'I need to see Mr Ambrose immediately,' the wounded man demanded. 'Please, do you know where I can find him?'

'I might.' Mr Ambrose didn't lower the gun. 'What do you want with him?'

'I haven't got time for this!' His hands clenching into fists, the stranger moved to dismount – until Mr Ambrose's revolver swivelled to point directly at his head.

'Make time.'

The man swallowed.

'M-my name is Godfrey Baker. I am an assistant manager at one of Mr Ambrose's mines at Newcastle. I have to see him! One of his mines–'

'There was an explosion.'

Mr Baker blinked. 'How did you know?'

Eyeing the soot-stained clothes of the other man, Mr Ambrose slowly lowered his gun. 'Let's just say I am perceptive. But if there was an explosion, what do you need Mr Ambrose for? The manager should be able to manage the situation. That is why he is called manager.'

'Um...yes, Sir. Except, the late Mr Gibbons isn't managing much of anything anymore, unless you are talking about lying very, very still in a wooden box. And, um...there's also this slight other problem...'

'The workers.'

'Yes, Sir.'

'They're striking.'

'Yes, indeed. You are very perceptive, Sir.'

Nudging my horse forward, I approached Mr Baker and eyed the cuts and bruises on his face. 'From the looks of it, they've been striking pretty hard.'

He gave me an exhausted smile. 'Indeed, Mr...?'

'Linton. Victor Linton. Private secretary to Mr Rikkard Ambrose.'

'What? Please, tell me, where can I find him? Where...?'

The man's voice trailed off, and his eyes slid back to Mr Ambrose, widening in a silent question. Mr Ambrose gave a curt nod.

Baker groaned. 'Forgive me, Sir. I've never had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, but still, I should have realised. I'm not at my best today. I rode all night and all day to reach this place, and haven't had a decent meal in...well, I don't even want to think about it.'

'Then don't. We don't have time to waste in any case. Your credentials?'

The man pulled a singed piece of paper from his pocket and handed it over to Mr Ambrose, who studied it briefly and returned it.

'Adequate. What happened?'

'Well, as you guessed, Sir, there was an explosion at one of the mines. You know the rumours that have been going around among the workers, about you cutting funding for safety precautions?'

'Yes. Like I told the manager, completely ridiculous. As if I would ever spend money on something like that in the first place.'

For a few moments, Mr Baker unsuccessfully searched for a polite reply. When he had opened and closed his mouth three times without anything coming out, I decided to help the poor fellow out.

'You were talking about rumours...?' I prompted.

'Ah, yes. The rumours. Of course.' He cleared his throat. 'Well, after the explosion, the rumours, well, um...exploded. People believe what happened is your fault, Sir. And quite a few people died in this incident.'

'Indeed?'

'Yes, indeed, Sir. And now the miners are rioting, and–'

Mr Ambrose held up one hand. Baker shut up and closed his mouth.

'Mr Linton?'

I snapped to attention. Not an easy thing to do while sitting on a horse, but I managed. 'Yes, Sir?'

'Return to the house. Pack our things, and a few supplies. Meet me back here in ten minutes.'

'Yes, Sir. Um...should I give our apologies to your mother?'

'You can give her yours, if you wish. I'm keeping mine.'

With that, Mr Ambrose removed me from his cognition, and turned his intense, sea-coloured eyes on Baker, unleashing a barrage of questions. As I turned my horse and galloped away, their voices faded behind me. It didn't take long until the house came into view in front of me. A small figure in a pink dress was standing at a downstairs window.

Poor Lady Samantha. I'm sure a miner's rebellion wasn't exactly part of her Christmas plans.

True. But right now I had other, much more pressing concerns. With his usual effortless, elegant callousness, Mr Rikkard Ambrose had dropped a nice, big problem into my lap: Mr Linton could make his excuses and ride off with Mr Ambrose. But what about Miss Linton? I had a feeling that, if a smiling Miss Linton were to approach Lady Samantha and say: 'Hello? I'm sorry to be rushing off in such a hurry. It's just, there's a violent uprising in a mining town a few dozen miles away, and I have to go with your son to expose myself to deadly danger and potentially get my head bashed in', the response might not be very positive.

