I woke up and thought: The day has come.

Today Mr Ambrose would go to number 97 East India Dock Road, and…

An excited shiver went through me. I didn’t really know what exactly he was going to do - but I didn’t think it would be very legal.

It’ll be exciting, though.

Oh yes. It definitely would be exciting. And I was supposed to stay home like a proper little lady and do nothing! My hands gripped the sheets tightly, balling into fists. Quickly, I looked around. It was still very early in the morning, probably around six a.m. The sun was just starting to peek over the roofs of the houses, outside. Its rays fell on Ella, who lay in her bed, sound asleep, with a smile on her face.

Even in my current mood, I wasn’t totally unaffected by my little sister’s happy smile. But it could not soothe me for long. My thoughts returned to him all too soon.

How dare he exclude me? Hadn’t I proved my worth, earned the right to have his respect? It was I who had discovered Dalgliesh’s base, after all!

Admittedly, I had done it while I was as drunk as a lord, and rather accidentally, but still, I had done it. He owed it to me to take me along on this. When I thought of him, facing a host of heavily armed soldiers alone, delving into the dark to recover the mysterious file that was so all-important for reasons which I still did not understand, I wanted to scream in frustration.

Of course I didn’t, because it would have woken Ella up. Instead, I punched my pillow, again wishing it had a greater resemblance to Mr Ambrose’s head.

I won’t! I won’t! I won’t allow him to do this!

Suddenly, having decided what I was going to do, I slid out of bed and towards the window. I didn’t bother putting on my dress. Once I reached the shed, I was going to exchange it for trousers and a shirt in any case. If somebody saw me running through the garden in my pink lace nightgown with little embroidered songbirds, I would just have to murder that person before they could spread the word.

I had never dressed that fast in my entire life. Five minutes later, I was striding down the street, on my way to Empire House. There probably was no reason to hurry - if Mr Ambrose had any sense in that hard head of his, he wouldn’t take action until nightfall. Still, the early worm catches the bird, or however the saying goes.

When I reached Empire House about a quarter of an hour later, I saw that arriving early had been a good idea: a familiar chaise, drawn by a shabby beast of a grey horse, was standing in front of the main entrance. Knowing that I would have to get past the grey monster, I approached carefully. It eyed me, with what I could only suppose was a mix of interest and appetite.

I raised a cautioning finger.

‘If you bite me, I’ll bite back,’ I told him. Nobody would be able to say I didn’t warn him.

The horse snorted and turned its head away derisively.

Quickly, I stole past the beast and into the main hall. It was completely deserted. Nobody was in sight. The gigantic man-made cave of Mammon was as silent as its master. My steps echoed from the wall as I hurried across the floor and towards the steps, wondering why he was going this early. Did he still have preparations to make?

Maybe he simply wants to avoid you. Isn’t that nice?

On reaching the upper landing, I heard familiar voices from the hallway. One was especially familiar.

‘…quicker, Karim! We have places to be.’

‘Yes, Sahib.’

‘And double-check everything.’

Cool? Check. Distant? Check. Forbidding and reserved? Check. Now, who could this possibly be?

Carefully, I peeked around the corner and there he stood: Mr Rikkard Ambrose, a motionless figure in white and black, overseeing Karim, who was packing a few scrolls of paper into a bag. They looked like maps to me. Or ground plans.

‘…the main entrance. Soldiers will be stationed there.’

‘Yes, Sahib.’

Mr Ambrose stood more like an Ancient Greek statue than ever, his body now as motionless as his face, his figure erect, his eyes distant, as if looking at something three thousand years away.

Well, it was high time to startle some life into him.

I stepped out into the hall.

‘Hello, everybody.’

Mr Ambrose jumped in a most un-statue-like way. He whirled around, and his hand was already on its way to grip his sword cane when his eyes fell on me.

‘You!’

‘Yes, I.’ I marched forward and stopped only a few feet away from him, my fists on my hips. ‘What did you think? That I was going to stay home and miss all the fun?’

