“Let me give you a hand, sir,” said the chauffeur to Peregrine. “You’re that cold, aren’t you?”
“I can manage. If only I could wash.”
“Never mind, sir. That’s the idea. Leave them there, sir. I’ll attend to them. Better keep your shoes on, hadn’t you? The coat’ll be a bit of help and the rug’s warm. Ready sir?”
“If I could just have a taxi, I wouldn’t be such an infernal nuisance.”
His rescuer turned and looked, not fully at him but at his shoulder. “I beg you to come,” he said.
Greatly worried by the extravagance of the phrase Peregrine said no more.
The chauffeur went ahead quickly and opened the doors of the car. Peregrine saw that newspaper had been spread over the floor and back seat.
“Please go,” his rescuer said, “I’ll follow.”
Peregrine shambled across the portico and jumped in at the back. The lining of the mackintosh stuck to his body. He hitched the rug around him and tried to clench his chattering jaw.
A boy’s voice in the street called, “Hey, look! Look at that bloke.” The caretaker from Phipps Bros, had appeared at the top of his alley and stared into the car. One or two people stopped and pointed Peregrine out to each other.
As his master crossed the portico the chauffeur locked the theatre doors. Holding Peregrine’s unspeakable clothes at arm’s length he put them in the boot of the car and got into the driver’s seat. In another moment they were moving up Wharfingers Lane.
His rescuer did not turn his head or speak. Peregrine waited for a moment or two and then, controlling his voice with some success, said, “I’m giving you far too much trouble.”
“No.”
“If—if you would be so very kind as to drop me at The Unicorn Theatre I think I could—”
Still without turning his head the man said with extreme formality, “I really do beg that you will allow me to—” he stopped for an unaccountably long time and then said loudly “—to rescue you. I mean to take you to my house and set you right. I shall be most upset otherwise. Dreadfully upset.”
Now he turned and Peregrine had never seen an odder look in anyone’s face. It was an expression almost, he thought, of despair.
“I am responsible,” said his extraordinary host. “Unless you allow me to make amends I shall—I shall feel—very guilty.”
“Responsible? But—”
“It will not take very long, I hope. Drury Place.”
“Oh Lord!” Peregrine thought. “What poshery.” He wondered, suddenly, if perhaps the all too obvious explanation was the wrong one and if his rescuer was a slightly demented gentleman and the chauffeur his keeper.
“I really don’t see, sir—” he began, but an inaudible conversation was taking place in the front seat.
“Certainly, sir,” said the chauffeur and drew up outside the estate agents. He pulled the keys out of his pocket as he entered. In a moment or two the clerk’s face appeared looking anxiously and crossly over the painted lower pane of his window. He disappeared and in a moment came running out and round to the passenger’s side.
“Well, sir,” he obsequiously gabbled, “I'm sure I’m very sorry this has occurred. Very regrettable, I’m sure. But as I was saying to your driver, sir, I did warn the viewer.” He had not yet looked at Peregrine but he did so now, resentfully. “I warned you,” he said.
“Yes, yes,” Peregrine said. “You did.”
“Yes, well, thank you. But I’m sure—”
“That will do. There has been gross negligence. Good morning.” The voice was so changed, so brutally icy that Peregrine stared and the clerk drew back as if he’d been stung. They moved off.
The car’s heating system built up. By the time they had crossed the river Peregrine was a little less cold and beginning to feel drowsy. His host offered no further remarks. Once when Peregrine happened to look at the rear-vision glass on the passenger’s side he found he was being observed, apparently with extreme distaste. Or no. Almost with fear. He looked away quickly but out of the tail of his eye saw a gloved hand change the angle of the glass.
“Oh, well,” he thought bemusedly, “I’m bigger and. younger than he is. I suppose I can look after myself, but how tricky it all is. Take away a man’s clothes, after all, and you make a monkey of him. What sort of public image will I present, fleeing down Park Lane in a gent’s mac and a fur rug, both the property of my pursuer?”
They were in Park Lane now and soon turned off into a side street and thence into the cul-de-sac called Drury Place. The car pulled up. The chauffeur got out and rang the bell of No. 7. As he returned to the car, the house door was opened by a manservant.
Peregrine’s host said in a comparatively cheerful voice, “Not far to go. Up the steps and straight in.”
The chauffeur opened the door. “Now, sir,” he said, “shan’t be long, shall we?”
There really was nothing else for it. Three impeccable men, an errand boy and a tightly encased lady carrying a little dog walked down the footpath. Peregrine got out and instead of bolting into the house made an entrance of it. He ascended the steps with deliberation, leaving a trail of filthy footprints behind him and dragging his fur rug like a ceremonial train. The manservant stood aside.
“Thank you,” Peregrine said grandly. “I have fallen, as you see, into dirty water.”
“Quite so, sir.”
“Up to my neck.”
“Very unfortunate, sir.”
“For all concerned,” said Peregrine.
His host had arrived.
“First of all, of course, a bath,” he was saying, “and something to defeat that shivering. Mawson?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“And then come and see me.”
“Very good, sir.”
The man went upstairs. Peregrine’s host was now behaving in so normal a manner that he began to wonder if he himself had perhaps been bemused by his hideous experience. There was some talk of the efficacy of Epsom Salts in a hot bath and of coffee laced with rum. Peregrine listened in a trance.
“Do forgive me for bossing you about like this. You must be feeling ghastly and really, I do blame myself.”
“But why?”
“Yes, Mawson?”
“If the gentleman will walk up, sir.”
“Quite so. Quite so. Good.”
Peregrine walked up and was shown into a steaming and aromatic bathroom.
“I thought pine, sir, would be appropriate,” said Mawson. “I hope the temperature is as you like it. May I suggest a long, hot soak, sir?”
“You may indeed,” said Peregrine warmly.
“Perhaps I may take your rug and coat. And shoes,” said Mawson with an involuntary change of voice. “You will find a bath wrap on the rail and a hot rum and lemon within easy reach. If you would be good enough to ring, sir, when you are ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“To dress, sir.”
It seemed a waste of time to say, “In what?” so Peregrine merely said “Thank you” and Mawson said “Thank you” and withdrew.
It was rapture beyond compare in the bath. Essence of pine. A lovely long-handled brush. Pine-smelling soap. And the hot rum and lemon. He left off shivering, soaped himself all over, including his head, scrubbed himself scarlet, submerged completely, rose, drank and tried to take a responsible view of the situation. In this he failed. Too much had occurred. He realized after a time that he was becoming lightheaded and without at all fancying the idea took a hard-hitting cold shower. This restored him. Rough-dried and wrapped in a towelling bathrobe he rang the bell. He felt wonderful.
Mawson came and Peregrine said he would like to telephone for some clothes, though when he thought about it he didn’t quite know where he would ring. Jeremy Jones with whom he shared a flat would certainly be out and it wasn’t the morning for their charlady. The Unicorn Theatre? Somebody would be there, of course, but who?
Mawson showed him to a bedroom where there was a telephone.
There were also clothes laid out on the bed. “I think they are approximately your size, sir. It is hoped that you will have no objection to making use of them in the meantime,” said Mawson.