The next day I noticed that I was quite distracted by Ella’s troubles. Do you want to know how I noticed? It wasn’t that I forgot to go to work, oh no. I forgot to change before going to work and almost walked up to Mr Stone’s desk in a long dress and hoop skirt, announcing myself as ‘Mr Linton’.

That would have been a real scandal for Mr Ambrose to worry about!

I noticed my wrong attire just in time and had to hurry back and change in a wild frenzy. By the time I had run back to Empire House it was already nine o'clock. I hurried up the stairs and into my office, only giving Mr Stone a brief nod in passing. My desperate lungs lacked the air for a proper greeting. Wheezing, I collapsed onto my chair and let my head fall onto the table.

Just then, a message container flew out of the tube with a quiet plink. With the one hand I felt capable of moving I picked it up, opened it and unrolled the message. My eyes focused on the words:

Mr Linton

You are 1 minute and 37 seconds late. If that occurs again, you can consider yourself dismissed.

Rikkard Ambrose

This chap really knew how to give you a warm welcome. For a moment I considered telling him about my sister’s romantic troubles, to make an excuse. But then I decided against it. It would be like trying to explain dancing the polka to a rock in the desert. He just wouldn’t get it.

Next I considered going over there and skinning him alive. But that might not be so great an idea either. First of all, it might get me sacked. Secondly, I couldn’t muster the energy to get up. And thirdly, the blasted door was still locked anyway!

A plink announced the arrival of the next message.

It appeared that I had to get up, whether I had the energy or not! The message read:

Mr Linton,

Fetch file S39XX300

Rikkard Ambrose.

Spiffing! Simply Spiffing! Here we go again. Rising, I started towards the rows of shelves. But then I hesitated.

Wait just a moment… file S39XX300?

I frowned. The numbering systems for the files didn’t start with letters, did it? It always started with numbers proclaiming the years of the file’s origin. The 39 in the name probably stood for 1839, this very year, but 'S'? What did that stand for? Snoop? Saucy? Silly?

I went looking under 39 because I didn’t know what else to do. Ten minutes later, I had three open boxes standing before me and a volcano rumbling somewhere inside me.

Dear Mr Ambrose

There is no file S39XX300. I cannot find it.

Yours sincerely

Miss Lilly Linton

The reply came immediately.

Mr Linton,

There IS a file S39XX300 Have you looked in the safe?

Rikkard Ambrose.

What the heck?

Dearest Mr Ambrose,

I did not know there was a safe here. Might I inquire why you neglected to tell me this?

Yours always

Miss Lilly Linton

Angrily I shoved the message into the tube and waited. Only half a minute later, a plink announced the answer.

Mr Linton,

You might indeed enquire. It is because I expect my employees be capable of independent thought. The 'S' stands for safe. If that is too difficult for you to comprehend, then maybe you should look for another post. One more fitted to your limited intellectual capabilities.

Rikkard Ambrose

The arrogant… ‘limited intellectual capabilities’? Gah! I didn’t even know what names to call him! The newspaper articles about women’s insufficient brain size and all the other arguments against our working and voting came to mind. Oh how I would have loved to skin that man alive. And then maybe roast him slowly over an open fire…

Dear Mr Ambrose,

I will go looking for the safe directly. Do not fear - even my limited mental capacity should be sufficient to find a big metal box.

Yours always (Which means you’re not getting rid of me!)

Miss Lilly Linton

I stood up. I went looking. I found the safe. It took me only five minutes and then I was back at my desk - still without file S39XX300, for a very simple reason. Fuming, I grabbed a message slip from the bowl and scrawled four simple words on it.

The safe is locked!

Had he been waiting for me to write that? Because the reply came almost instantly.

Mr Linton,

It is locked to keep things safe. That is why it is called a safe.

Rikkard Ambrose

Gah! Was this man trying to drive me crazy? Well… probably. To hell with him!

Dear Mr Ambrose,

I know it what a safe is, thank you very much. And I know it is locked, because I have tried to open it and not succeeded, as mentioned before. WHERE IS THE KEY?

Yours Sincerely

Miss Lilly Linton

I pushed the message into the tube with maybe a bit more force than necessary and pulled the lever. His answer came as quick as ever.

