By the time the Clyde-Brownes left the Sanatorium Slymne was ready for them. 'Good afternoon,'
he said briskly, 'my name is Slymne. I'm the geography master here. Miss Crabley tell me you're
concerned about your son.'
Mr Clyde-Browne stopped in his tracks. Mr Slymne's reports on Peregrine's lack of any academic
ability had always struck him as proving that at least one master at Groxbourne was neither a
complete idiot nor a barefaced liar.
'More than concerned,' he said. 'The boy's missing and from what I've been able to gather from
that man Fetherington there seems to be good reason to suppose he's been abducted by Mr
Glodstone.'
Slymne's mouth dried up. Mr Clyde-Browne was evidently an expert investigator. 'Mr Glodstone's
abducted your son? Are you quite sure? I mean it seems...'
'Of course I'm not sure. I'd have called the police if I were,' said Mr Clyde-Browne, bearing
in mind the law on slander. 'I said I'd been given reason to believe it. What's your opinion of
Glodstone?'
'I'd rather not comment,' said Slymne, glad to be able to tell the truth for the time being,
'my relations with him are not of the best and I might be prejudiced. I think you ought to
consult the Headmaster.'
'Who happens to be in the Outer Hebrides.'
'In the circumstances I'm sure he'll return immediately. I'll wire him to say that you're
here. Now would you like me to find some accommodation locally? There's an excellent hotel in
Leominster.'
When they left, the Clyde-Brownes were slightly happier in their minds. 'Thank God someone
round here seems to have his head screwed on the right way,' said Mr Clyde-Browne.
'And he did seem to think that Peregrine was in safe hands,' said his wife, 'I do hope he's
right.'
Mr Clyde-Browne kept his thoughts on the subject to himself. His hopes were rather different.
He was wondering how best to intimidate the Headmaster into paying considerable damages for the
loss of a son.
In the school office Slymne picked up the phone and dialled the campsite in Scarborough. About
the only bright spot he could see on the horizon was that the Clyde-Brownes were evidently
reluctant to call in the police.
It was mid-morning before the Headmaster arrived to be met by a haggard and desperate Slymne.
His conversation with the Major the previous night, assisted by a bottle of whisky, had appalled
him. Glodstone had told the Major where he was going. And since he had confided so much it seemed
all too likely that he had kept those damning letters. Slymne had spent a sleepless night trying
to think of some way to dissociate himself from the whole ghastly business. The best strategy
seemed to be to show that he had already acted responsibly.
'I've checked the railway station and the bus people,' he told the Headmaster, 'and it's clear
that Clyde-Browne didn't leave by bus or train on the 31st, which is the day he went
missing.'
'That's a great help,' said the Headmaster. 'What I want to know is where he did go. I've got
to have something to tell his bloody parents.'
'Well, Mrs Brossy at the Post Office thinks she saw Glodstone pick a young man up outside her
shop around midday.'
The Headmaster slumped into a chair behind his desk. 'Oh, my God! And I don't suppose anyone
has a clue where the lunatic took him?'
Slymne played his ace. 'Strictly in confidence, sir, I did manage to get Major Fetherington to
tell me that Glodstone had said he was going to France by way of Ostend.'
'Going to France by way of Ostend? Ostend's in bloody Belgium. Are you seriously telling me
that that one-eyed maniac has dragged the son of a prominent solicitor out of this country
without asking his parents' permission?'
Slymne demurred. 'I'm not exactly saying that, sir. I'm merely repeating what the Major told
me in strict confidence and I'd appreciate it if you kept my name out of the business. I mean
'
'Damn Major Fetherington. If Glodstone's gone to France with that ghastly boy we'll all have
to go into business. We'll certainly be out of teaching.'
'Quite,' said Slymne. 'Anyway, acting on the Major's tip I phoned the Channel ferry services
at Dover to ask if they could confirm it.'
'And did they?'
'Not in so many words. They wanted to know who I was and what my interest was and I didn't
think I'd better say anything more until I'd spoken to you. Mr Clyde-Browne didn't strike me as a
man who'd take kindly to the news that his son had gone abroad with Glodstone.'
The Headmaster closed his eyes and shuddered. From his previous dealings with Peregrine's
father he'd gained the distinct impression that Mr Clyde-Browne didn't count kindliness as one of
his strong points. 'So that's all the information we have? Is that what you're saying?'
