‘Can we warn the king?’
Mr Ambrose gave me a look. ‘Warn him that a Member of the British House of Lords is about to assassinate his foreign minister? If he’s in the right mood, that alone would be cause for war. That would rather defeat the purpose, correct?’
Biting my lip, I nodded. He was right, dammit! But what else could we do? Our hands were tied. If we didn’t warn them, the king and the foreign minister would be inside Lord Dalgliesh’s building, surrounded by his men, blissfully ignorant of the lion’s den they had entered.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, an idea struck me. It was like the spark that started a bushfire.
‘Lord Dalgliesh doesn’t know we’re here…’ I began slowly.
‘Yes. We already established that, Mr Linton.’
‘But,’ I continued, ‘the King does.’
Reaching for the unfolded message on the table, I tapped the words His Majesty extends his invitation for you to join us in his permanent box.
Mr Ambrose’s eyes narrowed infinitesimally.
‘What are you suggesting, Mr Linton?’
Slowly, a wicked grin spread across my face.
‘This. Listen closely…’
I told him my idea. Just when I was finished, the door opened and Karim entered the room, his face grim.
‘He confessed to his misdeeds, Sahib, and to the identity of his employer. But I failed to obtain any useful information about Dalgliesh. I fear I cannot provide a feasible option to stop whatever he is planning.’
Mr Ambrose and I exchanged looks.
‘No matter,’ Mr Ambrose told him. ‘We have a plan. But we’re going to need some help.’
*~*~**~*~*
‘Bon Dieu, this is exciting! I’ve never been to the opera before.’
‘You go to the opera every single day,’ I reminded her.
Claudette waved that little unimportant detail away. ‘Taratata. Sat is just business. I’ve never gone for my own amusement, c’est frai! And I certainly have never gone out clothes shopping just for such an occasion. Oh, what shall I wear?’
‘You do realize that an evil genius is planning an assassination to start a gigantic war, right? Fashion is probably not that high on the list of most important things right now.’
Another unimportant detail Claudette dismissed with a wave of the hand.
‘It is always important to look your best, Monsieur Linton.’
‘But people won’t even realize it’s you! You have to dress up as…you-know-what.’
‘Even more reason to look my best. I never disappoint an audience when I perform.’
We were heading towards the exit of the opera – now lacking one doorman – when quick, light footsteps approached from behind. I started to speed up, but too late.
‘Mr Linton! Mr Linton, wait. It’s me!’
I know, blast it! That’s why I’m running!
I turned to see a smiling ‘arse rushing towards me. Taking the last few steps, Miss Emilia reached out and attached herself to my hands like a fashionable limpet.
‘Have you heard? I’ll be singing my first performance tonight! Just a small role, because Monsieur Joyal wants to see how I do on stage, but I’ll be singing! In front of hundreds of people!’