Storm and Silence

Storm and Silence Page 72

What? Another one of those? Yes. The sender read, in curly feminine handwriting: Samantha Genevieve Ambrose. Just like last time. And there was the same coat of arms stamped on the envelope, a lion and a rose, with the rest of the crest, as I now noticed, filled out by stormy waves.

Whoever she was, you had to give the lady her due; she was persistent. But honestly, I wished she wouldn’t be. What should I do with her letter? Mr Ambrose had given the first one back unopened. I presumed that meant he wouldn’t want another. Was I supposed to throw it away? Or was he just returning the first letter unopened out of principle and would relent to whatever the lady was writing?

Somehow I didn’t think so. Mr Ambrose wasn’t the relenting kind. Especially if the message came in a pink, scented envelope.

Still, I couldn’t just destroy the letter. For all I knew, he might want this one, even though he hadn’t wanted the first. I hadn’t forgotten the crest on his watch, exactly like the one on the letter, and was reasonably sure by now that there was some deep connection between the letter-writer and Mr Ambrose.

But what kind of connection? Not knowing drove me insane! And it made it impossible to decide what to do with the cursed pink thing.

Well, what are you waiting for, Lilly? The problem of not knowing what’s in there can be solved easily enough!

Hesitantly, I reached for the envelope.

Should I? I had to admit, I was more than a little curious to read what was inside. Was it from a relative? Or… maybe from his wife?

I swallowed. Up until now I had just assumed he was single, but you never knew. Maybe he was a romantic soul and deeply in love with his wife and was just hiding it very, very, very, very, very well. Maybe… maybe the letters even had something to do with the mysterious stolen file! Oh, the suspense of not knowing was killing me! Literally!

Surely, opening the letter couldn’t really be wrong if it meant saving me from death by acute Nosystic curiositis?

I reached out for the letter opener - but my hand stopped in mid-air.

Mr Ambrose had taken me on. He had given me a job when many others wouldn’t. I was his secretary and should behave like it. A professional wouldn’t pry, and I intended to be a professional. That was the whole idea behind getting a job. Agonizingly slowly, my hand drew back from the letter opener.

Blast! A conscience can be such a nuisance, sometimes!

But the problem of what to do with the letter still remained.

Then I had an idea. I was a secretary, right? My job was filing things. And I still had the key to the safe.

Quickly I got up and searched the shelves until I found an empty file box. I put the letter inside and marched to the safe. Unlocking the safe-room, I entered and stowed the file box in the remotest, darkest corner I could find, where Mr Ambrose himself would hopefully never find it. Then, satisfied with a job well done, I left, closed the safe again and returned to my desk.

Two messages were already waiting for me.

The first read:

Mr Linton,

Where are my letters? I do not pay you to dawdle.

Rikkard Ambrose.

The second read:

Mr Linton,

Perhaps I was not clear enough regarding my intolerance towards dawdling. Where are my letters?

Rikkard Ambrose

Quickly, I looked through the rest of the letters. They all seemed to be strictly business-related, which was sure to be a balm for the soul of Mr Ambrose. No dealing with frightening pink personal letters today!

I scribbled a note, went over to the door, and shoved the letters under the door, together with the safe key and a note which read:

Dear Mr Ambrose,

Forgive my unforgivable dawdling. There were a lot of letters to sort through.

Yours always,

Miss Lilly Linton

It didn’t take him long to send a reply through the tube.

Mr Linton,

Please correct your address of me to coincide with the truth. I am not ‘dear’ to anyone, least of all, I am sure, to you. Also, it is my ink you are wasting by writing unnecessary words. A bottle of ink costs 3 pence apiece. Therefore, I order you to refrain from all endearments in the future.

Rikkard Ambrose

I cocked my head.

Oh, particularly grouchy this morning, are we? I wonder why…

I quickly scribbled a reply.

Dearest most honoured and beloved Mr Ambrose,

Courtesy hasn't killed anybody yet. By the way, has Simmons given any information?

Your ink-wasting

Miss Lilly Linton

He couldn’t have been very absorbed in his letters yet because his reply didn’t take long.

Mr Linton,

Courtesy might not have killed anybody yet, but it has ruined quite a few people who didn’t realize how much money it costs. Mr Simmons has not yet divulged anything. I am displeased, to say the least. We will talk about this more later. Now bring me file 28V214. And be quick about it.

Rikkard Ambrose

For some reason a smile tugged at the corners of my mouth.

Here we go again. Another normal day with Mr Ambrose.

Getting up from my desk, I made my way towards the shelves in a leisurely stroll.

I should have known better, I guess. I should have realized by now that no day with Mr Ambrose ever would turn out to be normal.

Problems? What Problems?

Remember how I said life with Mr Ambrose would never be normal?

Don’t get your hopes up. Nothing particularly exciting happened.

There wasn’t another theft. No two villains staged a sword-fight in the middle of my office or anything like that. Oh no. What happened was far more mundane and far nastier:

For the very first time, Mr Ambrose did not get rid of me early. For the very first time, I ended up having to working the entire day. The entire day, do you hear me?

Now, don’t misunderstand me. I’m not lazy or anything. It was simply that staying at the office the whole day meant that, for the first time, I had to deal with some basic needs that I hadn’t been concerned about before. The half hour Mr Ambrose allowed us for lunch took care of one of those needs: I ran out of the building and purchased something to stuff myself with. With what money, you may ask, since I hadn’t received my first pay cheque yet?

All right, I admit it. I was a bad girl. I had pawned Uncle Bufford’s walking cane. Since he hadn’t gone out walking for years, I figured he wouldn’t miss it. And I’d get it back as soon as I had my first wages. I had promised myself that.

So I wasn’t hungry when I returned to work. Yet over the course of the afternoon, another more pressing need made itself known to me. You could stay alive for several weeks without eating anything, I’d heard, but this need in the lower half of my body required more immediate release. Especially since Mr Ambrose kept me on my feet, hurrying around the room, fetching files, which didn’t exactly combine well with the building pressure down there.