Mr Linton,

Writing in capitals is not as quick or efficient as writing in normal letters. Please refrain from such time-wasting habits while in my employ. The key I have already pushed under the door, as any observant employee would have noticed.

Rikkard Ambrose

Muttering some not very polite things about Mr Ambrose, I went over to the door and fetched the key. Then I returned to the back of the room where, in a small niche I hadn’t noticed before today, a big, black metal door had been inserted into the wall, with the word 'Ambrose' written in simple steel letters at the top. I wondered for a moment why he would feel the need to write his name on his own safe. Did he have that bad a memory? Then I realized that it was probably the name of the manufacturer. So he made safes, did he? What else did he do?

Pushing the thought aside and the key into the lock, I turned it and opened the door. It went smoothly and without even squeaking. Sleek and impenetrable, just like its maker.

I had expected a metal container of maybe about three square feet to lie beyond. Instead I found myself facing the gloom of an enormous steel room, larger than my office, with scores of objects on the shelves that lined the walls.

There was everything from the mundane file box to strange rocks, painted wooden idols and large scrolls of parchment that looked as though they had already lived through several centuries. What the hell were these? If Mr Ambrose was an industrialist as the duchess had suggested, where had he gotten these from? They didn’t look like anything coming out of a factory.

On the contrary - they spoke of distance, danger, mystery.

Resisting my mighty urge to go and investigate, I turned towards the file boxes and examined their numbers, one by one. There was an S39XX299 and an S39XX301 - but no S39XX300. What was he playing at? Did he do that on purpose?

I marched back to my desk and composed a fitting message. I even managed not to put any swear words in.

Dear Mr Ambrose,

There is no box S39XX300.

Yours Sincerely

Miss Lilly Linton

The message container returned. Pulling it open, I read:

Mr Linton,

I told you to look in the safe.

Rikkard Ambrose

This was getting to be a bit too much!

Dear Mr Ambrose,

I did look in the safe. It is not there. If you cannot understand my written messages, I would offer you to read my lips. But unfortunately that is not possible since the door to your office is still locked. So let me say it in plain English once again: There is no box S39XX300 in the safe.

Yours Sincerely

Lilly Linton

When his reply came, the letters were a bit different. Not a hasty scrawl, no - they were as clear and legible as always. But one could be led to think that he had pressed the pen slightly harder on the paper as he scratched those words. Wait… He had the gall to be getting angry? He?

Mr Linton,

If by this subterfuge you think you can make me open my door so you can air your grievances, you are very much mistaken. Bring me file box S39XX300 or you can consider yourself dismissed.

Rikkard Ambrose

The thunderclouds of my temper began to gather, reading those words. But simultaneously I felt a tingling sensation run down my spine. This box seemed to be pretty important - and it wasn’t where it was supposed to be. What was going on?

Led by this strange feeling, my reply to Mr Ambrose was considerably more conciliatory than it ordinarily would have been.

Dear Mr Ambrose,

Whatever you may think of my intelligence, it is not so slight as to risk my future merely to get a look at your profile. You are not that nice-looking. The box in question is really not here.

Miss Lilly Linton

My heart rate picked up as I pushed the message container into the tube. Would he believe me or just fire me? Did the box he wanted even exist, or was it just an excuse to get rid of me?

I looked around the bare room and felt a lump rising in my throat. Although I didn’t want to admit it, I had already become accustomed to the stark surroundings, accustomed to the idea that this place was mine, my own way to freedom. What would I do if I lost it?

Slowly I pulled the lever, and my message disappeared into the tube.

The answer came not long after. I opened and unrolled it - and my eyes widened. If the situation hadn’t been so serious, the reply would have made me laugh!

Mr Linton,

Do you give me your word of honour as a gentlema- as a lad- as an honourable person that you are speaking the truth?

Rikkard Ambrose.

Somehow I couldn’t keep a slight grin from my face as I wrote the reply.

Dear Mr Ambrose,

I give you my word of honour as a lady who wears trousers that there is indeed no box of the aforementioned number/name in your safe.

Miss Lilly Linton

There was no reply. Nothing. For two entire minutes I sat there and waited, but nothing came. I had almost given up waiting and was chastising myself for my silly fancies. The box probably wasn’t important at all. It was probably some old box he had mistakenly thrown away. That had to be all.

