Hunting for Silence by Robert Thier

New Arrivals

How do we stop him?

Mr Ambrose had answered the question only with silence. And really…I couldn’t blame him. Morals aside, it was comparatively easy to shoot someone through the head, especially if you had Dalgliesh’s kind of power. It was a lot harder to prevent someone from being shot through the head if you didn’t know when the shot was coming and where it was coming from.

For days and days, while we quietly disposed of the corpse, cleaned the stage and tried to keep rumours to a minimum, we both brooded over this question.

Finally, inspiration hit! I had an idea. A brilliant idea!

Only…I was pretty sure it was one Mr Ambrose was going to detest.

Still, I had to try. We couldn’t be sure that we had guessed Dalgliesh’s plans correctly—but it all fit so horribly well. Mr Ambrose had told me the king and foreign minister were set to return from a trip to Versailles next month and, by all reports, the king liked to show his face in public whenever he came back, to be cheered along and reassure himself another revolution wasn’t just around the corner. And, of course, his favourite minister would be there.

It might be possible that we had misread the situation. That Dalgliesh wasn’t after Guizot at all. But with Lord Daniel Eugene Dalgliesh, it was always wise to assume the worst. I had to tell Mr Ambrose what I’d come up with. If there was only the slightest chance to avert what we feared was coming, I had to let him know.

Marching up to his office door, I knocked.

‘Enter,’ came his commanding voice from inside.

I pushed open the door and stepped inside, finding Mr Ambrose pouring over thick piles of papers. They weren’t bills or sheets of music for the next performance. Oh no. Even upside-down, I could spot words like ‘surveillance’ and ‘report’ before he hurriedly put the papers away.

‘Yes, Mr Linton?’

‘You’re keeping an eye on Dalgliesh, aren’t you?’

The look he gave me was so cold it was almost scary. Only almost, though, because of the words that next came out of his mouth. ‘You stay away from Dalgliesh! He’s dangerous.’

Warmth flooded my heart. He cared. He cared if I was in danger. The arrogant, chauvinistic asshole! He should know that I could very well take care of myself. How could any one person make you feel so mushy and pissed off at the same time?

Concentrate, Lilly!

Clearing my throat, I stepped closer to the desk.

‘I may have an idea of how we can prevent Dalgliesh’s plans, Sir.’

‘Indeed, Mr Linton?’

‘Yes indeed, Sir.’

I explained my idea to him. He listened calmly and patiently until I was finished, and then he nailed me to the wall with his cold gaze. By the looks of him, he was contemplating fixing me in place there permanently, if that could stop my crazy plans.

‘No!’

‘Just think about it!’ I cajoled.

‘You can’t be serious, Mr Linton!’

‘But it would work. I’m sure it would.’

‘Dropping Dalgliesh into a volcano would also work. That does not mean it is a feasible plan.’

‘But it would be a darn interesting one.’ I tugged my ear. ‘Are you sure there aren’t any volcanos around here?’

‘Mr Linton!’

‘All right, all right. Back to my original plan, then.’

He didn’t seem much more pleased about that. His eyes narrowed. ‘Ah yes. Your “original plan”. Correct me if I am mistaken, Mr Linton. Your plan consists of finding the saboteur here in my opera house…’

‘Yes.’

‘…and then,’ he continued, icy derision dripping from his voice, ‘offering His Majesty King Louis Philippe, his entire court and all the cabinet, as a sign of my generosity and love for the French people, free seasonal tickets for my opera?’

‘Err…yes?’

The glower he sent me could have frozen a volcano in mid-eruption.

‘Do you have any idea how much an opera ticket costs, Mr Linton?’

I didn’t, actually—because he had forgotten to charge me for the earlier performance. I decided not to mention that fact at the present moment, however. Better to annoy him with it in a month or so.

‘No, Sir.’

‘And do you have any idea how many members the king’s court has?’

‘Um…a dozen?’ I guessed.

His glower become even frostier.

‘Two dozen?’

I could feel my toes starting to freeze. Swallowing down my misgivings, I raised my chin.

‘Do you have any better ideas?’

Silence.

More silence.

And another teaspoonful of silence.