‘It was probably too much to expect sensible behaviour from you, for once.’ His eyes flashed, darkly. ‘I certainly didn’t expect you to be here this early.’

Ha! I knew it! He had known I would show up, but had hoped to be gone before I did so.

‘Well, I’m a morning person,’ I told him with a bright, fake smile.

‘I told you to stay away!’

‘Yes, well, I ignored you.’

‘I can see that.’ He took a step closer, bending forward a little. ‘I am displeased, Mr Linton, to put it mildly. Leave. Now.’

‘No.’

‘Mr Linton?’ He took another step closer. His eyes grew darker and stormier the closer he got. ‘I am going to do something I have never done to an employee in my entire life.’ Slowly, he bent forward, fixing me with his cold, sea-coloured gazes. ‘I’m giving you the day off. Go!’

‘No.’

‘Didn’t you hear me? You have a holiday in front of you! Enjoy it! It’ll be the last you’ll get out of me for the next five hundred years.’

‘You can take your holiday and stick it where the sun doesn’t shine! I’m coming with you!’

‘You work for me! You have to obey me.’

I raised my chin, meeting his gaze without blinking. ‘If you give me the day off, that means today I don't work for you, and I can do as I wish. And I wish to accompany you.’ Gesturing to Karim. ‘I can’t let you walk into danger with only him around for protection.’

The Mohammedan’s eyes bulged, and I fancy he would have said something pretty explicit, had not Mr Ambrose spoken first.

‘And what,’ he asked, his voice as cold as the North Pole, ‘makes you think I am going to let you accompany us?’

‘Oh you probably won’t.’ I shrugged. ‘But I can hire a cab and follow you. It’s as simple as that.’

‘I see.’ For a few moments, Mr Ambrose regarded me in silence. Then: ‘All right. You have won, Mr Linton. You can come.’

I wasn’t sure whether I’d heard correctly.

‘Excuse me?’

‘I said, you can come. I am not fond of repeating myself, Mr Linton.’

My mouth popped open.

‘I… I was expecting you to fight me on this for about a hundred years.’

He shrugged. ‘I know when to yield to superior forces. You have convinced me, Mr Linton. You should be there, you were right from the beginning. I need you.’

‘What?’ Karim demanded. ‘Sahib, you cannot be serious! She cannot-’

‘Silence, Karim!’ Mr Ambrose cut him off. ‘You will speak when I say so, and not before!’

The mountainous man closed his mouth, his eyes burning with anger.

‘As I said,’ Mr Ambrose repeated, ‘You should be there. You have a right to.’

‘Well… thank you. I’m glad you’ve finally seen sense.’ A timid smile broke over my face. At last! He was starting to be sensible. He was starting to accept me! ‘Shall we go, then?’

‘Soon,’ Mr Ambrose said, looking out of the window, his face as immovable as ever. ‘I just need one last thing. I think I’ve forgotten to take one of the ground plans I need. It’s on the desk in my office. Would you get it for me, please?’

‘Of course, Sir.’ Quickly, I ran past him and into his office. If he was going to take me along, I would do anything! In my mind, I was already picturing the sinister silhouette of the villain’s lair. My first ever real villain’s lair! My first adventure!

I had thought that the visit to the polling station was my first adventure, but compared to this, it was nothing! I would be entering a new world. A world of mystery, money, power and strife that most people didn’t even catch a glimpse of. I was so excited, that I almost didn’t catch the click behind me.

Almost.

I whirled around, just in time to see the door to the office close.

*~*~**~*~*

Would it surprise anybody to hear that there was no ground plan on the desk in Mr Ambrose’s office? No? I didn’t think so.

‘Let me out! Let me out, curse you!’ My hand already hurt from hammering against the door. It was useless. The door was firmly locked, just as was the connecting door to my own office. He must have directed Karim to lock it while he was doing the same with the other, damn him!

‘Let me out, or I will break this door down!’

