Silence No More

19. The Ambrosian Mystery

...an empty corridor?

A completely. Bloody. Empty. Corridor.

"Err...Mr Ambrose? Did we go the wrong way?"

No answer.

I glanced over at him, frowning. "Hey! I asked a question. Did we go the wrong way? "

Still no answer. Only then did I take a closer look at Mr Rikkard Ambrose and noticed he wasn't looking straight ahead anymore. No, his gaze was firmly focused on the walls. Or, to be more precise, on the portraits hanging on the walls.

So many portraits, every single one of them showing certain similarities. True, there were differences in styles and attires, but one thing was repeated over and over and over again: stony, expressionless faces, and dark, sea-coloured eyes staring down at me.

"As I thought." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mr Ambrose's fists clench. "The gallery."

With the icy eyes of innumerable Ambroses still staring down at me, I didn't need to ask what kind of gallery.

"Mr...Mr Ambrose?" My voice was nothing but a whisper. Somehow, it didn't seem appropriate to talk at a normal volume in this place. "What are we doing here?"

Why would the old Marquess Ambrose come to visit such a place? And, more importantly, why were my husband's eyes burning with icy anger when they stared at his own ancestors, as if they were indeed a band of bank-robbing pixies.

For the longest time, I didn't think he was going to answer. Finally, I reached out and gently took his hand, giving it a squeeze. No words were needed to convey my meaning.

You can trust me.

"I..." He hesitated, his lips about to slam shut again—until he finally pried them fully open and started to talk. "I can't be sure. Not completely. But knowing my father...after that letter, and what Fernsby told us..."

"Yes?"

Mr Ambrose's clenched fists tightened. I could almost hear the creaking of bones. "This whole thing with Adaira is a sham. A pretence, in order to lure me here. And there is only one thing that his goal could be. One thing the old blaggard could want. And that is—"

"Ehem!"

At that sound, Mr Ambrose's voice cut off abruptly. Whirling around, we came face-to-face with a nondescript servant in livery.

"What," Mr Rikkard Ambrose demanded, his icy voice falling on all present like a hammer blow, "do you want?"

The man took a step back, swallowing. "I, um..."

"Out with it, man!"

The servant stiffened. "Yes, My Lord! His Lordship the Marquess sent me to fetch you."

My dear husband's eyes narrowed infinitesimally. I wasn't exactly free of suspicion either.

"Fetch me?"

"Yes, My Lord. You and Mr Linton." The man sent me a nervous look. "He said he had come to a decision. Something...something about a contest?"

***

The night was silent and peaceful above the wealthy districts of London. Only the gentle lapping of the Thames against the shore and the occasional mewing of a cat disturbed the nocturnal serenity. Until...

Thud!

"Ow!"

"Pshht! Do you want my mother to hear you?"

"No! But neither do I want to ram my toes against a sharp piece of metal! Why the heck do you have a pickaxe lying next to your back door, Patsy?"

"In case stupid men come to bother me, of course."