Hunting for Silence by Robert Thier

 

A Tail With a Beard

‘Psht!’

‘What?’

‘Psht, be quiet! I think someone is following us!’

Glancing around at my best friend Patsy, I rolled my eyes. Someone following us? Ridiculous!

Yes, absolutely ridiculous. That fool got himself caught again! The third time in a row!

As inconspicuously as possible, I tried to wave away the tip of the brightly coloured turban sticking out from behind a nearby rosebush.

Shew! Shew! Begone!

‘Surely you’re just imagining things,’ I told Patsy with a bright smile. My hand was still waving behind my back like a mad windmill. ‘I mean, who would follow us? That would be silly.’

Go home, you big oaf! Go!

The turban didn’t listen to my mental urging. But at least it fully submerged behind the rosebush. Branches cracked, and a Punjabi curse rose into the air.

‘What was that?’ Patsy whirled around, trying to locate the noise.

‘What?’ I asked, the picture of innocence drawn by a blind, arm-amputated artist.

‘That noise! Someone said something. Sounded foreign to me.’ Suspiciously, Patsy peered at a mother passing nearby with a stroller, considering her as a serious candidate for tropical profanity.

‘It’s probably that Italian count,’ Flora sighed, a dreamy look in her eyes. ‘Don’t you remember, Patsy? He was quite taken with you at the ball the other night. Maybe he has fallen madly in love with you, and now he is drawn inextricably towards the love of his life.’

‘Madly in love, eh?’ Hefting her parasol, Patsy surveyed the peaceful surroundings as if they were the fields of Waterloo just before the big attack. ‘Well, I’m a charitable person. I would love to cure him of his mental illness.’ Gently, she stroked her parasol. ‘And I think I know the right medicine.’

I did my best to join the others’ laughter, while simultaneously gesturing frantically at the turban, which had once again partially resurfaced from behind the rosebush. Damn the man! Couldn’t he keep hidden for five minutes? Although, I had to admit, as a nearly seven-feet-tall, turban-wearing, sabre-swinging Indian in the middle of a public London park on a Sunday afternoon, that task did present some challenges.

‘All this talk of romance has given me an appetite!’ Eve proclaimed with her customary lack of logic. ‘Want to come and find something to eat?’

‘You go ahead,’ I said, nodding at my three friends. ‘I, um…have to go. I’ve…noticed a flower in that rosebush I’d like to admire.’

‘Admire away,’ Patsy told me. ‘I agree with Eve. I need something to eat. Where is that picnic we brought?’

The others flitted away, looking for a nice place to spread a picnic blanket. I, meanwhile, walked over to the rosebush.

‘Hm…what have we here?’ I mused in the manner of a botanical expert. ‘A rare specimen of Rosa Annoyinga Bodyguarda. I wonder, should I pluck a few of your petals?’

‘Allah have mercy on you if you try,’ Karim growled.

I gazed down at the big bodyguard kneeling behind the bush. His trousers were dirty, his turban sat askew, and a rose had gotten tangled up in his enormous beard. He looked like he’d tried to dance a tango with the vultures in the Sahara.

‘You don’t have to do this, you know,’ I offered hopefully. ‘You can just stay at home, comb your beard and polish your sabre. I’m sure I’ll manage on my own.’

Karim’s face stayed as wooden as a hundred-year-old oak. ‘Ambrose Sahib told me to protect you, so that is what I am going to do. You need have no fear, Sahiba. No one shall dare to threaten your life while I am with you. I shall not leave your side for one instant.’

‘Oh,’ I sighed, trying my best to smile, and failing miserably. ‘How wonderful.’

So I’m stuck with him. Great. That’s one more thing to put on the list.

The list.

The list of things I was keeping. The list of things I would be discussing with Mr Rikkard Ambrose the moment I saw him again. It would be a long list, and an intense discussion, preferably with a shotgun in my hand. My dear employer deserved a round or two of buckshot on his derrière for all the things he had done.

First and foremost among which is leaving me behind.