‘Don’t excite yourself, Mr Linton,’ came a cool voice from the other side of the door. ‘The door is oak, reinforced with steel. It won’t break. And don't bother calling for help, either. Nobody is here, and even when the other employees arrive, it won’t be any use to call out. I sent Mr Stone to Newcastle on a matter of business, the hallway will be empty. Everybody else will be out of hearing range. This building has thick walls.’

I heard him turning away from the door.

‘Come, Karim. We still have to collect the necessary supplies and scout the area one final time before the operation can begin.’

‘Yes, Sahib.’ Karim’s voice dripped self-satisfaction. I wanted to pull his beard out hair by hair and throttle him, and then bash in his employer’s head. Unfortunately, the door was in the way.

‘Mr Ambrose! Let me out!’

In answer, I heard only silence. Silence, and the sound of footsteps retreating down the hallway. Then those were gone, too.

I beat against the door, again and again, not because I thought I would be able to break it, but simply to vent my anger. Anger at him, and at myself. How could I have been so stupid? Of course he didn’t want to let me come along! Of course he had a hidden trap laid for me! This was Rikkard Ambrose we were talking about. And I had forgotten that fact, and walked right into his trap.

Maybe I didn’t deserve to come along on the great adventure. Maybe I deserved to stew here, in this office, like an old piece of beef in an old pot the cook forgot to take off the fire. I felt appropriately disgusted with myself.

When my hands hurt so badly I could hardly feel them anymore, I stopped torturing the office door. Instead, I looked around, desperate for a way to get out. But there was nothing. The office was just as bare as I remembered, with no possibilities of… wait a second.

In the farthest corner, there was a niche I hadn’t noticed before. Quickly, I crossed the room to see what it contained, and found myself in front of a door. My heart made a leap! Could it be? Could my escape be so easy?

I reached for the doorknob. My fingers clasped the cool metal, turned it, and - the door was locked.

Blast, blast, blast!

Of course, my escape couldn’t be that easy.

Turning around, my gaze drifted to the windows. They, too, appeared to be firmly shut and locked. I could break the glass, of course, but what would that gain me? If I shouted from the top floor to people in the street that one of London’s richest financiers was keeping me prisoner in his office, this surely would bring the police down on me. I would be lucky if I ever got away, let alone in time to join Mr Ambrose in his illegal endeavour.

Yes, but it would make a nice, juicy scandal and annoy the hell out of him, wouldn’t it?

True. But in my heart of hearts, I knew the problem was I didn’t want to annoy him.

I wanted to help him.

Blast!

Resigned, I dragged my feet over to Mr Ambrose’s desk and slumped into his chair. Not even the thought of what he might say, were he to know I was sitting in the chair reserved for the master of the house, could improve my mood right now. I sat there, in endless anxiety, horrible images flitting through my head the entire time: Mr Ambrose faced by a platoon of the Presidency Armies, Mr Ambrose being led off to a firing squad…

The thought sent a shock of pain through my heart.

But why? Why did I feel pain? For the future I might lose if he died? My job? No. This pain was not for me. It was for him. Maybe… maybe I didn’t detest him quite as much as I had always imagined.

This is getting you nowhere, you lazy idiot! Think of something!

My fist came down on the desk, hard. Curse him! Curse him and his chauvinistic ways! How dare he go without taking me with him! Hadn’t I earned the right to be a part of his life, to go where he went and support him in what he did? And he left me behind simply because I was no man!

But then, whispered a nasty little voice in my head, maybe, if you were a man, you might not want to go with him so badly.

Angrily, I sprang up and marched over to the window. The sun had risen by now. I could see people coming down the street. It wasn’t difficult to pick out the ones who were heading to work at Mr Ambrose's: they were the ones running like scared rabbits.

Suddenly, it occurred to me that some of those people might know me from sight. If I smashed the window, and called out to someone who worked here, telling them that I had locked myself in and couldn’t find my keys…

Even before the thought was finished thinking, I started pounding on the glass. If I had managed to break it, I would probably have cut my hands to ribbons. Yet the glass held firm, no matter how hard I pounded it.

