Hunting for Silence by Robert Thier

Dalgliesh’s Plan

Most couples would probably have strolled back from their rendezvous hand in hand, exchanging kisses. The two of us marched back at top speed, exchanging arguments about Paris real estate prices—and I loved every single minute. Who the heck said you had to be like other couples, anyway? I was myself, and he was he, and neither of us would make apologies. The fact that he still wanted me, that he valued me, meant a thousand times more to me than any conventional romantic gestures.

He’s willing to make a compromise. A compromise!

We reached the opera house just as the show for the evening performance was opening. People were standing in a line that reached all around the block, which Mr Ambrose promptly ignored. Someone opened his mouth to protest as my dear employer cut in line—until he met Mr Ambrose’s eyes and shut up faster than I could blink. We reached the door with minimal fuss. This time, the other doorman I happened to know was standing there, smiling at the crowd—a smile that disappeared the instant he saw me.

‘Hello there.’ I winked at him.

The man gave a yelp and jumped behind a nearby potted plant, cowering down, out of the line of fire.

‘A very nice evening to you, too!’ I called as we stepped inside. Turning, I met the piercing gaze of Mr Rikkard Ambrose.

‘Something the matter, Sir?’ I enquired innocently.

‘What is the matter with those men?’ He jabbed one finger at the spot where, a moment ago, the doorman had stood. The trembling cap of the man was still peeking out from behind the potted plant. ‘This is the second time today! Have they lost their senses?’

I gave him a sweet smile, and flexed my non-existent biceps. ‘Can’t you tell? They find me intimidating.’

Mr Ambrose gave me a look. One of those looks.

‘This is no time for jests, Mr Linton.’

And, whirling, he marched away. I, meanwhile, glanced back at the doorman who was just peeking out from behind the potted plant. Raising my hand, I pointed a finger gun at him and mimed shooting. Quickly, the poor man ducked down again. Giggling to myself, I hurried after Mr Ambrose. The poor man. If he only knew what he was in for in the years to come…

Hurrying across the entrance hall, I caught up with Mr Ambrose.

‘What is being performed tonight?’

‘Some new thing by a local composer.’ He gave a dismissive wave.

‘Can we see it?’

He gave me a startled glance. ‘I’ve already watched one performance, Mr Linton. That was sufficient to assess the capabilities of the performers and remove the inadequate ones.’

‘I meant,’ I said in the tone of someone explaining the meaning of ‘entertainment’ to a granite boulder, ‘watch it for fun. You know, fun? That thing where you do something to enjoy yourself?’

‘That, Mr Linton, would be a complete waste of time and—’

Batting my eyelashes, I looked up into his eyes.

‘Mr Linton!’

‘Yes, Sir, Mr Ambrose, Sir?’

‘Cease that immediately!’

‘What, Sir? I’m not doing anything.’

‘Cease looking at me like that!’

‘Like what, Sir?’

He held out for another three impressive seconds—then gave an indistinct noise in the back of his throat and turned around.

‘Maybe I should assess the performers’ capabilities a second time, just to be sure.’

‘I think that’s an excellent idea,’ I agreed primly, and followed him up the stairs to the box he had apparently reserved from himself. I wondered if I should start whistling in triumph, but decided that would probably be pushing things a little too far.

We settled in the luxurious box, and my derrière got to enjoy the rare experience of sitting next to Rikkard Ambrose on something that wasn’t a bare plank of wood, the hump of a camel or a slab of stone in a South American ruin. Sighing contentedly, I leant back and prepared to enjoy the show as the curtains opened.

Since I didn’t understand much French besides merde, the plot was a little difficult to follow. If I grasped matters correctly, the heroine was in love with a gentleman who was in love with another lady who was in love with a man who was in love with the heroine. Everyone was very brave and noble and suffered in silence, except for the villain, who was villainous and sang for about a quarter of hour about how he was going to kill everybody, not seeming to care that the heroine was within hearing distance, and so on, and so on.

I must admit, the performance wasn’t quite what I had been hoping for. I had been expecting a little bit more intrigue, more passion, more action on the stage. But all I got was another aria about two characters in the woes of love. I was about to lean over to Mr Ambrose and ask how long the performance would still last, when suddenly, a body dropped from the higher levels of the scenery and hit the stage with a thud. Gasps rose from the startled audience, and a bit of fake blood trickled down from a stab wound on the actor’s chest.

‘Now this is what I’m talking about!’ Clapping my hands, I leant forward. ‘Finally! I was waiting for something exciting to happen. It’s done so well! Especially the fake blood. How did they get it to look so realistic?’

Slowly, Mr Ambrose leant over. His face seemed even stonier than usual.

