Oh. I turned and with apprehensive steps circumvented the cab.
Slowly, as the black-painted wood of the vehicle blocked less and less of my field of vision, something gigantic and steel-grey came into my sight, and I knew immediately: this was it. This was the office of Mr Rikkard Ambrose.
It was built in neo-classical style like India House. That attribute, however, was just about all the two buildings had in common.
Empire House was not broad. Not ostentatious. Not richly adorned. It was the highest building in the street, stacking levels of offices upon offices in the narrowest space possible, and by doing so towered over the flatter, broader houses. Its façade was not marble, but austere dark grey stone and cast iron. The portico, normally the pride of every building with dozens of pillars, was hardly fit to be called a portico. There were only two pillars supporting the projecting roof - but what pillars they were: grey giants that seemed to threaten everybody who approached them.
Grey giants under which I had to pass.
‘Looks impressive, don't it?’
I jumped. The cabbie was standing right behind me.
‘W-what does?’ I asked, trying to make my voice sound steady. It didn’t really work.
The cabbie took a critical look at my face, which for once I’m sure, in spite of my tan, was fashionably pale according to the beauty-standards of English society.
‘Sure you want me to drop you off 'ere, Miss?’
‘Yes, yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I?’
‘Just saying.’ He shrugged and hauled himself onto the cab’s box again. Once more, he looked back. ‘Quite sure? The gentleman who lives 'ere is supposed to be…’
For some reason he didn’t finish the sentence, but glanced up at Empire House, and suddenly cut off.
‘Yes, I’m quite sure. Thank you.’ I nodded to him once more, and tried to give him my best imitation of a smile.
He just shrugged.
‘It ain’t none of my business. Good luck.’
With that, he cracked his whip and drove off, maybe a bit faster than was strictly necessary. I stared after him for a moment - then I remembered: I was running out of time. Quickly shaking off my paralysis, I turned and strode across the street.
Halfway across, the shadows of the great pillars enveloped me like giant bat wings. I couldn’t help shuddering as I climbed the steep steps to the big oak front door. There was no doorman, which was a bit unusual for a building belonging to one of the world’s most wealthy men, but which strangely fit the austere nature of the building and its owner. I was actually relieved - I wasn’t entirely sure a doorman would have let me in. Yet deep inside I was also disappointed. A disapproving doorman might have been an excuse to turn around and go home.
Now I had no choice. No reason to excuse cowardice. I had to try. I owed it to myself.
Cautiously, I grabbed the large brass doorknob and pushed.
The door swung open, and I waited for the smoke of cigarettes to assault me as it had in all buildings ruled by men. Yet there was nothing but a draft of cool, clean air. Taking a deep breath, I entered and let the door fall shut behind me.
Inside it was dark. The sun hadn’t risen above the houses of London yet, so only a little light fell through the high, narrow windows. What light there was, though, was sufficient to illuminate the scene in front of me well enough to make my throat constrict.
I was standing at the entrance to an enormous hall, at least seventy feet across. Apart from the gigantic cast iron chandelier hanging from the ceiling and the galleries high up on the walls, there was no decoration of any kind. No portraits, no draperies, nothing. The floor was dark, polished stone; the walls were painted a dark green-blue. In any other place the lack of decoration might have made one think the owner of the building was poor, but not here. The very enormity of this stark cavern repudiated poverty. And besides, it didn’t take me long to realize the true reason behind the sparse decoration. I had lived too long with my dear uncle and aunt not to recognize the signs that somebody kept his purse up his arse.
Throughout the hall, people were jogging from one of the many doors to another, carrying pieces of paper, and obviously in a very great hurry to get their business done. The only person who wasn’t moving an inch was a sallow-faced old man behind a plain wood counter at the back of the giant room. He simply sat, bent over a book in which he was busy scribbling notes.
Was he the receptionist? Well, there was only one way to find out.
I approached the counter and cleared my throat timidly. The man didn’t seem to notice and continued writing in his book.
I cleared my throat again, louder this time, and crossed my arms. This fellow was getting my hackles up!
He finally deigned to look up and examined me over the tops of his small, steel-rimmed spectacles. The face he pulled made me think he wasn’t very pleased with what he saw.
‘Yes?’
This was it. Last chance to back out. Last chance to leave this place and never come back.
With great effort, I gathered all my courage and said, loudly and clearly: ‘I’m here to see Mr Ambrose.’
I couldn’t have gotten a more impressive reaction if I had said ‘I’m here to see Father Christmas do a naked tap dance on your desk.’ Everybody within hearing range stopped to turn towards me. One young clerk fell over his own feet and only just managed not to drop the large pile of papers he was carrying.
‘Mr Ambrose?’ asked Sallow-face incredulously. ‘Mr Rikkard Ambrose?’
‘Is there another one here?’
‘Most assuredly not, Miss…?’
‘Linton. Miss Lillian Linton.’
‘Well, Miss Linton,’ said Sallow-face, steepling his long fingers in a manner that I’m sure he meant to be threatening, ‘Mr Ambrose is a very busy man. He does not have time for everybody who wishes to waste it.’ He looked down at his book again. ‘If you have come collecting for charity, try Lord Arlington’s place, or Lady Metcalf's. I am sure they shall be more than happy to oblige you.’
‘I have not come to collect for charity,’ I said. ‘I have an appointment.’
This time, somebody actually did drop his documents. I heard the clatter behind, me, and the hurried noises of someone running after flying bits of paper. Sallow-face had no eyes for the miscreant, however. His full attention was on me once more, sizing me up, and down, and up again.