Hunting for Silence (Storm and Silence 5)

‘In the name of the…What is that smell?’

I put my hands on my hips. ‘Hey! I just washed myself.’

‘Karim.’ Mr Ambrose stepped forward, gaining his bodyguard’s attention. ‘You were victorious?’

‘Indeed, Sahib. Thanks in part to this gentleman.’

He gestured to the French officer beside him, and the man stepped forward, saluting. ‘Good evening, Monsieur Ambrose. I’ve been sent to…Bon Dieu!’ Pulling an embroidered silk handkerchief out of his pocket, he waved it in front of his nose. ‘What in God’s name is that smell?’

‘I’m washing again, all right? I’m washing again!’

‘I’m Mr Rikkard Ambrose.’ Completely ignoring my diligent attempts to scrub behind my ears in the horse trough, my dear employer stepped forward and inclined his head. ‘May I assume that you were sent here by a certain concerned politician?’

‘You are as wise and discreet as His Excellency the minister intimated.’ The French officer gave a small bow. ‘Indeed, Monsieur, you are correct. His Excellency thought you might require some aid. And when he received your message—’

Sputtering and spraying water in all directions, I resurfaced from the horse trough. ‘Message? What message?’

Glancing over at me without bothering to turn his head, Mr Ambrose raised one eyebrow infinitesimally. ‘While we were at Jacques’ charming establishment, I paid someone to take a message to a certain politician we met yesterday, asking for reinforcements. Didn’t I mention that before?’

‘No. Somehow you neglected to tell me that fact before I risked my neck in a harebrained dash to suicide!’

I glared at him, demanding to see some guilt on his face.

But this Mr Rikkard Ambrose. He didn’t have a face, just a stone bust attached to his torso. Giving up, I plunged my head back into the horse trough. I’d set his ears on fire later!

‘Blldiag blablbdaa lmalablablabldlaa?’

‘Lblablda ddldkd dklal ak abblaoble.’

Who knew? The most incompressible language I had encountered so far on my travels wasn’t French, Spanish, or even Portuguese, but my own, listened to from underwater with my head stuck inside a horse trough. Maybe all English speakers should walk around with horse troughs on their head. It might encourage them to become bilingual.

Before I could come to any deeper underwater philosophical conclusions, however, my air ran out, and I had to resurface. I came up just in time to hear the French gentleman enquire: ‘…correct in the assumption that your mission is of a time-sensitive nature?’

‘Indeed.’

‘Very well. I shall detain you no further, then. Do you need someone to take care of your wound?’

‘Not currently, no. I have a very, very diligent nurse with me.’

‘Nurse?’ The French officer glanced around. ‘Where is she?’

‘She’s hiding,’ Mr Ambrose said, his face as deadpan as a recently murdered cooking pot.

‘No wonder. Poor dear, she must ‘ave been frightened to death by this massacre. Such matters are no place for delicate ladies. She’s probably shivering in a corner somewhere.’

I felt a sudden desire to plunge his head into the horse trough. But before I could, the inn door opened and the innkeeper cautiously stuck his head outside. Once he saw that bullets were no longer flying, his caution evaporated instantly, and he burst into the open, gesticulating wildly.

‘C’est un outrage! Les citoyens honnêtes ne peuvent-ils pas aller de leurs affaires quotidiennes en paix en France de nos jours? Je vais me plaindre au maire! Je vais me plaindre au gouverneur! Je vais me plaindre au—’[45]

‘À moins que vous ne souhaitiez vous plaindre à Sa Majesté le roi, vous feriez mieux de fermer la bouche tout de suite!’[46]

The sharp voice of the French officer cut the man off. When he caught sight of the sabers, rifles, and uniforms, his eyes widened, and he retreated.

‘Leave,’ the officer advised Mr Ambrose. ‘We can ‘andle this. You have your own work to do. We’ll take care of the bodies and make sure this little incident will not fall under further scrutiny.’

My dear employer nodded—about as much of a ‘thank you’ as you could expect to get from Mr Rikkard Ambrose. Marching over to the nearest horse, he swung himself onto its back before anyone noticed it wasn’t his, and gave the animal the spurs.

‘Come, Mr Linton!’