vipers. Let me raise a toast. To the last Honest Man in London!’
He raised his voice along with his glass of claret, and I felt myself turning nearly as red as the wine as several sage old heads turned to look at us, frowning. Ambrose beamed. I leaned back in my chair, trying to cover my face with one hand whilst clinking Ambrose’s glass. He giggled to himself like a naughty schoolboy and resumed his meal.
I realised that Ambrose must have drunk most of the bottle of wine himself already, and started to understand why he seemed so free of inhibitions. I steered the conversation to more serious matters as best I could while Ambrose devoured his filet mignons, washing them down with more Château Brane-Mouton.
‘We should talk about this business with the Dynamiters,’ I said eventually. ‘I have no real idea of what’s been happening, and I suppose I must make a start on the investigation straight away.’
‘Indeed,’ replied Ambrose. ‘Won’t do to keep the old bird waiting—he’ll be after results. I’m sure he didn’t hire you for your wit, charm and God-given grace, abundant as those gifts are.’
‘I presume it’s not the done thing to admit the likes of me to the Apollonian?’ I asked.
‘The likes of
us
, you mean?’ Ambrose winked. ‘No, not done at all. The Apollonian has a reputation to uphold, one of intellectual pursuits, the nurturing of celebrated minds, respectability and episcopacy. There used to be a sixteen-year waiting list for membership. I hear Sir Toby has a daily struggle with the committee about the order; they never seem quite sure who he’s granting membership to. In fact, even I don’t know how many of us there are. So you’re right, old chap, best get results and soon. Tell you what, let’s eat pudding and I’ll take you to the library and show you the case files.’
I could eat no more, my body still not having adapted to large portions of rich food, so I sipped a cup of strong black coffee as Ambrose wolfed down his fine French dessert, before draining the last dregs of wine from his glass, stifling a hiccup at every pause. When we were finished, he stood abruptly.
‘Onwards and upwards, old chap!’ he announced. ‘No time for sitting around; we have work to do.’
As we wove our way through the elegant dining room, all marble and crystal, and ivory table-linen, I tried to blank out the sound of those sage old clubmen tutting and muttering censoriously. I feared I would have to get used to that.
* * *
The library of the Apollonian was every bit as grand as I had hoped, and as well stocked as its reputation suggested. Tens of thousands of volumes, on every subject one could imagine, were lined up on three levels of bookshelves to which wrought-iron spiral stairs granted access. Rare volumes were displayed in locked glass cabinets, and at a glance I spied some philosophical and theological texts that must have been hundreds of years old. A few men sat quietly in the leather armchairs near to the two fireplaces at either end of the room. In fact, the only sound came from the log fires, which crackled softly. The smell of old leather, stale tobacco and musty tomes was pleasant to me, bringing back many memories.
As a boy I had loved books. When my father was away—a frequent occurrence—I had lost myself in tales of adventure, travel and exploration. I had dreamed of owning a good library one day. I started when Ambrose thrust several weighty books and a large rolled map into my arms.
‘We might need these. Come along.’
I followed him to a door at the back of the venerable old library, noticing that Ambrose was not carrying any books whilst I struggled with an armful of leather-bound volumes. He fumbled in his jacket pocket, produced a small key and unlocked the door. The outside of the door was decorated with a discreet brass plaque, a cameo of Apollo, with bow in hand. Ambrose stepped into the room and held the door open for me with a foot whilst he lit
He raised his voice along with his glass of claret, and I felt myself turning nearly as red as the wine as several sage old heads turned to look at us, frowning. Ambrose beamed. I leaned back in my chair, trying to cover my face with one hand whilst clinking Ambrose’s glass. He giggled to himself like a naughty schoolboy and resumed his meal.
I realised that Ambrose must have drunk most of the bottle of wine himself already, and started to understand why he seemed so free of inhibitions. I steered the conversation to more serious matters as best I could while Ambrose devoured his filet mignons, washing them down with more Château Brane-Mouton.
‘We should talk about this business with the Dynamiters,’ I said eventually. ‘I have no real idea of what’s been happening, and I suppose I must make a start on the investigation straight away.’
‘Indeed,’ replied Ambrose. ‘Won’t do to keep the old bird waiting—he’ll be after results. I’m sure he didn’t hire you for your wit, charm and God-given grace, abundant as those gifts are.’
‘I presume it’s not the done thing to admit the likes of me to the Apollonian?’ I asked.
‘The likes of
us
, you mean?’ Ambrose winked. ‘No, not done at all. The Apollonian has a reputation to uphold, one of intellectual pursuits, the nurturing of celebrated minds, respectability and episcopacy. There used to be a sixteen-year waiting list for membership. I hear Sir Toby has a daily struggle with the committee about the order; they never seem quite sure who he’s granting membership to. In fact, even I don’t know how many of us there are. So you’re right, old chap, best get results and soon. Tell you what, let’s eat pudding and I’ll take you to the library and show you the case files.’
I could eat no more, my body still not having adapted to large portions of rich food, so I sipped a cup of strong black coffee as Ambrose wolfed down his fine French dessert, before draining the last dregs of wine from his glass, stifling a hiccup at every pause. When we were finished, he stood abruptly.
‘Onwards and upwards, old chap!’ he announced. ‘No time for sitting around; we have work to do.’
As we wove our way through the elegant dining room, all marble and crystal, and ivory table-linen, I tried to blank out the sound of those sage old clubmen tutting and muttering censoriously. I feared I would have to get used to that.
* * *
The library of the Apollonian was every bit as grand as I had hoped, and as well stocked as its reputation suggested. Tens of thousands of volumes, on every subject one could imagine, were lined up on three levels of bookshelves to which wrought-iron spiral stairs granted access. Rare volumes were displayed in locked glass cabinets, and at a glance I spied some philosophical and theological texts that must have been hundreds of years old. A few men sat quietly in the leather armchairs near to the two fireplaces at either end of the room. In fact, the only sound came from the log fires, which crackled softly. The smell of old leather, stale tobacco and musty tomes was pleasant to me, bringing back many memories.
As a boy I had loved books. When my father was away—a frequent occurrence—I had lost myself in tales of adventure, travel and exploration. I had dreamed of owning a good library one day. I started when Ambrose thrust several weighty books and a large rolled map into my arms.
‘We might need these. Come along.’
I followed him to a door at the back of the venerable old library, noticing that Ambrose was not carrying any books whilst I struggled with an armful of leather-bound volumes. He fumbled in his jacket pocket, produced a small key and unlocked the door. The outside of the door was decorated with a discreet brass plaque, a cameo of Apollo, with bow in hand. Ambrose stepped into the room and held the door open for me with a foot whilst he lit
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