Page 168 of Storm over the Caribbean
I glanced around, wondering which of the neat, elegant houses in resplendent white we would be stopping at. That is, until we moved past the last of them and walked out into the countryside, where we ended up standing in front of a manor. A real, honest-to-godmanorat the centre of a large, luscious park filled with beautiful tropical flowers and various examples of neoclassical architecture. The house—if it could be called that—was bigger than Buckingham Palace and the Tower of London put together. The meticulously manicured lawn in front of it was being tended to by half a dozen gardeners in livery. It was one of the most beautiful places I had ever seen.
I hated it at first sight.
“So…” Stopping in my tracks, I leaned towards Mr Ambrose while keeping my eyes focused intently on the distant edifice. “This is it?”
He glanced at Woolridge, studying his profile for a moment—then gave a curt nod. “This is it.”
The words he didn’t speak nonetheless were clearly audible to me:This is where he lives. The one who tried to kill our child.
Farther ahead, Woolridge turned around to glance back towards us, gesturing at the coach in the driveway. “Seems like our employer is at home. Shall we go?”
“Oh yes.” Smiling, I slid my hands behind my back so, without anyone seeing, I could crack my knuckles. “Let’s go meet him.”
The Employer
The large, wrought-iron gate in the massive wall surrounding the property swung open and cleared the way inside. Walking beside Mr Ambrose, I wandered down the white gravel path, making very sure to appear calm and relaxed while, in fact, I was anything but.
You want to hurt my baby, do you? Well, just you wait. Just. You. Wait.
I stared at the wall of the brilliantly white manor house as if I could burn through it with my eyes and set the bastard responsible for all of this on fire. The only reason I didn’t come with a barrel full of flammable oil was because I knew it wasn’t he who was really responsible. He was just a patsy. A straw man.
He would get his comeuppance. But not before I got all the information I could squeeze out of him.
“This way, please.” Pushing open the front door, Woolridge gestured down the marble hallway lined with landscapes and portraits. “I’ll leave you in Mr Wilson’s capable hands.”
Just then, a butler stepped into the corridor from a door to the left and bowed. “Follow me, please. I shall show you to the yellow salon.”
Mr Ambrose gave a silent nod. I didn’t say anything either. Not because I couldn’t think of anything to say, but because I didn’t think I could stop once I started. And nothing coming out of my mouth would be conducive to keeping our cover—something which we would have to keep, at least for now.
Not much longer, though. Soon. Soon I will be able to get my hands on whoever is behind all this.
It only took around a minute for us to reach our destination. Opening a door to the right, the butler gestured for us to enter.
“Please wait here. The master will be along momentarily. In the meantime, I have taken the liberty to prepare some tea and biscuits for you two gentlemen and your escort. By all means, help yourselves.”
With a curt nod, Mr Ambrose acknowledged the man’s words. The butler stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him. I waited for a long, long moment while his footsteps receded into the distance—then moved over to the low, elegant table, on top of which sat a tea set and several gold-rimmed plates of biscuits. Settling down on the chaise longue, I picked up one of said biscuits and scrutinized it, turning it this way and that.
“British pirates, organized from a British colony, and now we’re being served afternoon tea, just like back in good old England?” With murder in my eyes, I stared down at the biscuit in my hand.So, it’s you, is it, Dalgliesh? We warned you. We told you to keep your distance. And what did you do? You tried to come after my child!“That son of a…! I think it’s rather obvious who the mastermind behind all of this truly is, don’t you?”
“Indeed.” Eyes narrowed infinitesimally, Mr Ambrose surveyed the luxurious room. “A littletooobvious.”
The tone of his voice made me glance over at him sharply. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, Mrs Ambrose, that Daniel Eugene Dalgliesh is many things, but stupid is not one of them. After the threat we delivered, he would not try to do something against us that—”
I gave him a look.
“Well, all right.” He sent me a look right back. “He most likelywouldtry something. But hemost definitelywould not make it this bleedingly obvious. English pirates, from an English colony,when I, you, and the rest of the British business world know perfectly well who my biggest rival is? If Dalgliesh were behind this, he might as well put a banner declaring ‘Property of the East India Company’ on all his pirate ships. No, instead…”
I cocked my head. “Yes?”
“Instead, it’s far more likely that—”
Just then, footsteps once more approached down the corridor outside, making him cut off mid-sentence. Moments later, the door swung open, and in stepped a man. Not the tall man with the leonine mane of blonde hair I’d still been half expecting. Oh no. This one looked nothing like Daniel Eugene Dalgliesh. Instead, we found ourselves facing a broad-shouldered man with a black moustache and black hair in an almost painfully short, military-style haircut.
“Good morning,Messieurs.” Stepping into the room, the newcomer swept his gaze across the four of us and gave us a bone-chilling smile. “Joël Perrin Lachance. I am the man who has been financing your crew over the last few months. A pleasure to finally meet you.”
Yeah, right.