I had almost convinced myself of that explanation.

Then I heard the rustle of keys from the other side of the room. My head snapped up just in time to see the connecting door to Mr Ambrose’s office swing open.

*~*~**~*~*

The moment I saw him I knew I had been wrong. Wrong about two things, to be exact:

Firstly, the missing file box was important.

And secondly, seeing his profile might actually be worth losing your job over.

There he stood: a lean figure, his arms crossed tightly in front of his chest, revealing taut muscles in his upper arms. In his black tailcoat, trousers and shirt he looked like some menacing manifestation of the night, come to banish the day before it was time. The fact that he had a face that seemed to have been cut from a mountain by some ancient master didn’t hurt either. I was paralysed in my chair - not with fear exactly. No, certainly not! I would never be afraid! Rather with… oh, I didn’t know! Whatever it was, I had to get a grip, and fast!

‘Mr Linton.’ His voice was just as I remembered it. Cold and clipped. He nodded at me, but before I could even open my mouth or think of a reply, he had marched past me. I stared after him until he vanished between the shelves at the other end of my office.

Mister Linton? Mister Linton? So he was still going to keep that up, even now that he was forced to talk to me again?

My paralysis suddenly lifted, and I jumped to my feet. I’d show him! I’d show that son of a bachelor!

With three quick steps I was between the shelves. There was no sign of him there, but the door to the safe still stood open. He was in there.

For one moment I was tempted to shove the door closed and lock it - but no. If I ever did choke him, I wanted my hands around his throat. Letting him suffocate in an airtight safe was much too impersonal.

Taking a deep, relaxing breath, I stepped in after him - and stopped in my tracks.

The inside of the safe room was a mess. Files were scattered everywhere on the floor. Standing before the shelves containing the boxes, Mr Ambrose was thoroughly busy dismantling and examining every part of every file box he could find, and once he was done with them, throwing them over his shoulder onto the floor. He was like a ravenous animal burrowing through the carcass of a deer. The only difference was: while a ravenous animal might have found what it needed to still its hunger in a carcass, he appeared to come up blank.

‘It must be here,’ he muttered. ‘It must be!’

‘What must be here?’ I asked. He completely ignored me. By Jove, what a surprise!

Why did I even bother to ask? I knew what he was looking for, didn’t I? File S39XX300. But what was so bloody important about that file?

‘It must be here. It must be.’ He didn’t say it angrily as such - but the determination in his words was like iron. Hundreds of files, which before had been in impeccable order, now lay scattered all over the metal floor of the safe, and still he continued his wild hunt.

I stood mute at the door and watched him. Even had I known how to help, I wouldn’t have dared get in his way. It took him about half an hour to turn the orderly file boxes into a monumental mess. Finally, the very last file was in his hand. He looked at the number and let it drop to the floor with a clatter.

He stood like that for a moment, rock-still.

Then he whirled around. The look in his dark eyes made me retreat a step.

‘You!’ he hissed, coldly. He didn’t say anything more. He didn’t need to. I knew it was an accusation. My breathing sped up.

Dear God! He suspected me of stealing the file! Me! Sweet little me!

What was he going to do? Call the police? Looking into his eyes, somehow I doubted that. I remembered Karim and the huge sabre, and my heart sped up some more.

‘Where is it?’ he asked.

‘Th-the file? I d-don't know.’

In two steps, he was in front of me. Hell’s whiskers! I hadn’t noticed how tall he was before. He was towering over me.

Why the hell was I so nervous? What could he do to me, anyway?

Well… looked pretty sharp the last time you saw it, don’t you think?

He wouldn’t harm me, would he?

‘Tell me what you have done with the file,’ he said in his usual cold, hard voice, ‘or you will learn how to swim face down in the Thames tonight.’

All right… that answered my question pretty succinctly. My whole body felt cold all of a sudden. Darn! Was he being serious?

I looked into his eyes.

Yes, he was. Absolutely serious.

‘You… you wouldn’t dare!’ I managed to whisper.

‘Really?’ Raising his hand, he counted dispassionately: ‘Firstly, nobody knows you are really here. You do not exist, Mr Victor Linton.’

His lips didn’t curve into a derisive smile, but even without that I could hear the cold venom he put into my invented name.

