Silence 3)

Calm, I told myself. If he can stay calm, so can you.

‘And how, if I may ask, Sir, did you know that I had an emergency set of clothes stashed in my uncle’s garden shed?’

‘You may not.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You may not ask. Get dressed.’

And, dumping the pile of clothes into my lap, he climbed out of the coach, firmly shutting the door behind him.

For a moment, one blissful, feminist, rebellious moment, I considered going after him and fulfilling my homicidal fantasies. Then I remembered that he was the man signing my pay cheque at the end of each month, and without that signature, my agenda for independence would go down the drain faster than you could say ‘Not fair!’ Pulling down the blinds with a muttered curse, I started the arduous process of squirming out of a dress.

Fifteen minutes later I emerged from the coach, quite literally a new man. Stopping two feet in front of Mr Ambrose, I gave a mock salute.

‘Mr Victor Linton reporting for duty, Sir!’

‘You took your time.’

‘Would you have preferred it if I took yours?’

‘Wit is not something I pay you for, Mr Linton.’

‘Unfortunately, Sir.’

I suppressed a grin as I saw his left little finger twitch. ‘We have work to do. Follow me!’

‘Yes, Sir!’

We left the yard and entered through large double doors into the main hall. All eyes snapped to us the moment we entered, and let me tell you, there were a lot of them. Eyes, I mean. Clerks, accountants and messengers were hurrying hither and thither, and probably also fither and lither, making absolutely sure that they had performed every minutest task to Mr Ambrose’s perfect satisfaction. The moment the great master himself entered the hall, a hush fell over the hurrying crowd, and though they did not dare to slow down, they veered off to the left and right, avoiding Mr Ambrose like panicking chickens as he strode through the hall, me following in his wake. The instant we vanished into the stairwell, an audible sigh of relief sounded from the hall behind us.

Mr Ambrose was the first and last person I had ever met who had mastered the art of marching up a staircase. I guarantee you, even if trained soldiers tried this, they’d break their neck at the second step. But Mr Ambrose did it as if there were nothing to it, and was quicker than I when I was flat-out running. He was at the top long before I was.

Did he wait for me?

I’ll give you three guesses.

Thud!

The sound of his office door slamming shut greeted me as I reached the top landing, panting and out of breath.

‘Good morning, Mr Linton,’ Mr Stone, the receptionist, greeted me with a timid smile. ‘In a good mood today, is he?’

‘Excellent!’ I panted. ‘We’ve just come from the Royal Wedding.’

‘Ah. That explains it. Here.’ Mr Stone bent to retrieve something from a drawer, and when he came up again, held out a stack of letters to me. ‘The correspondence of the day.’

Immediately, a large, scented pink envelope with a coat of arms stamped on it caught my eye. Mr Stone, who had noticed the direction, nodded.

‘Yes. One of those again.’

‘They’ve been coming more frequently, lately, haven’t they?’

‘Almost every day.’

‘Hm.’ Taking the envelopes, I studied the pink intruder carefully.

‘What do you do with them, if I may ask, Mr Linton?’ Mr Stone enquired shyly.