Pain, short and sharp, flared in my chest. It still hurt to think about it, damn him! We had been through everything together! We’d traversed wastelands, climbed mountains, hacked our way through jungles, and even through the London East End. He had always trusted me to have his back. Maybe even his heart. We had been a team. And now, out of the blue, he had work to do which was ‘too dangerous’.

‘Dangerous?’ I murmured, marching away in search of my friends, ignoring the big shadow darting from tree to tree somewhere behind me. ‘I’ll show him what’s dangerous! Just you wait until I get my hands on you, Rikkard Ambrose! You won’t know what’s hit you!’

Or maybe he would. He should be pretty familiar with my right hook, after all.

*~*~**~*~*

The picnic with my friends didn’t last very long. I wasn’t really in the mood for a leisurely Sunday afternoon in the park. With Mr Ambrose an ocean away, facing God only knew what kinds of dangers, all I wanted to do was grab the picnic blanket, tie it to the nearest mast, and sail off after him.

Instead, I returned home. At least this was one place where I didn’t have to deal with my overgrown bearded shadow. Karim stopped short of sneaking into my house and hiding in my aunt’s closet. I think he had originally intended to, but then caught sight of my aunt and thought better of it.

‘There you are, girl! Where have you been?’

Hester Mahulda Brank strode towards me, her eyes flashing like daggers in her vulture-like face. ‘I’ve been looking all around the house for you!’

‘Oh. Then maybe I should have stayed out longer.’

‘Don’t you get smart with me, young lady!’

‘Too late. I’m already extremely intelligent. What’s up?’

My dear aunt gave me a look of supreme disdain. ‘Only the prime social event of the year, that is ‘what’s up’, Missy! Have you forgotten that the Duchess of Bedford’s ball is in two days?’

I gave her a cheery smile. ‘No. You can’t forget what you never bothered to find out in the first place.’

My aunt opened her mouth—but she had apparently run out of comebacks. Pity, since I still had about a dozen left. But then, on the other hand, I did have better things to do than to spar with my aunt. Skipping up the stairs, I raced towards the room I shared with my sister Ella. Just before I reached the door, she pulled it open a crack and peeked outside.

‘Ah, it’s you! Get in! It’s here!’

My heart made a leap.

‘Really?’

‘Yes, and I didn’t let aunt and uncle see it, just like you asked. I snuck it out from under Leadfield’s nose just as he was about to bring it in. Thank the Lord he’s as blind as a bat!’

Thank the Lord indeed. If my aunt had gotten hold of the content of that letter, the Duchess of Bedford’s ball would have been the least of my worries. Rushing inside, I snatched the battered envelope out of Ella’s hand and threw myself onto my bed.

‘Not that I want to pry,’ Ella said in a tone that screamed I want to pry! I want to pry so badly! ‘but why are you suddenly getting letters from France of all places?’

Sniffing the letter, I grinned up at her. ‘They’re love letters from my secret admirer, the richest, most powerful man in the entire British Empire.’

‘Lill!’ Poking my shoulder, Ella gave me a reproachful look. ‘Stop jesting with me! Love is a serious matter.’

Gazing down at the letter as if I could see through the envelope, through the letters, all the way to the man who had written them, I swallowed.

You have no idea how right you are, little sister.

‘Well, all right. If you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to.’ She patted my shoulder. ‘I’ll just go and leave you to enjoy your “love letter” in peace. But if it’s a bill, remember uncle won’t pay for it.’

I didn’t see her go. I was still too mesmerised by the letter in my hands. When the door closed with a click behind her, I tore open the envelope, pulled out the letter, and started reading.

Dear Mr Ambrose,

You’re probably surprised at receiving this letter. After all, you somehow happened to forget to mention the address where you would be staying in Paris. Quite an oversight on your part, considering how much I know you love writing long, regular letters to all your loved ones. But not to worry! I squeezed the information out of Karim. So here it is, my first official…

Wait a minute.

I lowered the sheet of paper, frowning. This wasn’t a letter from him. This was my letter, which I had dispatched to him several weeks ago! What did he think he was doing, just sending it back to me?

Hurriedly, I read on. This had to be a mistake! It had to be!

