'You,' Karim said, his face as wooden as a five-hundred-year-old oak that had decided it was time to retire and petrify, 'must be joking.'
'I am not in the habit of joking,' I said in my best Rikkard Ambrose imitation. I could keep it up for about five seconds, then my face broke into a grin. 'Well, actually I am, but this isn't one of those times. I'm actually being serious.'
'You want me—me!—to put on one of the uniforms of the oppressors of my country, and go to the man under whose tyranny my family still lives, bend my knee before him and pretend to be one of his men?'
I patted his shoulder. 'You'll make a fine oppressor. You've got the physique for it. And your face...just perfect!'
To judge by the expression on his face, the compliment did not go over well.
'You'll get to lie to him,' I pointed out the bright side of things. 'You can lie until your pants catch fire.'
'What a cheering prospect,' Karim told me with a face that was just about as cheerful as that of Ah-Puch, Mayan god of death, darkness, and disaster. I had seen a few pictures on my trip to South America. Trust me when I say it wasn't pretty.
'I must say, Mr Linton's suggestion is not without merit.'
Karim's eyes widened, and he whirled to face Mr Ambrose. Our dear employer had so far stayed out of the conversation, while I had explained to Karim what my intentions were. But now he was looking at his bodyguard with a cool, determined look I knew all too well. It was the same look that had gotten me to stay for free overtime around five out of six weekdays on average.
'Sahib! No, Sahib, please. You cannot be seriously considering—'
'Do you have a better suggestion to accomplish our goal?'
'No, but—'
'Is impersonating a soldier of the presidency armies beyond your scope of abilities?'
'Of course not, Sahib, but—'
'Very well, then. It is decided.'
An unhealthy noise reached my ears. It took me a moment to realize it was Karim grinding his teeth. His eyes flicked from left to right, desperately searching for a way out. It was almost enough to make me feel sorry for him. Almost.
'What about the uniform?' he demanded. 'We don't have a uniform, and not nearly enough time or information to have a convincing one made.'
'Hm...' Thoughtfully, Mr Ambrose stroked one long finger along his chin. 'A valid point. Mr Linton?'
'Well...' I wet my lips. 'Actually, I have thought of a solution for this. The only thing is, it might be a teensy-weensy bit....adventurous.'
*~*~**~*~*
'This is what you call "adventurous", woman?'
'What would you call it?'
'I would call it "Take your foot out of my face!"'
'Oops! Sorry.'
Shifting my foot, I wobbled, and thrust my arms forward. Just before I slipped, I managed to grab hold of the iron spikes atop the wall. My feet flailed, and I kicked out, trying to find anything to stand on.
'Arrg! Kīṛī'āṁ tuhāḍī'āṁ āndhararī'āṁ vica phasa sakadī'āṁ hana!'
'I hope,' Mr Ambrose said in a voice cool enough to freeze lava, 'that was simply an expression, and not an actual idea which you plan to execute.'
'No, Sahib! Of course not, Sahib.'
'Adequate. Now stand still and let Miss Linton climb. And do not look up.'
'Yes, Sahib. Of course not, Sahib.'
'I'm not even wearing a dress,' I pointed out, still dangling from the iron spikes. 'And besides—'
Suddenly, I cut off. Had my ears deceived me? No! Footsteps were approaching.
'Quiet!' I hissed. 'A guard is coming.'
Instantly, Karim was at my side—or at my feet, to be more precise. He grabbed hold, and I found solid purchase on his broad shoulders. Letting go of the spikes, I ducked down behind the wall while, on the other side, the guard approached. We waited with bated breaths as his footsteps receded into the distance.
Finally, he was gone.
'This is madness,' Karim growled from a few feet below. 'The minute they notice the theft, Dalgliesh is going to know what we are planning.'
'Then we had better move quickly, now, correct?'
Glancing down, I saw the bodyguard throw one last pleading look at his employer. Mr Ambrose gave a short, sharp wave of the hand.
'Proceed.'
Resigning himself to his fate, Karim stretched as high as he could reach, pushing me up over the edge of the wall, and I quickly tied the rope I had brought around one of the sturdier iron spikes. Throwing a thick blanket across them, I slid across. Even through the padding, they jabbed my soft bits, but I gritted my teeth and slid over the rest of the way.
'I'm across!' I hissed. 'Move!'
And, wonder of wonders, they did. I would have to remember to mark today in red in my calendar. Karim and Mr Ambrose obeying my orders, all in one night? A special day indeed.