‘This,’ he informed me, ‘is not part of the performance.’

It took a moment for his words to sink in. My eyes flicked back to the prone actor on stage and the fake—or maybe not-so-fake—blood trickling from his stab wound. A cold tingle travelled down my spine.

‘Oh.’

‘Indeed, Mr Linton.’

For one single moment, there was fateful silence. For a moment, everything hung in the air. What would happen? Screams? Chaos? A scandal that Paris would never forget?

Then one of the violinists struck up a timid note. Others joined in, rising in a sinister crescendo, and the singers on the stage resumed their aria, sounding slightly shriller than before.

‘They’re singing! Why the heck are they singing?’

Mr Ambrose cocked his head, listening to the French words. ‘Ah. Apparently, the clandestine romantic meeting of the two characters has been interrupted by the ghoul of a former lover, who, in his undead wrath, has decided to haunt them and bleed on their shoes. An innovative storyline. Perhaps I should suggest to the playwright that he incorporate this into his libretto.’

‘They put the corpse in the opera?’

Mr Ambrose gave me a look. ‘You might have heard of a saying that is popular among performing artists, Mister Linton: the show must go on. Especially when the man paying your wages is watching.’

‘I don’t quite remember that second part.’ I still couldn’t tear my gaze away from the dead man on the stage. The pool of blood was widening, and the actors were having increasing difficulties not stepping in it while they finished their aria about the woes of love.

‘Innovation is everywhere, Mr Linton. Especially in the opera.’ Leaning forward, he raised an opera glass to his eye. ‘Ah. Apparently, even in the face of this daunting haunting, the two protagonists remained faithful in their unending love. How romantic. And profitable.’

‘There’s a dead body on the stage. A dead body!’

In the audience, tears sparkled and handkerchiefs were raised to eyes. Here and there, some noses were cleared, and applause rose as the aria came to its climax. With an energetic kick, the lady singer kicked the corpse off the stage. With a thump, it fell down into the opera pit on top of some hapless tuba player, and to frantic applause from the audience, the two lovebirds sank into each other’s arms, kissing passionately. The curtain closed, and several people rose to their feet, shouting ‘Da capo! Da capo!’

‘That was a truly ingenious ending wasn’t it?’ an elderly Spanish lady in the box next to ours said to her friends, who nodded energetically.

‘Oh yes! I haven’t seen such a marvellous opera in a long time. This fellow Berlioz will go far.’

Again, shouts of ‘da capo, da capo’ rose from the audience. Wasn’t that Italian for ‘again’? Cautiously, I glanced at Mr Ambrose. If a paying audience was calling for opera with mayhem and murder, would he…?

‘Cease looking at me like that, Mr Linton.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like you’re concerned I’ll start snatching people of the streets for a realistic re-enactment of the French Revolution in operatic form.’

‘I would never think such a thing of you!’

Actually, I had been thinking rather along the lines of Hannibal and the Battle of Cannae.

‘Just in case you are not clear about this, Mr Linton,’ he told me, his icy eyes boring into me, nailing me to my seat, ‘I’m not pleased about what happened. Not at all.’

I blinked. ‘You aren’t? But I thought…’

‘Oh, I’m pleased about the outcome.’ He nodded at the happily chattering audience that was slowly getting to its feet and filing out of the hall. ‘No one noticed what happened. There wasn’t a hint of scandal. But am I happy about what occurred?’ Slowly, he flexed his fingers, as if wrapping them around an imaginary neck. ‘Most assuredly not. And you can trust me when I say that, once I find out who is behind this, they are going to pay.’

‘In pounds or francs?’

‘Mr Linton?’

‘Yes, Sir?’

‘Shut up, and up on your feet!’

‘Yes, Sir!’

‘Let’s have a look around the stage, shall we?’

While the audience was still happily chatting about the wonderful performance and the singers returned to the stage for a second round of bows, Mr Ambrose and I slipped out of our box. He started down the corridor, his long strides eating up the distance, and I hurried after him, nibbling at the distance as best I could. Inside, my mind was whirling. A murder! An actual murder! Was it Claudette? Had they gotten to her?

Damn! Why did she have to offer me a free drink? It was practically guaranteed we’d be friends after that. And now I was worried sick for the woman. Damn her and her delicious bottle.

Calm down! It’s not Claudette. It can’t be.

Even from a distance, it had been pretty clear the victim was a man—or at least had dressed like one. Unless she’d taken a leaf out of my book and taken up cross-dressing, Claudette was perfectly safe. But if it hadn’t been her they were after, then who? There couldn’t be this many intrigues and unscripted murder plots in this opera house, could there?

Shouts and curses came from up ahead.

Or maybe there could.

‘Faster, Mr Linton. Faster!’

