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!’
I Defend my Honour, More’s the Pity
He cocked his head.
‘No?’
‘No! Definitely no! Despite what you have been trying to tell yourself, I am still a girl and I am most definitely not going to let you rummage around in my knickers!’
‘You would rather end up face-down in the Thames?’
‘I would rather that you trusted me!’
‘Trust…’ The word came slowly over his sculpted lips as if he hadn’t used them in a very long time. ‘Mister Linton… in Russia they have a saying about that. Do you know it, Mr Linton?’
He took a step closer.
‘How the heck should I? I’m not Russian!’
‘The saying is: “trust, but verify”.’ He took a step closer again. ‘I do not subscribe to that saying. I never trust. But I always verify.’
‘You are not getting me out of my dress so you can rummage around in my underwear!’ I declared, maybe a bit too forcefully. That was largely due to the fact that a part of my mind was occupied with how it would feel to have him rummage around in my underwear. And another part of my mind was busy being furious at the aforementioned part of my mind for having such thoughts.
‘You are not wearing a dress, but trousers,’ he pointed out in his usual cold, curt manner.
‘Whatever! Are you a gentleman, Sir, or a cur?’