Can’t walk on their own…? Blimey! What was he talking about? Bodies? Dead bodies? Anxiety washed through me once again as I thought of his threats to me, and of all the things that could happen to Simmons. Maybe I should go to the police after all…
‘Cargo and papers, Mr Linton,’ Mr Ambrose added as if he’d read my mind. ‘You have an over-active imagination.’
And you have threatened to kill me and have a man locked up in your basement, which should be the job of the police with whom the Queen of England is so kindly providing us! That doesn’t exactly inspire confidence!
But I didn’t say that out loud. I definitely did not want to end up in the room next to Simmons'.
Finally we reached the end of the corridor. Under a massive brick archway, that indeed would be large enough to admit large crates of cargo, we stepped into a room I recognized: it was the room just in front of Simmons' cell. At the opposite end of the room was the solid steel door behind which Simmons was held. To my left there was another door. I recognized it as the one through which we had entered the basement last time, by the back entrance.
Karim strode determinedly towards the door, but Mr Ambrose touched him lightly on the arm, and the huge Indian stopped in his tracks.
‘Before we go in - Tell me, how did you finally crack him?’
Karim shrugged. ‘I am sorry, Sahib, that it took me so long. It was my failure. I failed to take into account the character of the English.’
‘In what way?’ I asked, interested. After all, I was English. I had no idea that I shared a character trait with other English people. So far, I hadn’t found a lot of common ground.
The bearded mountain threw me a glare and shut his mouth. Apparently, he wasn’t ready to answer any questions that came from me.
‘In what way?’ Mr Ambrose repeated my question, so now he had no choice but to answer.
Karim cleared his throat. It sounded like a volcanic explosion. A very embarrassed volcanic explosion.
‘Well, Sahib, I threatened him with the usual European, Arabian, Indian, and even Chinese torture methods. Nothing seemed to terrify him. But that was the wrong approach. As I said, I failed to take into account the character of the English. Then it finally came to me. I…’
He cleared his throat again - and then the sneaky son of a bachelor bent down and whispered something in Mr Ambrose’s ear! And Mr Ambrose, Mr Immovable Stone-Face Ambrose, actually lifted an eyebrow.
‘Is that so? And did it work?’
‘Did what work?’ I demanded.
‘Oh yes,’ Karim said with grim relish, ignoring me completely. ‘He is talking like a trader in the bazaar. Only he does not wish to sell, but give it all for free.’
‘What did you do?’ I demanded. ‘Karim, what did you do to the poor man?’
This time, they both ignored me.
‘Very well then.’ Taking the keys from his pocket once more, Mr Ambrose unlocked and unbolted the door. ‘Let us see who is behind this infernal intrigue!’
He thrust open the door and stepped forward, into the dark.
The Adversary
I followed Mr Ambrose into the dungeon, and even by the dim light of the oil lamp I spotted Simmons immediately. He was sitting on a chair in the middle of the room, his arms tied to the backrest, and over his head…
I blinked, not sure I was seeing correctly in the gloom. Finally, I leaned over to Karim.
‘Why does he have a bucket of water with a hole in the bottom hanging over his head?’ I asked him out of the corner of my mouth.
‘I do not hear your voice, Ifrit! Allah is my strength and will protect me from thee!’
‘Oh. Thanks for the helpful information.’
Mr Ambrose approached the thin, blonde man in the chair, whose back stiffened at the sudden sound of footsteps. He hadn’t seen us until then, with his head sunk on his chest and his eyes closed, but when Mr Ambrose stepped closer, he raised his head to face his former master.
‘Mr Ambrose, Sir.’
Simmons' voice was rough. It sounded like he hadn’t used it for conversation in days.
Drip.
A drop of water fell out of the hole in the bucket and landed on Simmons' forehead. He shook himself.
‘Could you…’ His voice dwindled, and he coughed. ‘Could you please tell your servant to get rid of that bucket? It is quite annoying, having water drip onto you all the time.’
He didn’t seem afraid any more. I wondered why. When we had caught him, he’d been terrified. Then I abruptly realized why. What was the sense of being afraid? The worst was already behind him. He had been broken and made to confess.
‘Please…’ Simmons rasped. ‘Please, get rid of the bucket.’
Mr Ambrose considered in silence for a moment - then he made a hand gesture to Karim. The Indian stepped forward and, with a speed that made me yelp in surprise, whipped his scimitar[33] out of its sheath, severing the rope that held the bucket. It fell, sloshing water in every direction, and with a resounding thump bounced off Simmons' head, drenching him in cold water.
Simmons' face contorted in a grimace. ‘That’s not exactly what I meant.’
‘It’s down, isn’t it?’ Karim growled. ‘Now start talking, or I’ll start doing things with this you’ll like even less.’ He held the point of his scimitar to Simmons’s throat. ‘Talk!’
‘I believe Karim has voiced my expectations very succinctly,’ Mr Ambrose said, crouching down so that his dark, sea-green eyes were on a level with Simmons’. ‘Talk.’
‘What do you want me to say?’ Simmons asked in a voice that sounded very tired and, yes, now very afraid again, too. Looking into Mr Ambrose’s eyes obviously made him feel there might yet be worse things in store for him. I knew the feeling.
‘When did all this start?’ Mr Ambrose asked.
‘All this, Sir? I’m afraid I do not…’
‘Don’t play games with me, Simmons! With me, the stakes are far too high.’
Simmons swallowed.
‘I know,’ his former employer continued in a cold voice, ‘that you must have been in the pay of one of my enemies for some time. They could not simply convince you to break into my private safe overnight. You are far too insecure and timid for that. So I repeat: when did this all start?’
‘S-six or seven weeks ago, Sir.’