Page 90 of Storm of Bells
‘And do you have a first name, Benson?’
‘Apparently, Miss. My sister persists inusing it for some obscure reason I cannot fathom.’ He cleared histhroat. ‘May I enquire what your business here is, Miss? The masterof the house does not really encourage visitors. Besides. He is notcurrently at home, I’m afraid.’
I glanced back at the coaches, behind whichMr Rikkard Ambrose was currently hidden, out of sight.
‘What, didn’t he send a telegram ahead to—’ Icut off, answering my own question before I was even finishedasking. This was Mr Rikkard Ambrose. Of course he hadn’t wastedthree shillings on a telegram to announce his return home.
Just then, the man in question stepped aroundthe coach, the big grey beasts trotting at his heel, looking readyto devour anyone who laid as much as a finger on their master.Benson’s eyes widened, and then then flicked from Mr Ambrose to me.To my ring-finger to be exact. His eyes went even wider.
‘You…you…’ Abruptly, his mouth snapped shut,and he stood to attention as if someone had strapped a board to hisback. ‘Apologies for my impertinent questions, Miss. I am at yourcomplete and utter disposal, Miss.’
‘Thank you.’ Peeking past him, I tried tocatch a glimpse of the inside of the house. ‘May I take a look atmy new home?’
‘Your new home? Err…Miss…’ He hesitated, andI glanced at him. He had a funny expression on his face. It wasn’tjudgemental or anything like that. There wasn’t a hint ofdisapproval. No, by the look on his face, I would have said Bensonwould appreciate having a buffer between the staff and the icebergon collision course that was Rikkard Ambrose.
But there was something in his eyes…as if hewere desperately trying to think of an excuse. Behind his back, Icaught him gesturing to Mr Ambrose, who instantly sped up hisstrides.
‘Didn’t have time to dust off the curtainsyet, did you?’ I patted his shoulder. ‘That’s all right. I don’tmind. I’ll show myself in.’
‘No, Miss, wait! I—’
But I was already stepping through theentryway.
I had to blink a time or two before my eyesbelieved what they were seeing. Somewhere in my suspicious littlemind, despite the gigantic, opulent façade of the house, a part ofme had still expected the interior somehow to be a tiny littlehovel with holes in the walls and rainwater dropping from theceiling. Well, I had at least been partially right. There was ahole in the ceiling. A huge hole, covered by a glittering dome ofglass. Light streamed in through the magnificent edifice, shiningupon a scene that was enough to take my breath away.
Tiny little hovel?
Ha.
Ha. Ha.
I was standing at one end of a colossal hall,bigger even than the entrance hall at Empire House. But it wasn’tits gigantic size that made me feel as if I had stepped into astrange dream where I was Cinderella, and Mr Ambrose the prince’ssmarter, more handsome minister of finance. It was the opulence.The whole hall was glittering in decorations of gold and silver.Portraits, landscapes and God only knew what else filled the walls,and statues were scattered all around, raising their arms towardsthe heavens.
You don’t spend more than two years ridingthe tailcoats of Rikkard Ambrose without learning a thing or threeabout valuable things. My gaze swept the room, hardly able tobelieve what met my eyes. Painting after painting by famousartists, from Renaissance to modern. There had to be a fortune inart inside this room! Between the paintings, weapons from all ageswere hanging from the walls, their blades glinting as if they’dbeen forged just yesterday. Below were scattered innumerable piecesof furniture, fashioned from precious woods and inlaid with goldand mother of pearl. All in all, the room was a feast of splendour.No, not a feast, a jungle. There was so much to see.
So much, in fact, it took me a few moments tonotice the other people in the room.
‘That’s a really nice one, don’t you think,Herbert?’
My gaze flicked to the origin of thevoice—and my eyes went even wider than they had already been. Whilethe presence of precious paintings, statues and various otherexpensive fripperies in Mr Ambrose’s home were staggering enough,this was on a whole other level.
‘Hm.’ The stocky woman in the over-fancydress looked up critically at a painting on the wall. ‘What do youthink of this one? Do you think it would look good in the drawingroom?’
‘Yes, Darling,’ said her husband while hestared in the opposite direction, distractedly following themovement of a fly on the wall.
‘Herbert! Are you paying attention?’
‘Of course I am, Darling.’
‘Then what was I just talking about?’
The husband’s eyes abruptly jerked away fromthe fly, suddenly on the desperate search for answers, or at leasta distraction—and landed on me.
‘Oh!’ he blurted out, relief spreading overhis face. Not exactly the reaction I’d expect from the averageburglar. But if they weren’t burglars, then what the heck— ‘Hellothere.’
Hello there yourself, strange personinvading my home. Would you like a cup of tea?
‘Err…hello.’ I raised my hand and waved,feeling that curtsy wasn’t entirely appropriate under thecircumstances. But, hell, what would be the right approach?Offering a biscuit? Rolling out the red carpet?