‘Coming, Sir!’

This was beginning to look more like something other than a simple rivalry. Something much more sinister. Had we misjudged the situation from the start? What the heck was going on?

We rushed around another corner, and finally stood in front of a large door marked STAGE. Well, actually it was marked SCÈNE. I just hoped that was French for ‘stage’, and not ‘gentleman’s lavatory’.

Without hesitation, Mr Ambrose shoved open the door. Thank God the curtain was already closed again, or Monsieur Berlioz would have gotten another unscheduled addition to his latest opera. A group of people in colourful costumes was standing in a circle, whispering to each other, a motionless leg sticking out from their midst.

‘What,’ Mr Ambrose demanded, his voice as cold as a glacier having a good time in the middle of the ice age[24], ‘is going on here?’

Everyone whirled to face him. The moment she caught sight of him, the mezzo-soprano’s eyes flashed, and she stormed towards him.

‘I quit!’ she declared, waving her fingers in her face. ‘No good pay? Fine! Philistine patron who understand nothing of opera? Fine! But dead cadavre interrupting my scene? Non, merci beaucoup!’

Slamming her feathery hat into Mr Ambrose’s face, she marched off stage, muttering under her breath.

With two fingers, Mr Ambrose picked the offending object off his stony visage.

‘Well?’ he enquired, staring at the wide-eyed remaining staff. ‘I am waiting for an explanation.’

Instinctively, everyone took a step back. Not one of them said a word.

Stepping closer, I pushed them aside to look at the unfortunate victim—and sucked in a breath. ‘Mr Ambrose, you need to come and look at this!’

Instantly, he was by my side. There was a moment of silence, then… ‘Hm. I see what you mean, Mr Linton.’

‘He must have been dead for a while. Look at his face!’

‘Definitely not well-preserved.’ He sniffed. ‘To judge by the smell, the flies have been at him.’

One of the remaining ladies gave a dramatic sigh and collapsed into a well-practiced decorative faint with no risk of injury. This was the opera, after all.

I frowned down at the red stain spreading on the stage. ‘But if the corpse is that old, why is he still bleeding?’

Instead of answering my question, Mr Ambrose bent and, with the careless attitude of a man who’d lived off dead rats and dry bread crusts for several years of his life, dipped a finger into the red liquid and tasted it.

‘Tomato juice,’ he stated.

Another lady fainted in a decorative manner.

‘Tomato juice?’ Claudette, who had been silently watching so far, strode forward, pushing through the other onlookers. ‘Moi, I do not understand sis! What kind of maniac would use a tomato juice to make a fake corpse bleed?’

‘Se prop master?’ suggested someone.

‘Except for him, you idiot!’

Mr Ambrose’s eyes met with mine, and silent agreement travelled between us.

‘I don’t think this corpse was the work of the prop master,’ I told the assembled singers.

‘No indeed.’ Mr Ambrose looked grim. ‘This was the work of someone who wanted to cause a scandal with minimal danger to themselves. Nobody could convict someone of murder for leaving a body that had been killed weeks ago, and probably dug up from a vagrant graveyard.’

‘But for the opera house…’ I continued his thought, and he nodded.

‘For the opera house, it would have been another matter entirely. A dead body on the stage? That’s the stuff that scandals are made of. Scandals the like of which could break this place.’

‘Kind of like a deadly snake in the prima donna’s changing room?’

‘Exactly like that.’

‘But w’o?’ Claudette demanded. ‘W’o could want to ruin sis entire opera house? We shust sing ‘ere! We are no danger to anyone!’

‘Hm…’ I stroked my chin, pretending to think. ‘Who do we know that would love to ruin each and every business venture of Mr Rikkard Ambrose…let me think…do we know such a person?’

‘I told you, it’s not Dalgliesh.’ Mr Ambrose gave an aggravated headshake. ‘He wouldn’t concern himself with a little matter like a single opera house, unless—’

Suddenly, he cut off.

‘Guizot!’ he hissed.

‘Whatever kind of curse that is,’ I told him, ‘I’m sure it’s not fit for ladies’ ears. What does it mean?’

‘It’s not a curse, Mr Linton. It’s a man.’

‘Oh.’

‘François Guizot, the French foreign minister.’

My brow furrowed. ‘I don’t understand. What does this have to do with Dalgliesh?’

‘I think we’d better discuss that elsewhere, Mr Linton.’

It was only then I realized that everyone around us was listening intently. Even several people who I—up to that point—had believed didn’t speak a word of English seemed to be quite interested in our discussion. A cold shiver went down my spine.

‘You there! You! And you!’ Mr Ambrose pointed at a few of the male singers. ‘Grab this—’ He jabbed the corpse with a boot, ‘—and dispose of it. Quietly. You, Mr Linton, come with me.’