Of course it did. This was Mr Ambrose’s office. His walls were hard, his chairs were hard, his head was hard, why shouldn’t his windows be hard, too? Plus, they were next to his archive and safe. Whatever these windows were made of, I would not be able to break them, not even with a hammer.

I went back to the chair of the man who had locked me in here and sat down again. A humourless smile spread on my face. My entire life I had been afraid of being trapped by a man. Most of my imaginings had contained such gruesome horrors as engagements, wedding bells and a honeymoon in the south of France followed by a slow death by domesticity. Never had I imagined being literally trapped by a man, in a room, high up in London’s largest monument to Mammon. And, also, unlike in my imaginings, where the man himself would have been my prison and I would have wanted nothing more than to get away from him, now the room was my prison and I wished nothing more than for the man to be with me, or for me to be with him.

But not because I felt anything for him, of course! I was a strong, independent woman and would never have any sort of silly, soppy feelings for any man, least of all Rikkard Ambrose. I just…

My eyes slid shut, trying to keep the tears in.

Well, I just wished I were with him. That was all.

If only there were a way to have someone come and open a door…

Slowly, my eyes opened again - and fell on the pneumatic tube with the basket of message papers right beside it.

Slowly, as if I feared they might run away should I approach them too quickly, I stretched my hands out in the direction of quill and paper. My fingers were only a few inches away from the pen, my way to freedom. It didn’t seem to want to make a run for it. My fingers closed.

Yes! A way to get out. A way to get to him.

But one thing after another.

Putting one of the little squares of message paper right in front of me, I dipped the quill into the ink. For a moment, the quill hovered hesitantly over the paper. I thought of the pale man who staffed the desk downstairs. What was Sallow-face’s name again? Mr Ambrose had mentioned it to me once, not appreciating the accuracy of the nickname I had come up with…

Ah yes: Pearson!

Quickly, I wrote in my best imitation of Mr Ambrose’s neat, precise handwriting:

Dear Mr Pearson,

Be so kind as to bring me a list of all last week’s visitors, which I require for a project I am currently working on. I may not be in my office when you arrive. If that is the case, unlock the door and leave the list on my desk. Thank you.

Yours Sincerely,

Rikkard Ambrose

For a long moment, I stared down at what I had written. Then I crossed it out, grabbed another piece of paper and wrote:

Mr Pearson

Deposit a list of last week’s visitors on my desk immediately.

Rikkard Ambrose

‘There,’ I murmured. ‘Much more realistic.’ My heart fluttering excitedly, I put the message into its metal container, shoved it into the tube and then examined the control board right beside it. This one was much more complicated than the one in my office, with innumerable dials, levers and buttons to reach every part of the vast complex which served Mr Ambrose as his headquarters.

I selected a lever labelled ‘E.H.’ and hoped fervently it stood for ‘Entry Hall’ and not ‘Excrement Hatch’. Why did men have to make all technical devices so infernally complicated? With bated breath, I sat and hoped for a result from my wild plan.

Only two minutes later, hurried footsteps approached from outside. Very hurried footsteps. A grin spread over my face. Yes, my plan had worked. Whoever was coming did indeed believe the message to originate from Mr Ambrose.

It didn’t take the runner long to reach the office door. He tried to turn the doorknob and, finding the door locked, hesitated. A moment later, I heard the sound of salvation: the jingling of keys. The lock made a clicking sound, and the door swung open, revealing Sallow-face, standing in the doorframe.

‘Mr Ambrose,’ he began, holding up a sheet of paper, ‘I have your…’

Then he noticed that the figure he was facing had little resemblance to his master.

‘Mister Linton!’

‘Mr Pearson!’ My smile widened into a joyous grin. ‘You don't know how glad I am to see you.’

‘Mr Linton,’ the pale bureaucrat managed, obviously having to struggle hard in order to contain his tumultuous emotions, ‘why, pray, are you sitting in Mr Ambrose’s private chair?’