‘Nobody will care if you vanish, and nobody will connect your disappearance to the death of some young poor lady found drowned in the Thames,’ he continued.

He extended a second finger. ‘Secondly, I have very discreet associates. It would be a marvel if your body was even found.’

Another finger. He caught my gaze with his, and held it. ‘Thirdly, look at me. Look into my eyes and then tell me again I would not dare to get rid of you.’

Well, at least I now knew one thing. He was no industrialist who had made his fortune by producing tin cans or porcelain figurines. He was something else entirely.

‘Where,’ he asked in a voice so low I almost didn’t catch it, ‘is the file. Last chance, Mr Linton.’

‘I… I…’ Dammit, what was happening to me? I could feel my whole body beginning to shake, and my eyes felt strange. They felt as if they were… wet.

Oh no! No, no, no and no again! I was not going to cry like some little girl! Not in front of him. Not now. I was going to be brave and prove to him that I was just as good as any man and… and…

I started to cry.

I admit it, all right? I started to cry.

‘I… I don't know,’ I sniffled, lowering my head and searching desperately for a handkerchief. But these were my uncle’s trousers, and he never went out, so there were no handkerchiefs in his pockets. Hurriedly, I tried to wipe away the tears with my sleeve before he could see them. ‘I didn’t take your file! I didn’t! I…’

I blinked up at him, breathing heavily. What was he going to do now? Call his henchmen and have me killed?

To my surprise I saw him not where he had been a moment ago. He had retreated a few steps. The ice had gone out of his eyes, and he was standing in a slightly awkward position, his hands tugged into the pockets of his waistcoat as if he didn’t know what to do with them.

‘Um… here,’ he muttered. Pulling one of his hands out of the pocket, he handed me a clean white linen handkerchief.

‘You just threatened to kill me and now you’re offering me a handkerchief?’ I asked, tearfully.

He shrugged, and the awkwardness vanished as he fixed me with his eyes again. ‘I can hardly question you further while you are… leaking like this. It is noisy and messy. Put an end to it. Now!’

Taking the handkerchief, I blew my nose in a noisy and not very ladylike manner. Then I held it out to him.

‘Here.’

He shook his head.

‘You don't want it back?’

‘Are you mad?’ he demanded. ‘Of course I do! That thing cost three shillings and tuppence! I would simply be very obliged if you washed it before giving it back, though.’

‘Oh… err… of course I will.’ I paused. ‘If you don't kill me, that is,’ I added, as an afterthought.

‘Oh, that.’ He shifted uncomfortably for a moment. Mr Ambrose, uncomfortable? What was this?

Finally he waved deprecatingly. ‘I have thought of a better way. A way I can determine whether you are guilty or innocent.’

‘Well, I’m very glad to hear it.’

‘I imagine so.’ Straightening into his usual erect pose again, Mr Ambrose clapped his hand. ‘Karim!’

He hadn’t even called very loudly, and there was a locked door in the way. There was no way the big bearded fellow could have heard him.

‘You called, Sahib?’

With a yelp, I sprang back and whirled to see the Mohammedan standing right behind me, towering in the safe’s doorway.

With a curt wave, Mr Ambrose directed him back into my office.

‘Search the room. File S39XX300.’

Apparently, Mr Ambrose was as economical with his words as with his money and facial expressions. Karim didn’t need any more explanation. He went back into my office. Soon after, I heard the noise of drawers being opened.

‘So what is it?’ I asked. ‘This better method that does not require me to learn to swim with my lungs full of water?’

Was my voice steady? I thought it was. I probably should have been more scared, but somehow this felt unreal. I was discussing with a practical stranger his reasons for not wanting to kill me. Was this really happening?

‘Well, you did not have the keys for the safe until today,’ Mr Ambrose reasoned, his gaze wandering up and down my body in a strange manner. ‘I do not believe you are capable of cracking a safe. Ergo, if you took the file, you must have done it today. And if it is not in your office, you must still have it on you.’

‘And?’ I asked. ‘What do you intend to do now?’

His gaze went up and down my body again. ‘As I said,’ he repeated, his dark, sea-coloured eyes intent. ‘You must have it on you.’ He took a step towards me.

And suddenly I understood.

My hands shot up to shield me. ‘Oh no. No, nononono, Mister! Don’t even think about it!’