‘Come on! Not you, too!’
He raised an eyebrow about one quarter of a millimetre. He didn’t even need to say anything. It was very, very clear that Mr Rikkard Ambrose did not consider stealing laundry to be an appropriate way to occupy the finely-tuned money-grabbing instruments that were his hands.
Muttering a curse that wasn’t very complimentary to the male species, I dashed out from behind the tree and grabbed the first bright red and blue thing I could get my hands on. Quickly, I dashed back behind my cover and ducked down into safety just before the housekeeper reappeared from behind the chicken pen.
‘Here!’ I hissed, throwing the bundle of cloth at Karim. ‘I hope you choke on it.’
Not deigning to dignify that with an answer, the Mohammedan shook out the garment—and his eyes went wide.
Oh dear.
It took a very, very great deal of effort for me not to burst out laughing. What I had snatched off the washing line was indeed red, white and golden, the colours of the presidency armies. However, it could only be called a ‘uniform’ in the broadest sense of the word. Apparently, one of the officer’s wives must have been feeling patriotic, and had had the fabulous idea to order a dress in her husband’s uniform colours. The result was something which, in addition to bringing every fashion-sensitive person to their knees, quite literally had the power to make Karim choke. At least if he had to put it on.
‘My goodness,’ I said. ‘Dear me.’
‘Indeed,’ Mr Ambrose affirmed.
‘Gndrnxs,’ Karim said.
Was that a Punjabi word? Probably not. For a moment, silence reigned in the backyard, except for the whistle of the housekeeper collecting her laundry in the distance.
‘Well,’ I finally managed, ‘look on the bright side. You will definitely make an impression on the governor-general. If a seven-foot-tall bearded man came into my room dressed in that, I don’t see how I would be able to help listening. Of course, I might not hear everything because I would be too busy staring.’
Karim made an indistinct noise in the back of the gravel driveway he called a throat. ‘Woman?’
‘Yes?’
‘Not another word!’
Ordinarily, I would have had a lot to say in response to that, but in that very moment, a gasp suddenly came from behind me.
‘What the—’
I whirled around to come face-to-face with a guard who had, to judge by his open fly, just come around the bushes to relief himself, only to discover the spot was already occupied. I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t think. I just whipped out my pistol and pointed it at the man’s head.
‘Don’t make a sound. Hands in the air!’
The man’s hands flew into the air, causing his open trousers to notice the law of gravity.
There was a rustling of cloth and a clink, as a belt buckle hit the ground.
Ugh. Not a pretty sight. But after all, we were here on a mission. You had to endure suffering for a great cause. I cocked my gun, and pointed at the man’s trousers.
‘Excellent. Keep going.’
The soldier blinked, uncomprehending. ‘W-what?’
‘Keep going. Take off your clothes.’
‘Y-you want me to…’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m a soldier of the presidency armies!’ The man’s chest puffed out. ‘Whoever you are, know that I will not be forced to suffer such indignities!’
I considered for a moment—then shifted my gun from the man’s head to his lower parts.
‘Now!’