'I can believe it,' said the Countess. 'Which doesn't help any. Whoever used my notepaper and knew my hand and posted the letters in France, booked you rooms in hotels, tried to stop you...No way they can't be crazy. And how did they know you'd come? Come to that, why did you?'
Glodstone blushed. 'I couldn't leave you in the lurch,' he muttered. 'I mean I'd always thought of you as a lady and, well...it's difficult to explain really.'
'And what do you think now? Am I still a "lady"?'
'You're certainly very nice,' said Glodstone judiciously. 'You'd have gone to the police if you weren't.'
The Countess sighed. It still hadn't dawned on the poor dumb cluck that she'd have done just that if she hadn't had something to hide. Like seven gold bars and a past that would make his romantic hair stand on end. Talk about knight errant, operative word 'errant'. It was only in Britain they made them so innocent. 'And you're nice too,' she said and patted his knee. 'It wasn't your fault you were framed. So we can't let them take you to prison, can we?'
'Hopefully,' said Glodstone quivering with new devotion under the influence of the pat on the knee and the baby-talk. Her next remark blew his mind.
'So we go back and get the Sundance Kid and put the bite on the Clyde-Brownes.'
'We do what?'
'Put the squeeze on them. You're going to need money, and if they're what you say they are, and I think, they'll pay through the nose to keep themselves out of the media. I can't see Papa C-B wanting to be thrown out of the Reform.'
'I won't do it,' said Glodstone. 'It wasn't Peregrine's fault that...'
'He's wanted by the police in every country this side of the Iron Curtain? And he did the killing, not you. So Mr Clyde-Browne is going to have to work hard to pull both your irons out of the fire. And he has got influence. I've looked him up and he reeks of it. His brother's Deputy Under-Secretary at the Department of Trade and adviser to the EEC Commissioner for the Regularization, Standardization and Uniformity of Processed Food Products. Meaning fish fingers.'
'Good Lord, how did you find that out?'
'Holborn Public Library's latest copy of Who's Who. So we've got some muscle. And we're going to use it tonight.'
'Tonight? But we'll never drive all the way to Virginia Water...I mean it'll be after midnight by the time we get there.'
'I can't think of a better time to break the news,' said the Countess, and drove back to the Amusement Park.
Chapter 23
In fact it was almost 2 a.m. when they parked the car at the end of Pine Tree Lane and rang the doorbell of The Cones. A light came on upstairs and presently the door opened on the chain and Mr Clyde-Brown peered out. He'd had a hard evening listening to his wife argue that it was time they called in the police, and had only managed to get to sleep with a cup of Horlicks laced with yet more whisky and two Mogadons.
'Who is it?' he mumbled.
'Me, Dad,' said Peregrine stepping under the porchlight. For a moment Mr Clyde-Browne was prey to the ghastly thought that two Mogadons and a quarter of a bottle of Scotch didn't mix too well. Certainly he had to be hallucinating. The voice sounded horribly right but the face, and in particular the hair, didn't gel with his memory of Peregrine. The last time he'd seen the lout he'd been fair-haired and with a fresh complexion. Now he looked like something the Race Relations...He stopped himself in time. There was a law about saying things like that.
'Where the hell have you been?' he asked instead, and undid the chain. 'Your mother's been at her wit's end worrying about you. And who '
The Countess and Glodstone stepped through the doorway after Peregrine. 'Let's hit the lounge,' said the Countess, 'Somewhere nice and private. We don't want the neighbours in on this.'
Mr Clyde-Browne wasn't sure. The arrival of his son with black hair in the company of a woman in dark glasses and a tall haggard man who looked vaguely familiar and definitely sinister, and this at two in the morning, seemed to suggest he might need every neighbour within shouting distance. The Countess's language didn't help. With the feeling that he had stepped into a Cagney movie he went into the sitting-room and turned on the light.
'Now what's the meaning of this?' he demanded, trying to muster some authority.
'Tell him, baby,' said the Countess, checking the curtains were closed to unnerve Mr Clyde-Browne still more.
'Well, it's like this, dad,' said Peregrine, 'I've been and gone and shot a professor.'
Mr Clyde-Browne's eyes bulged in his head. 'I'm not hearing right,' he muttered, 'It's those fucking Mogadons. You've been and gone...Where the hell did you pick up that vulgar expression?'
'His name was Botwyk and he was an American and we thought he was a gangster and I shot him through the head,' said Peregrine. 'With a .38 from the School Armoury.'
Mr Clyde-Browne's knees buckled and he slumped into a chair. 'I don't believe it,' he moaned. 'This isn't happening.'
'No, not now,' said Peregrine. 'But it did. It's in all the papers. I shot a Russian too, but he didn't die. At least, he hasn't yet.'
Mr Clyde-Browne shut his eyes in an attempt to convince himself that he was having a nightmare. It failed. When he opened them again Peregrine and these two awful people were still there. The Countess handed him a copy of The Times.
'I've ringed the latest piece,' she said. 'Right now they're looking for a terrorist. Well, he's standing there in front of you.'
Mr Clyde-Brown hurled the paper aside. He'd read all about the murder on the train the day before and had expressed his sense of outrage. With another sense of outrage he got to his feet. 'If this is some sort of fucking joke,' he yelled, 'I'll '
'Cool it, baby,' said the Countess. 'You want the cops in on this just keep bawling your head off. That's your prerogative. Or you can phone them. I guess the number's still 999.'
'I know what the fucking number is,' shouted Mr Clyde-Browne rather more quietly.
'So he's your son. You want him up on a murder rap, call them up. It's no skin off my nose. I don't go round bumping people off.'
Mr Clyde-Browne looked from her to Peregrine and back again. 'You're bluffing. He didn't shoot anyone. It's all a lie. You're trying to blackmail me. Well, let me tell you '
'Oh sure. So go ahead and phone. Tell them you've got two blackmailers and a son who just happens to be a murderer on your hands and you don't know what to do. We'll wait here for you. No sweat.'
Beads of it broke out on Mr Clyde-Browne's forehead. 'Tell me you didn't do it,' he said to Peregrine, 'I want you to say it and I want to hear it.'
'I shot a Professor, dad. I've told you that already.'
'I know you have...'
He was interrupted by the entrance of his wife. For a long moment she stood in the doorway gazing at Peregrine.
'Oh, my poor boy,' she cried, rushing forward and gathering him to her. 'What have they done to you?'
'Nothing, mum. Nothing at all.'
'But where've you been and why's your hair that colour?'
'That's part of the disguise. I've been to France...'
'And shot an American Professor. Through the head, didn't you say?' said Mr Clyde-Browne, helping himself to more whisky. He didn't give a damn what the stuff did with Mogadons any longer. A quiet death was preferable.
'Oh my poor darling,' said Mrs Clyde-Browne, who still hadn't got the message, 'I've been so worried about you.'
In the corner Mr Clyde-Browne was heard to mutter something about her not knowing what worry was. Yet.
The Countess got up and moved towards the door. Mr Clyde-Browne hit it first. 'Where do you think you're fucking going?' he shouted.
Mrs Clyde-Browne turned on him. 'How dare you use that filthy word in my house!' she screamed. 'And in front of Peregrine and these...er...'