What to do?

Well, you can always leave without saying anything.

Yep. I could – if I wanted her to send Captain Carter and half the British Army after me and her beloved son. Not good.

Well...that leaves only one option. The tried and trusted last resort of magnificent misfits: lying like a rug.

'Lady Samantha? Lady Samantha?' Pushing open the door, I strode inside. Something in my tone must have alerted her, because she was already rushing towards me.

'Yes, Mr Linton? What's the matter? Is everything all right? Is my son–'

'He's fine,' I hurried to reassure her. 'Nothing has happened to him. But we met someone out in the woods – a messenger from Newcastle. He told us that, um...one of Mr Ambrose's friends there is sick.'

'Oh dear!' Covering her mouth with one dainty hand, Lady Samantha took an involuntary step towards the door, as if she wanted to reach out and comfort her far-off son. 'That's terrible! I'm so sorry to hear that someone is ill. But...' She glanced at me, guiltily. 'Does it make me a horrible person when I say that, in a way, I'm almost relieved? I didn't know my son had any friends.'

Oh yes, he has made lots of friends. And they're all shiny and golden, with the face of King George III embossed on one side.

So, in a way, what I was telling her was even true. For Mr Rikkard Ambrose, any enterprise that could potentially make money but currently didn't was probably the closest thing to a sick friend he was ever likely to have. Great justification, right? I had always been brilliant at justifying fibs. Still, the next one was a bit, well...

I cleared my throat.

'His friend might die.'

Any hint of gladness disappeared from Lady Samantha's face.

'Goodness gracious!'

'And he would like to see Mr Ambrose one last time. So you see–'

'Yes, yes, of course!'

Stepping forward, she clasped both my hands in hers, her eyes shimmering with tears of sympathy. It was almost enough to make me feel bad for lying – which was saying something. I didn't normally apologise for my favourite hobbies.

'Of course you must go, but...oh dear.' Shaking her head, she through a regretful glance down the hall into the house, from where the sound of music and merry laughter came. The sounds of approaching Christmas. 'I had so hoped that Rick would...well, it can't be helped. Will you tell your sister, or would you like me to deliver the news?'

'My sister? Oh, she will be coming with us.'

Lady Samantha's face lit up in a manner that was not entirely appropriate for a lady who had just been told one of her son's friends was about to take a trip to the hereafter.

'She will?'

'Yes, My Lady.'

'And...how long do you think you will be gone?'

'A few days, certainly.'

'And...you will all be staying in the same house?'

'I imagine so.'

'And...will Miss Linton be spending a lot of time with my son?'

'Oh yes. Definitely. Why?'

'Oh, nothing, nothing.' Hurriedly, she waved my question away. 'By all means, go. Of course you must, it's the right thing to do. I shall have Hastings get the coach ready for you.'

Woah! I had not seen that coming. Wracking my mind, I desperately searched for an excuse why it would be difficult for a coachman to take me, Mr Ambrose and my non-existent sister to Newcastle.

'That...um...that won't be necessary. Mr Ambrose has already procured transportation.'

'Oh.' She appeared positively surprised. 'And is it appropriate for a lady such as your sister?'

If you consider a saddle-bruised butt to be appropriate... 'Yes, absolutely.'

Lady Samantha smiled. 'He really has changed for the better. Could it be that you and your sister are having a mellowing influence?'

Ha! In my most outlandish dreams!

'Thank you for the compliment, Your Ladyship.' I bowed. 'I'm afraid I will have to take my leave. I still have to prepare things for the journey, and–'

'Of course, of course! Go attend to your duties, Mr Linton. If you need any supplies, let the cook know that I said to let you have anything you want. The sky is the limit.'

'Thank you so much, Your Ladyship.' Although, actually, the size of my saddle bag is the limit. 'We'll be back as soon as we can.'

'Oh, don't you worry.' She smiled at me reassuringly. 'And do give your sister my warmest regards, will you?'

