Hunting for Silence

14. 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.'