He strode away and left Claudette to translate to her colleagues that they had just been promoted from famous singers to corpse-removers.

Mr Ambrose marched me off the stage and to the closest door, which he immediately pulled open.

‘Inside!’

‘That’s a broom closet!’

‘Which means nobody will find it worthwhile to listen at the door. Inside. Now.’

I did as he ordered, and Mr Ambrose stepped in after me, closing the door behind us. I had to silently congratulate him on originality. I had envisioned quite a few scenarios that could motivate Mr Ambrose and me to sneak off into a broom closet—but discussing corpses and French politics had not been one of them.

‘What is this all about?’ I demanded of the darkness. ‘What has this Guizot fellow to do with Lord Dalgliesh?’

Mr Ambrose muttered something else in French which—this time—I was pretty sure was a curse word.

‘I was a fool! I should have seen it sooner. Guizot, as foreign minister, is the driving force between the peaceful coexistence of France and England. It was his appointment that soothed tensions and maybe even averted war in the wake of the Far East Crisis.’

I nodded. ‘Averted war. Sounds good.’

Even in the complete darkness surrounding us, I could feel the tickle of Mr Ambrose’s cool look.

‘Not for someone whose business thrives on war, and on the expansion of the British Empire, Mr Linton.’

Something went click in my head. Mr Ambrose must have felt me stiffening, because I heard him take a small step towards me.

‘Yes, Mr Linton. Dalgliesh is not at all pleased with Monsieur François Guizot. He would love for the man to simply disappear. Or maybe even die.’

I felt a cold shiver travel down my spine.

‘So what? What if he wants that politician gone? This has nothing to do with our dead man on the stage, surely?’

‘Don’t you see, Mr Linton? Guizot is protected. He rarely makes public appearances, and when he does, it is in heavily guarded, secure government locations. He knows very well there are plenty of people who’d like nothing better than to see him dead. But there are some things a minister cannot avoid. One of them is attending his king at public events—when he holds a parade, visits the theatre, or sometimes…the opera.’

I swallowed.

‘And how many opera houses are there in Paris?’

‘Many. But few of them large and prestigious enough for people like Guizot, let alone the king. Only two come to mind. I own one of them.’

I smiled weakly into the shadows. ‘Do I get three guesses to find out who owns the other?’

‘If you need three guesses for that, Mr Linton, I have considerably overestimated your intelligence.’

I didn’t give him a sharp retort, or even a kick on the shin. My mind was still busy whirling from the implications of what he’d just told me.

‘So…Dalgliesh is trying to bring this opera into disrepute? Why? So next time some government minister watches the opera at his place?’

‘Yes. At his place, with his armed men everywhere, and his hands holding the keys to all the doors. Imagine how many accidents could happen in such an environment.’

‘Holy moly! You don’t mean…?’

Was he honestly suggesting that Lord Dalgliesh was planning to assassinate the minister of a foreign government? And not just any foreign government, but Britain’s bitterest rival, who, just a few decades ago, had nearly brought this country to its knees?

‘Doesn’t he realize what will happen?’ I had to clutch the wall, I felt so dizzy. ‘If the wrong people are suspected of this assassination, the French king will have no choice but to take action! There will be war. Not just a battle here and there, but real, actual, full-out war, all across the continent. It would be Napoleon all over again! He can’t be planning that! He can’t!’

A firm hand landed on my shoulder.

‘As I said,’ Mr Ambrose’s cool voice reached my whirling mind. ‘Lord Dalgliesh does not concern himself with small endeavours.’

A choked sound came out of my mouth. Maybe it was a laugh. Maybe not. I didn’t know.

‘Not that the goings-on on the continent are why he is planning this,’ Mr Ambrose continued.

I blinked. ‘He isn’t?’

‘Of course not. Remember, Mr Linton. What happened the last time Britain and France fought? What happened during the Napoleonic Wars?’

It took a moment for the penny to drop. Probably because it was one of the pennies in Mr Ambrose’s purse, and he was loath to let it go.

‘The English fleet devastated the weaker French fleet, and France was cut off from all its colonies!’

‘Exactly. Imagine a repeat performance of that, all those colonies without supplies, without reinforcements. There will be no other big colonial power to balance Great Britain, and Lord Dalgliesh will be in India, with the largest army of the world not tied down in the continental conflict, free to do as he wishes, the world as his personal plaything.’

I did try to imagine it. But I stopped when I nearly had to hurl.

I had only one question. Grabbing Mr Ambrose by the collar, I pulled him towards me until I knew that, even in the dark, I was staring directly into his eyes.

‘How do we stop him?’