…letter with us as a couple. Because we are still a couple, aren’t we? I’m telling you now, if you’ve found some French coquine over there, you had better stay in France, or I won’t be responsible for the consequences! I’ll rip your head off, do you hear? I’ll rip your head off and stuff it down your throat!

Have I mentioned how much I love you?

Hm. All right, maybe my style wasn’t that polished yet, but I was new to this writing-love-letters thing. Actually, I was new to love altogether. It was exhilarating and frightening, and…and…

And why the heck was there only my letter in the envelope?

He couldn’t have just sent it back without a reply! He couldn’t! Did that mean he no longer loved me? Had he really found someone else? Damn that bloody son of a bachelor! If only I’d never fallen in love with that stone-cold cad! How could he do this to me! He said he loved me! I was going to kill him! Kill him very dead and use his guts for garters!

I was just about to crumple up the letter and throw it away, when something tickled at the back of my mind.

What would the average gentleman do if he received a love letter from his lady? Well, he’d probably go out to buy expensive pastel paper and write a long reply, full of protestations of love and oaths of eternal fidelity.

Only…Mr Ambrose was not the average man.

So what would he do?

I pondered the question for a moment—then sighed. Of course.

I turned around the letter. And there, on the formerly empty back of the page, in Mr Ambrose’s clear, neat handwriting, stood the words:

Mr Linton,

Stop wasting ink.

Rikkard Ambrose

Warmth spreading inside of me, I pressed the letter to my chest. He replied! He replied! Didn’t he write the most wonderfully romantic love letters?

But the wonderful, warm feelings inside me were tainted with something dark. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t forget the reason why Mr Ambrose and I had to write letters to each other instead of being face-to-face, of holding each other, of never letting go. He had left me behind. Had left me behind because he was going into danger.

There wouldn’t be any need for love letters if the bloody idiot had just taken me with him! Damn and blast! He was in danger! He was in danger, and I was helpless to do anything about it! What should I do? I…I…

I needed to talk to someone.

But to whom? My sweet little sister Ella? If she knew that I really had an illicit love affair with a ruthless business mogul and wanted to go join him on his latest dangerous endeavour, smack-dab in Paris, the city of sin, she would faint and not regain consciousness until I’d sworn a vow of chastity. If I told Patsy and my regular crew of friends that I had fallen in love with a man, they’d try to tie me down and exorcise the spirit that had taken possession of their friend. Who else was there? Who could I possibly trust to understand and—

Suddenly, a grin spread over my face.

Two minutes later, I was down the stairs and out the door. Outside, I hailed a cab, jumped inside and stuck my head out the window to tell the driver where I wanted to go. When he heard the address, the man’s eyes went wide, and he blinked down at me.

‘Um…Miss? Are you sure that’s where you want to go?’

‘Yes, of course. Is there a problem?’

‘Well, err, it’s exactly, um…well, I…’ He gave up. ‘No problem, Miss. I’ll take you there directly.’

‘Thank you.’

Retreating into the interior of the cab, I leaned back and sighed. The cab started to roll and, only about a quarter of an hour later, came to a halt in a familiar dingy street. Exiting the carriage, I pulled out my purse to pay the driver. He glanced up at the façade of the house in front of which we had come to a halt.

‘Err…are you really sure this is where you want to go, Miss?’

‘Certainly.’ I smiled. ‘I come here all the time.’

‘Y-you do?’ The driver’s eyes bulged. ‘Well, I never…! Um…sorry, Miss, I…well, that is to say, I have to go.’

Grabbing his money, he wheeled his horses around and raced off as if the very devil were behind him. Shaking my head in bemusement, I tucked my purse away.

‘What in the name of shayatan are you doing here, woman?’ growled a voice behind me. I turned around to be confronted with the familiar scowl of Karim, my round-the-clock, beard-bristling watchdog. ‘This is the East End! Do you have any idea how dangerous it is for a lone woman to be here? What could you possibly want in a place like this?’

‘Calm down.’ Patting him on the shoulder, I pointed at the sign over the door of the nearest building, which proudly proclaimed:

The Pussycat Palace—A Gentleman’s Paradise

‘I’m just going to visit a friend.’

And with that, I started towards the brothel door.