Thud.
A bearded boulder with a turban landed next to me. A moment later, it was followed by a shadowy figure, coat tails fluttering in the breeze.
'What now?' I whispered. 'Should I tackle one of the guards and ask him nicely to strip for us?'
Mr Ambrose sent me a frosty glare. 'No, Mr Linton.'
I gave him my best innocent smile. 'Oh, so you want to do it yourself?'
'No one shall tackle anyone, Mr Linton. Especially not the guards. If we remove one of them, people will notice as soon as the guards are changed, and our whole plan would be discovered. We want to get in and out with as little fuss as possible.'
'So where do we go? Where the heck can we find clothes without people stuck inside them?'
Mr Ambrose gave me a long look—then exchanged a glance with Karim. 'You know...you were right.'
'I was? Well...thanks. About what, precisely?'
'You were never meant to be a housewife in a traditional marriage. It would never have worked.'
I blinked. 'Well...thanks for the agreement. Now can you explain what the heck you meant?'
He didn't say anything. Instead he just motioned for me to follow and, hiding in the shadow of the wall, led us around the back of the house where Lord Dalgliesh was staying. There, in the open courtyard, between beds of kitchen herbs, rose two wooden posts. And between the posts...
'Washing line,' Mr Ambrose said, gesturing towards the object in question. 'Laundry. Clothes without people in them.'
I gave him a sour look. 'I know what a washing line is!'
'Indeed?'
'You wait until we're back home, and I'll give your neck a demonstration of just how well I know how to use a washing line!'
'I look forward to it, Mr Linton.'
'Hm. Well...then let's go and—'
'Shh!'
Darting forward, he clapped a hand over my mouth. For a moment, I struggled out of instinct—but then I remembered who this was, and what he was to me. If he did this, he had a good reason.
My body went limp.
Quickly, Mr Ambrose dragged me behind a tree, while Karim made a desperate leap for the largest bush in the kitchen garden. Only an instant later, I heard someone whistling, and a rotund woman opened the back door of the house. She had an empty wicker basket in her arms and headed with determination towards the washing line. The washing line from which, I noticed only now, three bright red-and-blue uniforms dangled, just begging to be snatched. My gaze snapped back to the woman.
Oh no you don't! The laundry is mine!
A thought I'd had for the first, and probably last, time in my life.
Stooping, I snatched a pebble off the ground and let it fly. It sailed through the night and, with unfailing aim, landed straight in the chicken pen. Letting loose an unearthly racket, the animals scattered in all directions. The housekeeper—if that's what she was—swerved around and sent a suspicious glance towards the disturbance.
'Hello?'
She was speaking English. Dear me, had Lord Dalgliesh actually brought his own staff with him from England? The man really travelled in style. But the chickens were distinctly unimpressed. The only answer the housekeeper received was more panicked clucking.
'Mr Jeffries, if that's your boy messing with the chickens again, I'll spank 'im till he ain't gonna sit down for a week!'
Still, no answer. Shrugging, the woman turned back towards the washing lines—and I sent another pebble flying! Once again, the chickens erupted in chaos. Behind me, Mr Ambrose's hand landed on my shoulder, giving me an approving squeeze. I smiled.
'Gordon Bennet! What the 'ell is going on there?' Whirling back towards the chicken pen, the woman marched over, brandishing her empty basket like a club. Her back was towards us, and towards the laundry.
'Now!' I hissed.
Neither of the men moved. Both of them looked at me.
'What?' I demanded. 'You expect me to do it?'
'It's laundry,' Karim said as if that explained everything.
'Laundry which we'll need to prevent an assassination that could spark a global war!'
Karim considered this for a moment, then said: 'It's still laundry.'
My gaze slid to Mr Ambrose, looking for help. I guess I should have known better.
'Come on! Not you, too!'
He raised an eyebrow about one quarter of a millimetre. He didn't even need to say anything. It was very, very clear that Mr Rikkard Ambrose did not consider stealing laundry to be an appropriate way to occupy the finely-tuned money-grabbing instruments that were his hands.
Muttering a curse that wasn't very complimentary to the male species, I dashed out from behind the tree and grabbed the first bright red and blue thing I could get my hands on. Quickly, I dashed back behind my cover and ducked down into safety just before the housekeeper reappeared from behind the chicken pen.
