Page 31 of Storm of Bells
I reached for one of the keys again, andpressed down.
Twack!
This time, I caught the movement of thehammer. It whizzed out from the ring of metal and slammed against adark thing that looked like a black rolling pin, stuck in themiddle of the machinery. I pressed again, and this time saw how thestring attached to the key pulled on the hammer and made itmove.
All right. These hammers obviously weresupposed to do something. Something that I made them do by pressingon the keys. Leaning across the machine, I inspected one of thehammers more closely—and for the first time noticed the tiny,inverse shape of a letter engraved on the end. My eyes flitted backto the letter on the wooden disk connected to it. It was the sameone. K.
I shall expect you to be ready to takedictation in a quarter of an hour.
Dictation. Was I supposed to use the machinefor that? But how to get the letter from the hammer onto the paper?Had Mr Ambrose found a way to mechanically create embossed businessletters in order to save ink? But no. Embossed letters without inkwould be hardly legible. That wouldn’t do for a man who complainedif the dots on top of thei’s in my dictated lettershappened to be not perfectly round. There had to be some otherexplanation. But what?
From beyond the connecting door, there came acreak. Was Mr Ambrose coming? Was my time already up?
Think, Lilly, think! You’re smarter thanthis damn machine! And you’re definitely smarter than him!
If only I had a hint! Anything that couldtell me how…
My eyes flew towards the box. Jumpingforward, I grabbed the thing and stuck my head inside.
‘Yes! Eureka!’
I resurfaced, holding a thick bundle ofpaper. It was the strangest paper I had ever seen. Almost as thickas cardboard, and odd to the touch. Mr Ambrose wouldn’t pay forpaper as thick and expensive as this. Not unless…
I inserted a fingernail into the edge of thepaper, and—voilà!—it came apart, revealing a black sheetbeneath.
Footsteps from the other side of the doorsent me hurrying towards the machine. By the time the door swungopen, I was sitting primly at my desk, the sheet of paper woundaround the black rolling pin, my fingers hovering over thekeyboard.
Mr Ambrose stepped into the room, cool eyessurveying the scene in front of him. When he saw me sitting at themachine, a muscle in his jaw twitched. I raised an eyebrow.
‘Where were you, Sir? I have been waiting forages.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Commendable.’
Wait a moment…hadMr Rikkard Ambrosejust given me acompliment?
‘Do you think you can keep up such quickwork?’
I preened. ‘Certainly, Sir!’
Striding to the window, he positioned himselfwith his back to me, arms behind his back, spine ramrod-straight.He stood there, gazing out over the city of London as if he ownedit. Which, come to think about it, was probably mostly true.
‘I’m gratified to hear that, Mr Linton. ThenI won’t have to hold back.’
Oh crap. He didn’t intend to…
‘Mr Arbuthnot,
PursuantourconversationonthethirdofnovemberoflastyearIherebyinformyouthatourleaseagreementisterminatedforthwithandthatallbusinessrelationsbetweenmyselfandyouareherebysevered.Shouldyouhaveanyfurtherenquiriesregardingthe—’
He did.
Curse him! Curse him into the seventh circleof hell!
‘…saleofthematerialstillinsidethewarehousesinquestion,IsuggestyouapproachmyagentMrFillingonthematter.Allfurtherletterssentomeshallbereturnedtosenderwithout—’