‘Oh.’ Looking down, I saw he was absolutely right. I had completely forgotten that I was reposing on my employer’s official chair with my feet propped up on his desk, something that secretaries were probably not supposed to do. ‘Well, I just thought I’d give it a try, you know?’ I wiggled my behind for emphasis. ‘To see it if is comfy or not.’

Sallow-face’s features turned a little more yellow, which seemed to be his version of getting angry red blotches on the cheeks.

‘It is no concern of yours how “comfy” this honoured seat is, Mr Linton,’ he informed me, glaring at me as if I had sat on a king’s throne and committed high treason. ‘You shall never have another chance to sit there! Where is Mr Ambrose?’

‘Oh, he… he is in the safe, checking something,’ I lied and, when Sallow-face turned in the direction of the safe, hurriedly added: ‘And he doesn't want to be disturbed.’

‘I see.’ Sallow-face turned back to me. I, by now, had risen from my traitorous position on Mr Ambrose’s throne and was thus not quite as fiercely glared at as before. ‘Mr Linton, Mr Ambrose told me to bring him this.’ He held out the list of visitors. ‘Should I wait here for him, or…’

‘Leave it with me,’ I told him. ‘I’ll see that he gets it.’

He narrowed his eyes mistrustfully. ‘On your honour as a gentleman? This is very important business material. Mr Ambrose trusts me with the most important tasks of all his employees. He told me himself that he needs this information as soon as may be.’

‘Of course,’ I replied, trying my best to keep a straight face. ‘I swear on my honour as a gentleman that he shall receive it as soon as possible.’

‘Very well, then, Mr Linton. Here. I shall trust you with this important document. Do not fail me, or Mr Ambrose.’

‘I shall not.’

He nodded stiffly. ‘Until later, Mr Linton.’

‘Yes, until later, Mr Pearson. And…’

‘Yes?’

‘Leave the door open behind you, will you?’

*~*~**~*~*

Five minutes later I was out on the street, hailing the nearest cab. The very important business information Mr Pearson had delivered was crumpled up in the waste paper basket in Mr Ambrose’s office.

A cab drove up beside me, and at exactly the right time! Just as I climbed in, I saw Mr Ambrose’s chaise approach from the West End. Whatever arrangements he’d had to make before embarking on his secret mission lay in the opposite direction from his destination in the East End. Quickly, I ducked out of sight, peeking over the top of the cab’s window frame. From this hidden post I watched, while the cabbie regarded my antics with interest.

There he was! Karim was driving, and Mr Ambrose, his face colder and more distant than ever, was sitting straight as a rod, two large bags and a small chest beside him.

‘Follow that chaise!’ I hissed at the cabbie, without resurfacing from my hidden position.

‘Are ye from Scotland Yard, guv?’

‘Yes,’ I said boldly. ‘This is a criminal investigation of the highest level. The fate of the British Empire, maybe even the world, is at stake!’

‘Blimey!’ The cabbie seemed very impressed. ‘Well, we’d better be going then, ain’t we?’

I was in hearty agreement. The cabbie was about to spur on his horses, when my hand shot up. ‘Stop! Don’t!’ I had just remembered something. Of course! ‘Don’t follow them. I’ve changed my mind.’

The cabbie’s face fell. ‘No chase, guv?’

I smiled. ‘Only because I already know where they are going.’

*~*~**~*~*

On the entire way to number 97, East India Dock Road, the cabbie mumbled and complained. Apparently, he had read enough about the adventures of Scotland Yard detectives to know that this was not how things were done. Detectives of Scotland Yard were supposed to chase after their prey in an exciting race, not leisurely drive to wherever it was their prey was going because they already knew the place. Such a thing was apparently simply not done.

On arrival in East India Dock Road, still some distance away from number 97, I paid him with the last money I had left over from pawning my uncle’s walking stick and got out of the cab, promising myself again to retrieve the stick with my very first earned money. Well, maybe after I had bought a really big piece of solid chocolate. A girl has to have her treats in life.

