Page 4 of Storm of Bells
Lalala Abracadabra, Hokuspokus taterata! Ifandangle the slipslopy tootle down into the marvellous malarkey.Insert more ink-wasting here.
Yours Most Faithfully
Miss Lillian Linton
Shoving my masterpiece of prose into the pneumatictube, I pulled the lever and jumped up to dash towards the shelvesof file boxes before he had the chance to shoot back a reply. Onlyhalf a minute of searching later—Dear Lord, had I become thatefficient an employee? I would have to see what I could do aboutslacking more!—I returned to the other side of my office, andknocked on the connecting door that lead to Mr Ambrose’s privatesanctum, where he was breathing in the smell of money and dreamingof world domination.
Well, probably not just dreaming. Most likelyalso working on getting it.
‘Sir? I have the requested documents. Wouldyou like me to slide them under the door?’
There was a moment of silence, and then…
‘No. Come in.’ I raised an eyebrow. Now herewas something that hadn’t happened in the old days. Mr Ambrosewanting to see my face when he could avoid it? ‘I have something todiscuss with you.’
He wanted totalk?
Well, well. Wonders never cease.
Cautiously, in case it was anAmbrose-impostor with murderous intent beyond the door instead ofthe original, I pushed open the door. Mr Ambrose was sitting behindhis desk, writing. And it was the real Mr Ambrose, no doubt. Thereason I knew was because he was working with both hands at once,his eyes flitting from left to right and back again.
‘Err…Sir?’
‘One moment, Mr Linton. I have to finishthese two letters. There!’
He put a neat dot at the end of each letterhe was writing, then gazed down at the result. ‘Adequate.’
‘Sir? What are you doing?’
‘Writing,of course. Too bad I cannot do it when writing checks. For somemysterious reason, the Bank of England refuses to accept checks Isign with my left hand, even after I explained to them in detailhow much time I will be able to save simply by signing two checksat the same time. Wastrels, the lot of them.[1]But that is neither here nor there. Let us get to the matter athand, Mr Linton.’
Pushing the letters aside, he steepled hisfingers and regarded me over their tops. With the kind of look hegave me, I didn’t doubt he could send (and had sent) strikingworkers running for the hills, freeze a water-tank at fifty paces,or make a king quiver in his boots.
I, for my part, just grinned, walked over tothe closest chair and sat down, dangling my feet over thearmrest.
‘You may sit,’ Mr Ambrose informed me in avoice frosty enough to give a polar bear a cold.
I inclined my head. ‘Why, thank you so much,Sir.’
‘I called you in here to discuss an importantmatter, Mr Linton. As you must be aware, we have some importantplans to make, and significant events to schedule.’
I raised an eyebrow—just because it feltgreat knowing there was something I could do far better than myfuture husband. Bless you, versatile facial expressions!
‘I thought we were going to leave theplanning of the wedding to our relatives?’ I enquired.
Mr Ambrose cocked his head. ‘Which pack ofthem? Mine or yours?’
I shrugged. ‘Oh, I thought we’d let thembattle it out and pick whoever is left standing.’
‘An idea not without merit, Mr Linton.However, you misunderstood me. I do not wish to discuss theschedule of the wedding at the moment. I wish to discuss a matterof more immediate importance: the schedule of yourresignation.’
‘My resi—’
My voice cut off abruptly. I stared at him,not quite able to believe I had heard what I thought I’d heard.
‘My…resignation?’ I repeated, just to makesure I had heard correctly.
‘Yes. Now that we shall be enteringmatrimonial relations, you will naturally wish to resign yourposition in order to assume your wifely duties. I have a meetingwith the directors of my advertising department next week, and itwill be difficult to obtain the services of a new secretary beforethen. So shall we say that you’ll stay on for another two weeks?That would give you ample time to resign before the wedding.’