Finally…

‘No.’

I thought as much.

Accompanied by the noise of grinding teeth, Mr Ambrose reached into his drawer, pulled out some official-looking writing paper with pre-printed letterhead. In his precise, small, and murderously neat handwriting he penned a few quick words, and signed the note with a flick of the wrist. Then he pulled a bellpull, and waited until a messenger boy peeked his head through the door.

‘Oui, Monsieur?’

Mr Ambrose threw him the letter. ‘Pour que Sa Majesté, le roi Louis Philippe, soit livré immédiatement.’[25]

The boy’s eyes went as wide as saucers. ‘Oui, monsieur! Tout de suite, monsieur!’[26]

He shut the door, and I could hear him running down the corridor at breakneck speed.

At the desk, Mr Ambrose sat down heavily in his chair and gave me a stony look.

I sent him back an encouraging smile. ‘It’s to prevent a horrific war and untold amounts of bloodshed.’

By the looks of him, that wasn’t a great consolation.

*~*~**~*~*

While Mr Ambrose brooded over how much money he was going to lose and mobilized his forces to spy on Dalgliesh, I had been ordered to receive my punishment. As vengeance for forcing him to spend money, it was to be my task to interview the opera staff once again, but this time with a new perspective. We weren’t just dealing with some petty rivalry between artists. We were dealing with a traitor—both from Mr Ambrose’s perspective and, if we were right, from the perspective of the King of the French.[27]

And everything depends on detective inspector Lilly Linton. Huzzah!

I didn’t share the new direction of the investigation with my translator, however, when she asked why the heck we were starting the interviews all over again. Considering what we suspected now, it was entirely possible she was the architect of the whole plot, and had placed the snake in her own changing room to throw us off the scent. I didn’t like to think my drinking buddy could be the force of evil we were trying to root out, however, she was definitely sneaky enough. It was the reason why I liked her.

‘Monsieur?’ a boy stuck his head in through the door. I nodded and waved at him.

‘Let them in.’

He disappeared, and a moment later, the first suspect entered the room. I tried my best to ask new questions without being too obvious about what we suspected, like: Have you worked here long? Have you ever worked for other operas in Paris? Are you satisfied with the wages Mr Ambrose pays you? (The last being more of a rhetorical question.)

My particular focus was on the men and the larger women. I doubted very much one of the pixie-like ballerinas would have been able to drag a days-old corpse halfway through the opera house undetected. Still, I couldn’t afford to leave anyone out. So the day dragged on and on, filled with endless questions, until finally the sun sank beyond the horizon.

Once again, the messenger boy stuck his head in the door and said something in quick French.

‘He says there’s someone outside asking for an interview,’ Claudette translated, ‘and—’

‘Let them in, let them in.’ I waved a tired hand. ‘I’ve conducted dozens of interview today, one more won’t hurt.’

‘Err…I don’t think he meant that kind of interview. I think he meant—’

The door opened.

‘Good evening,’ an eerily familiar voice said. ‘I’ve come to apply for the post of—Mr Linton! Good Lord, Mr Linton – is that you?’

Slowly, I lifted my gaze, dread rising inside me, to see standing in the doorway the slender, beaming figure of Emilia Harse.

*~*~**~*~*

Bam! Bam!

‘Let me in!’

Bam! Bam!

‘Let me in, blast you!’

The door opened, and I nearly fell into Mr Ambrose’s office. His arms shot out to catch me before I hit the floor, and he pulled me upright.

‘Mr Linton! What is the matter?’

‘I need an advance on my salary!’

He blinked. ‘Pardon?’

‘I need money! Right now! Please!’

His eyes narrowed infinitesimally. ‘My ears must be deceiving me, Mr Linton. I could have sworn you just demanded money. From me.’

‘Yes!’

‘After already making me spend an enormous sum today.’

‘Yes, yes! I need the money now! Please!’ I sank to my knees in front of him. To hell with pride and feminism! This was an emergency! ‘Right now! It’s a life and death matter. Please, I’m, begging you!’

Ice flashed in his eyes, and he grabbed my hands. ‘What is it? Has someone threatened you? Has someone dared to lay a hand on—’

‘No! No, nothing like that.’