'Here!' I hissed, throwing the bundle of cloth at Karim. 'I hope you choke on it.'
Not deigning to dignify that with an answer, the Mohammedan shook out the garment—and his eyes went wide.
Oh dear.
It took a very, very great deal of effort for me not to burst out laughing. What I had snatched off the washing line was indeed red, white and golden, the colours of the presidency armies. However, it could only be called a 'uniform' in the broadest sense of the word. Apparently, one of the officer's wives must have been feeling patriotic, and had had the fabulous idea to order a dress in her husband's uniform colours. The result was something which, in addition to bringing every fashion-sensitive person to their knees, quite literally had the power to make Karim choke. At least if he had to put it on.
'My goodness,' I said. 'Dear me.'
'Indeed,' Mr Ambrose affirmed.
'Gndrnxs,' Karim said.
Was that a Punjabi word? Probably not. For a moment, silence reigned in the backyard, except for the whistle of the housekeeper collecting her laundry in the distance.
'Well,' I finally managed, 'look on the bright side. You will definitely make an impression on the governor-general. If a seven-foot-tall bearded man came into my room dressed in that, I don't see how I would be able to help listening. Of course, I might not hear everything because I would be too busy staring.'
Karim made an indistinct noise in the back of the gravel driveway he called a throat. 'Woman?'
'Yes?'
'Not another word!'
Ordinarily, I would have had a lot to say in response to that, but in that very moment, a gasp suddenly came from behind me.
'What the—'
I whirled around to come face-to-face with a guard who had, to judge by his open fly, just come around the bushes to relief himself, only to discover the spot was already occupied. I didn't hesitate. I didn't think. I just whipped out my pistol and pointed it at the man's head.
'Don't make a sound. Hands in the air!'
The man's hands flew into the air, causing his open trousers to notice the law of gravity.
There was a rustling of cloth and a clink, as a belt buckle hit the ground.
Ugh. Not a pretty sight. But after all, we were here on a mission. You had to endure suffering for a great cause. I cocked my gun, and pointed at the man's trousers.
'Excellent. Keep going.'
The soldier blinked, uncomprehending. 'W-what?'
'Keep going. Take off your clothes.'
'Y-you want me to...'
'Yes.'
'I'm a soldier of the presidency armies!' The man's chest puffed out. 'Whoever you are, know that I will not be forced to suffer such indignities!'
I considered for a moment—then shifted my gun from the man's head to his lower parts.
'Now!'
Instantly, the man's fingers flew to the buttons of his shirt. 'I'mdoingitI'mdoingitpleasedon'tshoot!'
'Stop!'
The ice voice from behind me said just one word. One word. But it was a commandment chiselled in stone. Mr Ambrose stepped up beside me, and the man's hands froze.
'I order you, don't move another inch. Don't take any more clothes off!'
The unspoken words not in front of her hovered in the air. I suppressed the urge to grin.
'Err...' The poor soldier's eyes flicked between me and Mr Ambrose. 'Not to offend you, Sir, whoever you are, but that one over there has the gun. I think I'll do what he says.'
Forget about fighting the urge. This was definitely worth a grin!
'Are you certain?' Taking another step forward, Mr Ambrose captured the gaze of the soldier, focusing the full force of his arctic eyes on the man. 'If I were you, I'd consider my answer very carefully.'
'Err...um...I...well...'
'You do know that our whole reason for coming here was to obtain a set of clothes, don't you?' I asked my employer in a conversational tone.
'Irrelevant, Mr Linton! He is not stripping in front of you.'
'Oh dear...is someone jealous?'
His little left finger twitched. 'Feelings do not enter into the matter. It is a question of decorum.'
'Decorum my arse! And speaking of arses, you there, soldier boy, get yours out of the rest of your clothes!'
At a jerk of my gun, the man instantly obeyed—that is, until Mr Ambrose pulled out his own revolver. The click of the hammer sliding in place echoed audibly in the backyard.
'Don't. Move.'
I threw him a look. 'This is getting ridiculous!'
'I agree. Turn around, and we can proceed.'
'I'm not turning around!'
'Why? Do you want to see this man naked?' Icy eyes found mine, burning with such fierce cold that it made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.
'What I want is for you to stop behaving like a chauvinistic son of a bachelor and start treating me—'
Thud!
The sound of the dull impact of wood on skull cut me off mid-rant. Glancing to where the sound had come from, I saw Karim standing over the prone body of the guard, the butt of his sabre held high. He noticed me staring and gave a dismissive wave. 'You go on arguing. I shall take care of this.'