The cabbie took the money and looked around curiously. ‘This is where ye wanted to go, guv? But there ain’t nothing close to 'ere except the docks.’

I winked at him, in what I hoped was a mysterious manner. ‘Exactly. Things being brought in and out of the country… maybe not as they are supposed to be.’

‘Oh, I see,’ the cabbie said, though this obviously wasn’t the case. ‘Well, good luck to you, guv!’

Turning his coach around, he cried an encouragement to his horse and drove off towards the western, safer parts of the city. Looking after him, I suddenly wished I could follow. But I had made my choice.

With a sigh, I turned to face my destination. Not that I could see very much of it - it was mid-day, and the broad street was crowded as could be. Carts loaded with goods and large omnibuses packed full to bursting with dockworkers drove up and down this broad way of British Commerce, and people stood on all the street corners, waving their wares and yelling at the top of their voices to get the attention of potential customers. I supposed they thought yelling would give them an advantage over the large, but completely silent, billboards and posters which spread over many of the exterior walls.

I probably should have been grateful for all the noise. Nobody paid attention to me as I wandered down the crowded street. While in the West End of London, people had given my baggy trousers and loose-fitting old tailcoat strange glances, here, nobody looked twice at the strange little figure wandering down the street. A lot of people here wore clothes that didn’t fit them well, probably because they had originally not been theirs. It was quite liberating in a way, swimming in a sea of people who didn’t pay any attention to me and wanted nothing from me but that I returned the courtesy. It made me feel… free.

Of course, the aforementioned sea of people also blocked my view of number 97.

I slowly made my way down the street. As I got closer to my destination, I started to draw more curious glances from the surrounding people, as if they found me unusual to look at. I had to admit, I returned the feeling: the farther down East India Dock Road I went, the more the faces of passers-by changed in shade and form: from glances I caught of their faces, I thought noses were broader than usual, and their eyes strangely slitted. I thought I was imagining things, until one of the street-hawkers approached me, starting to address me in a strange tongue I had never heard before. At the sight of his face, I jumped back in shock.

Holy Hell! Who plucked me up from the earth and put me down in Peking?

Then it came to me. Of course! I had heard once that, in the some parts of the East End, there lived a large group of workers from China. This must be it. Chinatown.

Looking frantically from one strange face to another, I tried to remember what else I had heard about this area of my own city that was a foreign country. Only now did I see the colourful ribbons suspended over the street, the dragons painted on house walls, and the strange cuts of people’s clothing.

Think! Think! Isn’t there anything you recall about this place?

Vaguely, I seemed to remember somebody calling it the filthiest, most disreputable rat hole in all of London. Who had this information come from again?

Ah yes, my aunt.

So, hopefully, it’s actually a quiet neighbourhood with nice, well-behaved people.

I caught the gaze of a particularly slant-eyed youth, who was staring at me over a knife he used to clean his fingernails.

Hopefully.

Making some apologetic gesture to the hawker, who had now taken something strange-smelling and steaming from his tray and was waving it in front of my face, I retreated hurriedly. Pressing myself as closely to the walls of the houses as I could, I made my way down the street without any further delay. As if it could protect me from the strange environment, I turned up the collar of my tailcoat and buried my too-European face in the depths of Uncle Bufford’s old, moth-eaten Sunday best.

I went down the street as quickly as I could manage without running, counting the numbers on the opposite side as I did so.

Number 89, a butcher’s shop…

Number 91, an apartment building…

Number 93, an… an…

Well, I wasn’t exactly sure what it was. It was some kind of unidentifiable building, with a few ladies around the entrance whose clothing seemed to be even more loose-fitting and considerably more revealing than mine.

Number 95, a liquor store…

Number 97, a… Hell’s whiskers!

Quickly, I jumped back into the nearest alley. The man I had spotted on the opposite side of the street turned his head; he must have caught my movement out of the corner of his eye. As he turned, I saw I had been right in thinking I had recognized him.