‘Then what is it? What do you need the money for?’

I cleared my throat. This part I wasn’t eager to confess. ‘I need it for a dress!’

There was a long moment of silence.

Then another.

And another.

‘You have barged into my office,’ Mr Ambrose said, coolly, ‘nearly broken down my door, gotten on your knees and begged me for help in a life and death situation, and now you tell me you want money for the latest Parisian ladies’ fashion?’

‘Yes! Yes, please, I’m desperate!’

He cocked his head.

‘Well, well, Mr Linton…Paris has managed to do in a few days what I have been trying for years now: to turn you into a normal woman.’

I would have dearly liked to kick his shin right then and there, but unfortunately you can’t do that sort of thing while kneeling on the ground pleading for help. So I punched him in the leg instead.

‘Be serious!’

‘I am absolutely serious. I am even slightly impressed. If I had known Paris would have such a positive effect on you, I would have brought you here sooner.’

I punched his leg again.

‘I haven’t suddenly become fashion-crazy! I need the dress as a disguise, you bloody son of a bachelor! I need a cover!’

‘A cover?’ His eyes wandered over me in a way that made my cheeks heat. ‘What, pray, do you need to cover?’

I broke down. I broke down, and told him all about the burgeoning passion between Miss Emilia Harse and Mr Victor Linton, and how Mr Victor Linton wanted to please please please switch genders in order to put a stop to any further burgeoning. If, at any time in the past, I had doubted that Mr Ambrose’s capability to keep his face stoic and stony approached the superhuman, those doubts were now eradicated. Not once during my entire tale did he even so much as hint at a smile.

When I had finished, and gazed up at him with the big, pleading eyes of a tortured soul searching for an escape route from hell, he simply cocked his head, his eyes glittering, and said:

‘I see.’

My finger twitched in the desire to strangle him.

‘And?’ I demanded. ‘Will you let me have the money?’

‘No.’

‘But Mr Ambrose, Sir! I—’

‘In fact,’ he continued, stroking his chin thoughtfully, ‘I have decided to appoint you the temporary head of the human resources department here at the opera house.’

‘What?’

Eyes blazing, I jumped to my feet.

‘Ah. Eager to go to work, I see? I appreciate your enthusiasm, Mr Linton. This great responsibility is a sign of my trust in you. It means that you will be in charge of hiring and firing all the major staff members. Some singers have quit their jobs over that little incident with the rotting corpse.’

I had a horrible feeling where this was going.

‘No. No. No, nononono!’

‘Since you are already practised in interviewing people,’ he continued mercilessly, ‘you might as well interview potential candidates for those positions. I’m sure that Miss Harse will appreciate having a friendly face on the committee that will decide her fate.’

Rushing forward, I grabbed him by the collar. He gazed down at me, as cool as if I wasn’t contemplating smashing his head in.

‘This is revenge, isn’t it?’ I growled. ‘Revenge for the free tickets! You bastard son of a bachelor!’

‘I have no idea what you are talking about, Mr Linton.’

Tightening my grip, I pulled him down towards me, or myself up towards him, who the hell cared, and slammed my lips to his, kissing him fiercely.

‘I hate you!’ I whispered against his mouth.

‘Indeed?’ he whispered back, catching my cheeks in his hands.

‘If you say “indeed” one more time, I’m going to clobber you over the head with a wooden prop sword!’

Releasing him, I took a few steps back and raised a threatening finger. ‘I shall be avenged! Be on your guard. It may take months. It may take years. But one day, when you least expect it, I will appear from the shadows and wreak my vengeance upon you!’

‘I think you will make an excellent head of human resources, Mr Linton. You obviously have a talent for the performing arts.’

Tempted to stagger under the weight of my fate, but holding myself proudly, I marched out of the door, away from the cruel, cruel man who was going to let me suffer through this and who I most certainly did not love, no matter the evidence to the contrary. As I marched down the corridor and towards the lovestruck girl who was my worst nightmare, I was only cheered by one single thought:

Wait till Miss Harse is introduced to the first French person. Just wait. It’ll be worth all the trouble…