There was a stack of invitations to various social events. Hmm. I looked at the firmly closed and bolted door connecting my office with that of my employer. Something told me that Mr Ambrose wasn’t a very social person. Plus, the invitations seemed to be issued by Lady Metcalf and her circle of friends. Apparently, the fine lady was not so disgusted by Mr Ambrose’s working for a living that she didn’t want him at her parties and dancing with her daughters.
I smiled and, with a great deal of relish, crumpled up those letters and chucked them into the bin.
Next there were charity requests. I wasn’t sure about those, but put them on the pile to go to his office, just in case. It couldn’t hurt to be charitable, right?
Then there were a few letters which, on being opened, revealed themselves to be about business. I didn’t understand above one word in ten they said, but it sounded important so I put them on the pile, too.
Last but not least came a letter like no other: It was no invitation. It wasn’t advertising. And it sure as hell wasn’t business. That was pretty obvious from the fact that it came in a pink, strongly scented envelope.
‘What the…’
I almost broke out laughing when I smelled the perfume! Mr Ambrose had a lady friend? A secret love, maybe? But then I saw the address of the sender and her name. In curly, old-fashioned writing was written:
Samantha Genevieve Ambrose
Ambrose? A relative? A sister, maybe? I couldn’t suppress a snort of laughter at that. To be honest, it was even harder to imagine Mr Ambrose as a family man than as a lover.
Then I noticed something printed next to the address of the sender and frowned.
‘Now what is this doing here…?’ I muttered leaning closer.
If the letter came from Mr Ambrose’s family, the family of a simple, if rich, citizen, how did there come to be a coat of arms stamped on the envelope?
Quite an elaborate coat of arms, too. I didn’t know much about the nobility, but I knew enough to realize that a crest like this didn’t come from a simple knighthood. The coat of arms had the look of centuries on it: the rose in the upper right and the lion in the lower left corner reminded me of the little I had remembered of my lessons in English history.
In a flash, I suddenly remembered what one of the ladies at the ball had said… something about a noble family Ambrose in the North. An Earl’s family.
‘I’ll be damned!’
But no… that couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be Mr Ambrose’s family, could it? If he were an earl’s son, he wouldn’t be calling himself 'Mister' Ambrose. He would have the right to call himself Baron or Lord Somethingorother.
Curious. Very curious indeed.
And who was this lady? Samantha?
With a slight feeling of regret at letting go of the mystery, I placed the pink letter back on the table. For just a moment I considered throwing it away. It was obviously full of soppy romantic nonsense - nothing important, in my opinion. Yet Mr Ambrose might feel differently about the matter.
When I rose with all the letters in my hand, I realized for the first time that now was my chance to finally see him again! The thick pile of letters couldn’t fit under the door, so he had to open it. Triumphantly I marched over to the door and raised my hand to knock - only to discover that in my absence, a letter slot had been installed in the middle of the thick wooden door.
Angrily, I pushed the letters through and heard them land on some kind of table. ‘Here,’ I called. ‘I hope you choke on them!’
Shortly afterwards, the slot opened again and several of the letters fell onto the floor with a resounding ‘thwack!’ When I went over and picked them up, I saw that it was the charity requests and the letter from Samantha Genevieve - the latter hadn’t even been opened.
A note was fastened to the top letter:
Mr Linton,
Did Mr Stone not express himself clearly? Only send those letters to me which are of interest to me.
I stared blankly at the note. Was he serious? He hadn’t even bothered to open the pink letter, so clearly personal. Neither had he bothered to sign his message to me, this time - but really there was no need. There was only one person in the entire British Empire who could write like this.
Angrily I stomped over to my desk, grabbed one of the message papers and a pen and began scribbling.
Charity is important! Is the improvement of the lives of the poor of no interest to you?
The reply came almost instantly.
Not if by so doing they become richer and I poorer.
‘Gah!’
Grinding my teeth, I took a look around the office: bare stone walls, no ornaments, no carpets, no nothing. Of course! He was mean with money. I should have guessed from the way he dressed - all in simple black without one piece of colourful brocade or silk on his waistcoat. He practically had the word ‘SKINFLINT’ printed on his forehead. In capitals.
Too bad he didn’t look like a skinflint. He should be old and ugly and skinny, like my aunt, not some reincarnation of Adonis in granite. That would make working for him so much easier!
But what about the personal letter? Taking that out of the pile, I examined it closely. It really hadn’t been opened. Who was it from? What was it about? Why hadn’t it been opened? My fingers hesitated over the next piece of message paper. I would have loved to ask but didn’t dare. I didn’t want to get fired on my second day at work.
So instead I wrote:
Dear Mr Ambrose,
Be assured that you shall receive no further requests to do good deeds from me.
Yours Sincerely
MISS Lilly Linton
The reply wasn’t long in coming.
Mr Linton,
It is not doing good deeds that I object to, it is the principle of charity. I do not give something for nothing. Remember that, Mr Linton.
Rikkard Ambrose
Dear God, was he threatening me?
Yes, probably.
A tingle went down my spine. It felt dangerous, dark and… exciting?
Then another message popped out of the hole in the wall.
Mr Linton,
Bring me file 38XI199.
Rikkard Ambrose
Spiffing. Here we go again.
Back and forth, back and forth I went the whole day, like a busy little ant carrying bits of leaves to the hill - only that I carried darn heavy files instead of leaves. Oh, and there also was the fact that ants could lift five times their body weight and that they couldn’t get chucked out of the anthill for not working fast enough.