Slymne hesitated. 'I can't speak for the Major but I have an idea he knows more than he was
prepared to tell me.'
'By God, he'll tell me,' said the Headmaster savagely. 'Go and get the fellow.'
Slymne slipped out of the room and crossed the quad to the San. 'The old man wants to see
you,' he told the Major, whose physical condition hadn't been improved by a dreadful hangover,
'and if I were in your shoes, I'd tell him everything you know.'
'Shoes?' said the Major. 'If I had shoes and wasn't in a wheelchair I'd have been out of here
long ago. Oh well, into the firing line.'
It was an appropriate metaphor. The Headmaster was ready to do murder. 'Now then, I understand
Glodstone told you he was going to France by way of Ostend,' he said, ignoring Slymne's plea for
discretion. The Major nodded unhappily. 'Did he also tell you he was taking Clyde-Browne with
him?'
'Of course not,' said the Major rallying, 'I wouldn't have let him.'
'Let him tell you or let him take the boy?' asked the Headmaster, glad to take his feelings
out on a man he'd never much liked anyway.
'Take him, of course.'
'What else did he tell you?'
Major Fetherington looked reproachfully at Slymne. 'Well, if you must know, he said he'd been
asked to undertake a secret mission, something desperately dangerous. And in case he bought
it...'
'Bought it? Bought what, for Heaven's sake?'
'Well, if things went wrong and got himself killed or something, he wanted me to look after
his interests.'
'Interests?' snapped the Headmaster, preferring not to dwell on 'killed'. 'What
interests?'
'I really don't know. I suppose he meant let the police know or get him a decent funeral. He
left it a bit vague.'
'He needn't have. I'll fix his funeral,' said the Headmaster. 'Go on.'
'Not much else to tell really,' said the Major hesitantly but the Headmaster wasn't
deceived.
'The lot, Fetherington, the lot. You leave out one jot or tittle and you'll be hobbling down
to join the ranks of the unemployed and I don't mean tomorrow.'
The Major tried to cross his legs and failed. 'All right, if you really want to know, he said
he'd been asked by the Countess of Montcon '
'The Countess of Montcon?'
'Wanderby's mother, he's a boy in Gloddie's, the one with allergies and whatnot, to go down to
her Château...You're not going to believe this.'
'Never mind that,' said the Headmaster, who appeared to be in the grip of some awful allergy
himself.
'Well, she wanted him to rescue her from some gang or other.'
'Some gang or other? You mean to tell me...The man must be off his bloody rocker.'
'That's what I told him,' said the Major. 'I said, "Listen, old boy, someone's having you on.
Get on the blower and call her up and see if I'm not right." But you know what Glodstone's
like.'
'I'm beginning to get a shrewd idea,' said the Headmaster. 'Mad as a March fucking hare. Don't
let me stop you.'
'That's about the lot really. I had no idea he was going to take Perry with him.'
'So you've said before, and it's not the lot.'
The Major tried to focus his thoughts. 'About the only other thing I can think of is that he
asked me to let him have a couple of revolvers from the Armoury. Naturally I wasn't buying that
one '
'A couple of revolvers from the School Armoury? Jesus wept! And that didn't tell you
anything?'
'Only that he was obviously dead serious about the whole business. I mean obviously '
'A couple of revolvers, you moron,' shouted the Headmaster, 'not just one. Who the hell do you
think the second one was for?'
'Now that you come to mention it '
'Mention it? Mention it?' yelled the Headmaster. 'What I want to know is why you didn't
mention it at the bloody time?'
'Well, since he didn't get them there didn't seem much point,' said the Major. 'If Glodstone
wanted to go off on some wild goose chase that was his affair and '
'Slymne,' interrupted the Headmaster before the Major could say it was no skin off his nose
what Glodstone did, 'take him to the Armoury and see that there aren't two revolvers and half a
dozen rifles missing. I want every weapon accounted for.'
'But I've just told you '
'I know what you've told me and I'm not taking any chances on your opinion. Now get out.'