Warren.

Warren was here. And where Warren was, Mr Ambrose would not be far behind.

He looked around once more, then, shrugging, started to haggle again with a Chinese hawker over the price of some oriental artefact he was apparently trying to purchase. Or, more likely, pretending to purchase. He wasn’t here to buy something exotic for the mantelpiece. He was here for the same reason I was here. The building right across the street from the alley in which I was hiding.

It was an impressive brick bulk: a broad façade, at least forty yards, with higher portions of the building rising threateningly up out of the roof in the centre and at every corner. Originally, it must have had many windows, but now it was obviously a warehouse, since most of the windows had been bricked over.

Or… was it? Behind the few, narrow openings in the brick walls, I could see movement. Not what you would expect in a warehouse where tin plates and cotton trousers waited for weeks before they were shipped to God only knew where. And the narrow, high parts of the building at each corner, connected by walls and walkways… they looked almost like watchtowers.

On the highest of the towers, I saw, blinking in the mid-day sun, the brass number 97.

Over the top of the building, in the distance, I could make out tops of masts, swaying in the breeze. The street wasn’t called East India Dock Road for nothing. The docks of the East India Company, the centre of its web of power extending over half the world to the distant, tropical sub-continent of India, were only a few dozen yards away. Right next to this building.

There! There it is again!

Once more, I saw something move through one of the narrow windows, and caught the flash of a red uniform.

This is no bloody warehouse!

I waited, hidden in the shadows of the alley. After a while, Warren disappeared. In his stead, other men appeared, some European, some Chinese, some an unidentifiable mix. All lingered in front of number 97 for a little while before disappearing, only to reappear some time later, hovering and watching. Nobody would have noticed. Nobody, that is, who hadn’t seen many of these faces before in Mr Ambrose’s office.

I had.

Slowly, the sun began its descent towards the horizon. As it did so, people started to disappear into their houses. Nobody seemed to want to stay out in the street at night in this neighbourhood. Doors closed, and little could be heard from inside. Only from number 93 you still heard sounds. The scantily dressed ladies who lived there seemed in no hurry to go to sleep.

As the last vestiges of sunlight dwindled, lights were lit inside of number 97. Squinting, I concentrated on one of the narrow windows, high, high above me. It wasn’t long before my earlier observations were confirmed: a flash of red and gold passed the window. And again! And again! Red and gold - like on the uniforms of a soldier of the Presidency Armies.

Suddenly, I heard a rattle and jumped, whirling around. But the rattle was not coming from behind me, nor was it coming from the main street. Rather, it sounded as if it was coming from a side street, parallel to the one in which I was hiding.

Quickly ducking into a narrow path between two brick houses, I made my way towards the origin of the sound. I thought it was somehow familiar - and I was not mistaken.

Looking around the corner of the house, I saw Mr Ambrose’s chaise coming up the street. It stopped, well out of sight or hearing of the guards in the towers of number 97. Mr Ambrose slid out of the passenger compartment with one fluid, precise movement. The tails of his black tailcoat fluttered around him like dark wings.

‘Warren?’ he called in a voice no louder than a whisper.

The black-clad figure of Warren stepped out of a doorway, where he had concealed himself. He bowed to Mr Ambrose.

‘We’ve been watching the place, observing the soldiers just as you instructed, Sir.’

‘Adequate.’

‘Thank you, Sir. Here is the report with their duty roster.’ He handed over a piece of paper to his master, who nodded in acknowledgement. ‘But…’

Warren hesitated.

‘But what?’ Mr Ambrose’s voice was cool and distant as ever.

‘But we think the soldiers are not the only guards, Sir. We have caught glimpses of movements on the roof. Understand me, we didn’t actually see anybody, we only caught a flash of dark brown and grey here and there.’ He shook his head, looking over his shoulder at number 97 nervously. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’

Mr Ambrose’s jaw muscles twitched, and Karim let out a long string of foreign words that were better not translated.