I put my hands on my hips. 'Oh, so you have no problems stripping a man? It's just not possible for a manly man like you when the clothes are hanging nice and handy on a washing line?'
Ignoring, me, he bent and went to work on the unconscious soldier. Ha! Men!
I had to hand it to him, Karim was pretty quick at stripping men. Since I figured I had given him enough reasons in one day to bite my head off, however, I didn't point out that little fact. Instead I kept watch with Mr Ambrose, making sure no one else discovered our hiding place behind the bushes while Karim worked. When the bodyguard was finished, he tapped Mr Ambrose on the shoulder and showed him the rolled-up bundle of cloth in his hand.
I jerked my thumb towards the unconscious guard. 'What are we going to do about him?'
Karim, eyes glittering, started to draw his sabre.
'Oh no!' Quickly, I stepped in front of him. 'No killing!'
'Why?' The Mohammedan's eyes narrowed. 'Do you believe that man has not killed before? He is nothing but a paid thug in the service of a power-hungry maniac!'
'Yes. Which for me makes him rather easy to relate to. Besides, think for a second! This isn't a firefight in the middle of the godforsaken desert. This in Paris, in the middle of France, and killing him would be murder. A chargeable offence. Do you really want to put that kind of advantage in Dalgliesh's hands?'
'Mr Linton is right, Karim,' came Mr Ambrose cool voice from behind me. 'About both parts.'
Karim stood there for another long moment—then slowly lowered his sabre. 'Very well. What do you suggest we do with him?'
I let my gaze travel across the courtyard, looking for anything that could be used to restrain the man—until my eyes landed on something lying on the ground only a few feet away.
'I think I have an idea.'
Five minutes later, the unconscious guard was wrapped up in a red, blue and golden dress and gagged with a pair of similarly patriotic gloves. I had even placed a red and blue bonnet on his head to complete the picture.
'Doesn't he look adorable?' Grinning, I admired my work.
'Indeed,' Mr Ambrose said, his face as stony as a slab of slate. 'Let's go.'
With a sigh of regret, I followed as he stalked away in the shadow of the wall. I would have loved to have been there when the other soldiers discovered their comrade. But, I told myself, you can't have everything in life. Preventing an intercontinental war would have to be enough for tonight.
Suddenly, Mr Ambrose held up a hand. I stopped in my tracks and, at another gesture, ducked behind a fountain. A few seconds later, two soldiers emerged from the shadows and marched past us, backs straight, rifles up in the air.
'Now!' Mr Ambrose whispered when they had passed. 'Before the next patrol comes!'
Quickly, I unwound the rope from around my waist. Karim lifted me as he had before, and I clutched the wall to steady myself. I looped the rope over the nearest spike and—
'Hey, you! What are you doing there?'
Crap!
Twisting around, I glimpsed a figure in red, blue and gold, who had just stepped out of the back of the house. I didn't hesitate a second. Without even using the horse blanket I pulled myself up and flung myself over the spikes. The sharp metal tore into my hand, but I clenched my teeth and ignored the pain. This was no time to be a ninny!
'Stop! Stop, and put up your hands!' came the shouts of the fast approaching soldiers.
An instant later, Karim appeared atop the wall. In a move that was pretty risky for his manly parts, he crouched down over the iron spikes and extended a hand.
'Come, Sahib!'
'Move, Karim! You're a sitting duck! I'll be up there in a second.'
'Not until you're up here with me, Sahib.'
Bam!
The shot ripped through Karim's turban, scattering bits of cloth left and right. The Mohammedan didn't even blink an eye.
'Come, Sahib. Now!'
Yes, come you bloody stubborn idiot! Move your tight, money-shitting derrière! I need it! And the rest of you, too!
An incredibly long second passed—then Mr Ambrose's hand appeared above the crest of the wall. Karim clasped it and tugged.
Bam!
'Aaarh!'
I heard a dull thud, and out of the gloom above me, a few wet droplets of red hit my face.
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My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,
Do you think LIlly & Mr Ambrose will make it through this intact? Keep your fingers crossed four our favorite Victorian couple!
Yours Truly
Sir Rob
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GLOSSARY:
Kīṛī'āṁtuhāḍī'āṁ āndhararī'āṁ vica phasa sakadī'āṁ hana! - May ants infest your underwear!