As Slymne bundled the Major's wheelchair through the door, the Headmaster put his head in his
hands. The situation was far worse than he had imagined. It had been bad enough to suppose that
Glodstone had merely taken the wretched boy on some jaunt round the country, but that he'd almost
certainly gone abroad with the lout on a so-called 'secret mission' to rescue another boy's
mother verged on the insane.
The Headmaster corrected himself. It was insane. Finally, collecting what thoughts he could,
he reached for the phone.
'Get on to International Enquiries and put a call through to Wanderby's mother in France. Her
name's the Countess of Montcon. You'll find the address in the files. And put her straight
through to me.'
As he slammed the phone down he saw the Clyde-Brownes' car drive up. The moment he had dreaded
had come. What on earth was he going tell them? Something soothing, some mild remark...No, that
wouldn't work. With an almost manic smile he got up to greet them. But Mr Clyde-Browne had come
to be heard, not to listen. He was armed with a battery of arguments.
Peregrine had been in the school's care; he had last been seen on the school premises (the
Headmaster decided not to mention Mrs Brossy's sighting in the village); the school, and on a
more personal level, the Headmaster, had been and still were responsible for his well-being; Mr
Clyde-Browne had paid the exorbitant sum of ten thousand pounds in advance fees; and if, as
seemed likely, his son had been abducted by a possibly paedophilic master he was going to see
that the name Groxbourne went down in legal history and was expunged from the Public Schools
Yearbook, where, in his opinion, it should never have been in the first place. And what had the
Headmaster to say to that?
The Headmaster fought for words. 'I'm sure there's a perfectly simple and straightforward...'
he began without any conviction, but Mrs Clyde-Browne's sobs stopped him. She appeared to have
gone into premature mourning. 'I can only promise...'
'I am not interested in promises,' said Mr Clyde-Browne, 'my son is missing and I want him
found. Now, have you any idea where he is?'
The Headmaster shuddered to think, and had his agitation increased by the telephone.
'I can't get any number,' said the School Secretary when he picked it up, 'International
Enquiries say there's no Countess de...'
'Thank you, Miss Crabley, but I'm engaged just at the moment,' he said to stifle any shrill
disclosures. 'Please tell the Bishop I'll call him back as soon as I'm free.' And, hoping he had
impressed the Clyde-Brownes, he replaced the receiver and leant across the desk. 'I really don't
think you have anything to worry about...' he began and knew he was wrong. Through the window he
could see Slymne crossing the quad carrying two revolvers. God alone knew what would happen if he
marched in and...The Headmaster got to his feet. 'If you'll just excuse me for a moment,' he said
hoarsely, 'I'm afraid my bowels...er...my stomach has been playing me up.'
'So have mine,' said Mr Clyde-Browne unsympathetically, but the Headmaster was already through
the door and had intercepted Slymne. 'For God's sake put those beastly things away,' he whispered
ferociously.
'The thing is...' Slymne began but the Headmaster dragged him into the lavatory and locked the
door. 'They're only replicas.'
'I don't care what...They're what?' said the Headmaster.
'I said they're replicas,' said Slymne, edging up against the washbasin nervously.
'Replicas? You mean '
'Two real revolvers are missing. We found these in their place.'
'Shit!' said the Headmaster, and slumped onto the seat. His bowels were genuinely playing him
up now.
'The Major is checking the ammunition boxes,' continued Slymne, 'I just thought you'd want to
know about these.'
The Headmaster stared bleakly at a herb chart his wife had pinned up on the wall to add a
botanical air to the place. Even the basil held no charms for him now. Somewhere in Europe
Glodstone and that litigious bastard's idiot son were wandering about armed with property
belonging to the Ministry of Defence. And if the Clyde-Brownes found out...They mustn't.
Rising swiftly he wrenched the top off the cistern. 'Put the damned things in there,' he said.
Slymne raised his eyebrows and did as he was told. If the Headmaster wanted replica firearms in
his water closet that was his business. 'And now go back to the Armoury and tell that
Fetherington not to move until I've got rid of the parents. I'll come over myself.'
He opened the door and was confronted by Mr Clyde-Browne, for whom the mention of stomachs and
lavatories had precipitated another bout of Adriatic tummy. 'Er...' said the Headmaster, but Mr
Clyde-Browne shoved past him and promptly backed out again followed by Slymne. 'The toilet's not
working. Mr Slymne here has been helping me fix it.'