‘They are here!’ Mr Ambrose hissed.

‘They?’

‘A squad of special riflemen in the Presidency Armies who are at Lord Dalgliesh’s disposal alone.’ Mr Ambrose’s voice could have frozen lava. I gathered he had met this special squad before, and did not have fond memories of them. ‘They use a native plant to die their coats in mottled tones of brown and grey, which makes them hard to see in daytime, and helps them to disappear almost into nothing during the night.’

‘But why should one wish for soldiers not to be seen during a battle?’ Warren asked, his mouth slightly open.

‘These special riflemen are not intended for open battles. Dalgliesh employs them for… different purposes.’

His tone of voice made it clear that nobody who wished to continue to sleep at night should ask what those purposes were. Warren looked slightly sick. Mr Ambrose didn’t seem to care. He said no more, but started to study the paper Warren had handed to him. After a while, he nodded.

‘Whether Lord Dalgliesh’s personal commando is here or not, this will have to suffice.’

Karim looked worried. And if I could see that from where I was standing, in the dark, and through the vast amount of beard blocking my view of his face, he must have been really worried.

‘Sahib, maybe we should…’

Mr Ambrose threw him a look, and the Mohammedan stopped in mid-sentence.

Warren was not as wise, however. He cleared his throat.

‘Um… Sir, forgive me for asking, but why exactly have we been noting down the guard changes and been keeping watch on this house?’

Mr Ambrose was studying the list again. He didn’t look up. ‘As preparation for a break-in, of course.’

‘What?’ At an angry gesture from Karim, Warren lowered his voice, but it sounded no less stricken than before. ‘Sir! You have to be joking!’

‘No, I do not have to be. In fact, I have never in my life felt any irresistible compulsion to joke.’

Warren swallowed. He seemed to realize with whom he was arguing here.

‘Sir… I… I’m afraid I cannot in good conscience be a part of an illegal activity.’

Mr Ambrose now had exchanged the list of guard changes for a ground plan he had taken out of his leather bag. He still didn’t look up.

‘Then do it in bad conscience, Mr Warren. I don't care, either way.’

‘Mr Ambrose…’

‘You didn’t seem to care about bending the law when we laid our hands on that snake Simmons.’

Warren bit his lip. ‘That was different.’

‘Because,’ Mr Ambrose concisely stated, ‘he was a private secretary, not a Peer of the Realm, like the owner of that building over there, correct?’

To this, Warren didn’t seem to have anything to say.

‘Don’t worry.’ Mr Ambrose exchanged one set of plans for another. ‘What you have done is quite enough. I won’t require your services further tonight.’

‘You won’t?’

Mr Ambrose gave a derisive jerk of his head. ‘You don't think I would entrust you with a task as important as this? No. One thing I learned early in life is: If you want something done well, do it yourself.’

If possible, Warren paled even more.

‘Mr Ambrose, you cannot mean… You are a gentleman, not a criminal! You cannot mean that you are planning to break into…’

At that, Mr Ambrose looked up, his eyes flashing icily.

‘Dalgliesh took something that belongs to me, Mr Warren. If that happened in the colonies, and if he were any other man, I wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet in his head. Here, business practices are slightly different. But I will get back what is mine, and you’d rather not stand in my way.’

Warren swallowed again. He retreated a step, and bowed. ‘No, Sir. Of course not, Sir. Your word is my command, Sir.’

‘Indeed it is.’ Mr Ambrose stuck the ground plan back into the bag, slung it over his shoulder and took out of the coach another one, which he handed to Karim. ‘Stay here, Mr Warren. Guard the coach, and wait until at least one of us returns.’ He turned away from Warren, towards the entrance of the alley and number 97. ‘Karim, we’re going in. Stay behind me and watch my back.’

‘Yes, Sahib!’

I thought it was about time to make my presence known.

With a little smile, I stepped forward, out of the shadows, and raised a hand. ‘And where do you want me, Sir?’