Page 68 of Storm of Bells
In that moment, a knock came from the door.From inside Mr Ambrose’s office.
‘I don’t wish to disturb you, Mr Linton,’ hecalled out, ‘but if you have time, I’d appreciate biscuits with thetea. Take your time, I’m in no hurry.’
Mr Stone and I exchanged looks.
‘See if you can find that doctor,’ I toldhim.
A few minutes later, I found myself knockingat the office door of Mr Rikkard Ambrose with a steaming cup of teain my hand.
‘Err…Mr Ambrose, Sir? May I come in?’
With bated breath, I waited for the tersereply that I knew, no, I prayed would be coming any moment now…
‘Certainly, certainly, come in and take aseat. You know you’re always welcome.’
Oh God. This was really serious.
Pushing open the door, I slipped into theroom—and froze.
Mr Rikkard Ambrose was sitting in hisfamiliar place behind the desk. But that was about the onlyfamiliar thing regarding the scene in front of me. This wasn’t justserious. This was worse than anything I could have imagined.
The office lookedcomfortable.
And I don’t just mean comfortable as infamiliar and reassuring. Oh no. Someone, may he roast forever inthe seventh circle of hell, had replaced the straight-backed woodenvisitor chairs with plush leather arm chairs. On the arm chairs laycushions. Plush ones, withflowers and kittensembroideredon them. The same wicked devil who had brought those sacrilegiousitems had placed a beautiful vase of flowers on Mr Ambrose’shallowed empty desert of a desk. And on the stone wall behind MrAmbrose, normally blissfully bare and cold, there now hung—Ishuddered at the sight—two paintings ofromantic sunsets,and, worst of all, a sign proudly proclaiming the wordsHomeSweet Home.
‘Ah, there you are, Darling.’
The words roused me from my horrifiedparalysis and drew my eyes, for the first time, to Mr RikkardAmbrose himself. A moment later I wished I hadn’t looked. Becausehe sat, leisurely leaned back in his armchair,his feet proppedup on the desk.
‘Ah! My tea and biscuits.’ Rubbing his hands,he pulled the cup out of my hands, took a sip and sighed incontentment. ‘There’s nothing better in the afternoon to relax alittle, is there?’
Relax?Relax?
That certainly wasn’t what was on my mind.And it bloody well shouldn’t be on his!
‘Err…Mr Ambrose? Are you sure you’re feelingall right?’
‘Why yes, certainly, Darling.’
‘You don’t feel the secret, irrepressibleurge to rip those paintings off the walls and start workingobsessively?’
‘I don’t think so. Would you mind getting mesome sugar for my tea?’
Severely traumatized, I staggered out of theroom and pushed the door shut beside me.
‘He wants sugar,’ I informed Mr Stone.
‘Sugar.’
‘Yes.’
‘Not salt or lemon juice?’
‘No.’
Our gazes met.
‘Is the doctor on his way?’ I demanded.