*~*~**~*~*

We were on the road to Newcastle within half an hour. It was just the four of us – Mr Ambrose and me, Mr Baker and Karim, whom I had fetched from his room back at Battlewood. While we rode, Mr Coal-Blackened Assistant Manager laid out the details for us. The farther we got, the blacker things seemed. And that wasn't just because of the thick black smoke we saw, rising up from the horizon.

'They're completely out of control,' Baker panted. Underneath his coating of coal dust, he looked pale, and he was hardly able to keep himself on his horse. Naturally, Mr Ambrose hadn't suggested we stop and rest yet. 'They're rioting all around the mine, seizing anyone who even looks as though he might be management. Some have even gotten pickaxes, and are roaming through the town, smashing shop windows and plundering.'

'Indeed.'

'Yes, Sir! They absolutely refuse to go back to work. After all the accidents we've had recently, that explosion was simply the last straw. They–'

'There were more accidents?'

'Yes, Sir. As I was saying–'

Mr Ambrose didn't particularly seem to care what Baker had been saying. 'What kind of accidents?'

'Oh, well...ropes snapping, brakes on mine cars giving out, that sort of thing.'

'Did those kind of things always happen that frequently at your mine?'

'No. We had a stroke of really bad luck, recently.'

'Indeed? How interesting.'

There was something in the tone of his voice...

Ice.

Lots of it. Much more than usual.

Spurring on my horse, I caught up to him. 'What are you thinking, Mr Ambrose, Sir?'

'I am thinking, Mr Linton, that we should ride faster.'

And he spurred his horse to a brisk canter, almost a gallop.

Soon, we came to the bottom of a hill. Mr Ambrose didn't slow when we started upwards, and the horses began to pant, sweat running down their flanks even in the bitter cold. He didn't pay any attention, and didn't let up even a bit until we reached the crest of the hill and looked down onto the town beyond.

On our way south, we had come past several towns and villages – delightful little places with busy markets, fresh snow sparkling on the rooftops and carol singers going from door to door.

Newcastle was not such a town.

Oh, there was snow – coloured various shades of grey, sometimes leaning towards black. And there were plenty of markets, to judge by the stench of tar and old fish drifting up towards us. There was even singing of a sort – though these singers had probably consumed a little more alcohol than the average caroller. Still, this was no happy little country town.

Cheap brick houses stretched as far as the eye could see. Black smoke rose from nearly every chimney, attesting to the city's one and only abundance: coal. The spires of several churches rose above the rooftops, competing for dominion over the town with the massive towers of the castle keep. Beyond it stretched the river Tyne, sparkling in the light of the sinking sun. And beyond that...

'Oh my God,' I breathed.

Thick columns of smoke were rising from an area beyond the river, more than could ever be produced by any factory. Flames were licking at the sky, mingling with the red glow of the sinking sun. It looked like a scene straight from Dante's Inferno.

'The mine is still burning?' I turned to Baker. 'I thought you said it was only an explosion.'

'An explosion in a coal mine.' He looked grim. 'Coal burns well.'

Between the flames and the smoke, figures were moving. I could hear distant shouts of 'Get them! Get them,' punctuated by screams of pain.

'Looks like we arrived just at the right time,' Mr Ambrose stated coolly. 'Let's go.' And he spurred his horse into a gallop, down the hillside, straight towards the city.

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My dear Lords and Ladies,

Just in case you're wondering about the title of this chapter: In the 19th century, Newcastle (or Newcastle upon Tyne, which is the town's full name) was one of Great Britain's biggest mining centres, exporting huge amounts of coal. In fact, the city became so well known for its main export that the expression 'taking coals to Newcastle' became proverbial for doing something utterly superfluous and senseless. The expression is still used today with some justification, for although the British Newcastle ceased being a big name in the coal industry years ago, Newcastle in Australia, named for its famous predecessor, is today's biggest exporter of coal.

So I thought "Taking Ice to Newcastle" would be a fitting metaphor for a visit from our favorite, stone-cold business mogul ;-)

Yours Truly

Sir Rob

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GLOSSARY:

Sovereign: Refers to the British gold sovereign, a gold coin worth one pound sterling. It was called 'sovereign' because it had the head of the current sovereign (or a past one, if the coins were older) embossed on one side.