Storm and Silence

Storm and Silence Page 219

‘Yes, Sir. Only, Sir…’ I ducked another acorn. ‘It will be rather difficult to make unobtrusive enquiries with this little beast on my tail.’

‘Is that all?’

Mr Ambrose turned his attention towards the brat a few feet away from him. Only now did I realize that the little snot-monster had so far only chosen me as a target for his missiles, not aiming a single one at His Mightiness, Ambrose the Icy. I didn’t have long to ponder the reason for this. Mr Ambrose advanced on the child until he was standing right in front of it. Slowly, he bent down, until his face was on one level with the child. The little brat’s fist, already holding the next acorn, slowly sank down until it hung loosely at his side. He made a mistake and met Mr Ambrose’s dark gaze. The fist opened, and the acorn fell to the ground.

‘Toi.’ Mr Ambrose said, his voice calm and cold as the Antarctic. ‘Va-t'en. Maintenant.’

The brat gave a little rat-like squeak and whirled around, scampering off as fast as its feet would carry him. I stared after him in disbelief.

‘So,’ Mr Ambrose announced. ‘That’s taken care of.’

‘What in heaven’s name did you say to that little beast?’ I demanded.

Straightening, Mr Ambrose shook his head. ‘I never disclose my secrets, Mr Linton.’

With that, he left me standing and turned away, off to gather information among the laughing crowds of people on the beach. Thank the Lord he was wearing the uniform, and not his black tailcoat. In his usual attire he would have stuck out like a crow in a flock of popinjays, but in his fake uniform, he fit in quite well with all the officers walking around the hotel in uniforms of different nationalities. In fact, he looked the handsomest of them all.

Quickly, I shook my head, ridding myself of that strange thought. What was it doing in my mind? I had a task to accomplish!

Free of the acorn-throwing fiend, I started up the path to the hotel. But I hadn’t gone half a dozen steps when, around the corner of the hotel, I glimpsed another veranda. On this one, several small tables stood, looking very decorative, with white lace tablecloths and vases of yellow iris in the middle. At the end of the veranda hung a sign which, in large blue letters, said: Café.

At the tables, people were drinking tea and eating. Delicious smells wafted over, carried by the morning breeze. I hesitated. My eyes wandered between the café, and the entrance to the hotel. I had a duty to perform in there. But then… I also had a pretty pressing duty to my stomach. It gave a big rumble, reminding me of just how long it was since it had been properly filled.

Bad Lilly! Bad! You have work to do!

Yes. My stomach could wait a little longer. I was no ravenous animal. I was a rational, strong, independent lady, and I could resist…

Suddenly, among all the other smells wafting over from the café, I caught one that I hadn’t detected before. A smell I would have recognised anywhere in the world: the delicious, mind-boggling odour of chocolate. My feet started moving, and before I realized it, I was across the veranda, inside the café, and in front of a counter with so many delicacies displayed on it that I hardly knew what to choose first.

Bugger! Well, who needs to be a strong woman on an empty stomach, anyway?

Behind the counter stood a broad man with a brilliant smile and a moustache that was so magnificently pointy you could have impaled somebody on it.

‘Um… excuse moi,’ I tried to unearth my few words of French. ‘Je vourais… Je…’

‘Oh, do not bother yourself, Monsieur,’ the man said, his smile lighting up even more brightly. ‘Me, I of course speak the language of the Englishmen. We have many Englishmen here, so it good for business, eh? And no worry about English money, either. Now, Monsieur…’ He pointed to the counter. ‘What would you like?’

Five minutes later, I sat at one of the little tables, chewing contentedly and sipping a cup of tea. The birds were singing, children were playing - at a safe distance -, the sky was blue, and for the first time in days I felt really content and relaxed. I was about half-finished with my meal, when the calm was disturbed by a cool voice at my ear.

‘I thought,’ he said, every syllable studded with shards of ice, ‘I told you to gather significant information.’

‘I have,’ I said, pointing to the crescent-shaped object in my hand, half of which I had already devoured. ‘For example, I found out that the French are fantastic bakers. They have invented this thing called a “chocolate croissant”, which is a kind of crescent shaped bun with chocolate mousse inside, and it tastes simply divine. Do you want to try?’

‘It appears,’ he said, his tone climbing a few more steps down on the thermometer, ‘that you and I have very different ideas of what constitutes significant information, Mr Linton.’

‘Probably, Sir.’

‘Unfortunately, I myself have not been able to ascertain anything useful about the island. People seemed not very inclined to engage in a conversation with me.’

‘In spite of your manner being so warm and friendly? Fancy that.’

‘Mr Linton?’

‘Yes, Sir?’

‘Be silent!’

‘As you wish, Sir.’ I took another bite of my croissant. ‘Hm… Something useful like… maybe the fact that there is a ferry service down at the harbour on the other side of the island? Would you consider that useful?’

His eyes darkened. ‘How do you know that?’

I took another bite of my croissant and licked a bit of chocolate mousse off my thumb. Then, I jerked it over my shoulder at the smiling man with the pointy moustache, who was just now selling a piece of cake to a young lady in blue.

‘My friend over there mentioned it. It’s amazing what people tell you once you’ve bought a cup of tea and a chocolate croissant - for which you will have to pay, by the way. Did you know, for instance, that there is an abandoned salt mine up in the mountains? None of the locals or tourists dare to go there, because it’s supposed to be haunted. They know it’s haunted, because now and again, they see strange lights up there at night, and because the few people who did go up there, never came back.’

‘Indeed, Mr Linton?’

I licked another bit of chocolate mousse off my finger. Somehow, I managed to suppress a grin. ‘Yes, indeed, Sir.’