by Tom Sharpe
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 Sanatorium. ‘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 then 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 …’
&
nbsp; ‘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 on to 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 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.’
‘Really?’ said Mr Clyde-Browne with an inflection he relied on in cases involving consenting adults charged with making improper use of public urinals, and before the Headmaster could invite him to use the toilet upstairs he was back inside and had locked the door.
‘You don’t think …’ said Slymne injudiciously.
‘Get lost,’ said the Headmaster. ‘And see that the Major doesn’t stir.’
Slymne took the hint and hurried back to the Armoury. The Major was looking disconsolately at several empty boxes in the ammunition locker. ‘Bad news, Slimey old chap,’ he said. ‘Two hundred bloody rounds gone. The Army isn’t going to like it one little bit. I’ve got to account for every fucking one.’
‘Not your fault,’ said Slymne. ‘If Glodstone chooses to go mad and pinch the key …’
‘He didn’t. Peregrine had the thing. And to think I used to like that boy.’
‘Well, the Head’s got his hands full with the Clyde-Brownes and I don’t think he’s having an easy time.’
The Major almost sympathized. ‘I don’t see how he can avoid sacking me. I’d sack myself in the circumstances. More than flesh and blood can stand, that bloody couple.’ He wheeled himself across to a rack of bayonets.
‘Don’t tell me they’ve taken some of those too,’ said Slymne.
‘I wish to God they had,’ said the Major. ‘The Army wouldn’t worry so much. Mind you, I hate to think what Perry would get up to. Born bayoneteer. You should see what he can do with a rifle and bayonet to a bag of straw. And talking about guts, I suppose if I were a Jap the Head would expect me to commit Mata Hari.’
Slymne ignored the mistake. He was beginning to feel distinctly sorry for the Major. After all, the man might be a fool but he’d never been as malicious as Glodstone and it had been no part of Slymne’s plan to get him sacked.
‘They probably won’t use any of those bullets,’ he said by way of consolation and wondered what he could do to save the Major’s job.
*
It was not a consideration that had top priority with the Headmaster. Mr Cyde-Browne’s eruption from the lavatory clutching the two replica revolvers he had dredged from the cistern in an attempt to make the thing flush had honed to a razor’s edge the Headmaster’s only gift, the capacity for extempore evasions.
‘Well I never,’ he said. ‘Would you believe it?’
‘No,’ said Mr Clyde-Browne.
‘Boys will be boys,’ continued the Headmaster in the face of this blunt refusal to accept his rhetoric, ‘always up to some practical jokes.’
Mr Clyde-Browne fingered the revolvers dangerously. He had yet to realize they were replicas. ‘And maniacs will presumably be maniacs. Since when have you and that man Slymne made a habit of hiding offensive weapons in the cistern of your lavatory?’
‘Are you suggesting—’
‘No. I’m stating,’ said Mr Clyde-Browne, ‘I intend to present these firearms to the police as proof that you are wholly unfit either by virtue of insanity or criminal tendency to be in charge of anything more morally responsible than an abattoir or a brickyard.’
The Headmaster struggled with these alternatives but Mr Clyde-Browne was giving tongue again. ‘Marguerite!’ he yelled. ‘Come here at once.’
Mrs Clyde-Browne crept from the study. ‘Yes, dear,’ she said meekly.
‘I want you to bear witness that I have discovered these two guns in the water closet of this—’
But the sight of her husband aiming two revolvers at the Headmaster was witness enough.
‘You’re mad, mad, mad!’ she wailed, and promptly had a fit of hysterics.
The Headmaster seized his opportunity. ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ he said, appealing to Mr Clyde-Browne’s better feelings in vain. ‘Your poor wife …’
‘Keep your hands off that woman,’ snarled her husband. ‘I give you fair warning …’ He waved the revolvers as the Headmaster tried to calm her.
‘There, there,’ he said, ‘now come and sit down and …’
Mr Clyde-Browne was more forthright. Putting the guns on a side table, he whisked a bowl of faded roses from it and did what he had been longing to do for years. It was not a wise move. With water running down her face and a Wendy Cussons in her hair, Mrs Clyde-Browne’s hysterics turned to fury.
‘You bastard,’ she yelled, and seizing one of the guns, aimed it at her husband and pulled the trigger. There was a faint click and Mr Clyde-Browne cowered against the wall.
The Headmaster intervened and took the gun from her. ‘Toys,’ he explained, ‘I told you it was simply a prank.’
Mr Clyde-Browne said nothing. He knew now where Peregrine had got his demonic gifts from and he no longer cared where the sod was.
‘Come into the study,’ said the Headmaster, making the most of the domestic rift. ‘The School Secretary will see to Mrs Clyde-Browne’s needs and I’m sure we could all do with a drink.’
The respite was only temporary. By the time the Clyde-Brownes drove off half an hour later, Mrs Clyde-Browne had threatened to divorce her husband if Peregrine wasn’t found and Mr Clyde-Browne had passed the threat on in terms that included legal damages, the end of the Headmaster’s career and the publicity that would result when the News of the World learnt that Major Fetherington, instead of being in loco parentis, had been in loco matronae and wearing a French tickler to boot. The Headmaster watched them go and then crossed the quad at a run to the Armoury.
‘Off your
butts,’ he shouted, evidently inspired by the place to use Army language and ignoring the Major’s patent inability to do more than wobble in his wheelchair. ‘You’re going to France and you’re going to bring that bloody boy back within the week even if you have to drug the little bugger.’
‘France?’ said Slymne with a quaver. That country still held terrors for bim. ‘But why me? I’ve got—’
‘Because this stupid sex-maniac can’t move. By this time tomorrow you’ll be at the damned Château.’
‘More than I will,’ said the Major. ‘You can sack me on the spot but I’m fucked if I’m going to be hurtled across Europe in a fucking wheelchair. I can’t put it plainer than that.’
‘I can,’ said the Headmaster, who had learnt something from Mr Clyde-Browne when it came to blunt speaking. ‘Either you’ll use your despicable influence on your loathsome protégé, Master Peregrine Clyde-Bloody-Browne, and hopefully murder Glodstone in the process, or that damned man will have the police in and you’ll not only lose your job but you’ll be explaining to the CID and the Army why you gave those guns to a couple of lunatics.’
‘But I didn’t. I told you—’
‘Shut up! I’ll tell them,’ said the Headmaster, ‘because you were screwing the Matron with a French tickler and Glodstone threatened to blow your cover.’
‘That’s a downright lie,’ said the Major without much conviction.
‘Perhaps,’ yelled the Headmaster, ‘but Mrs Clyde-Browne evidently didn’t see it that way and since her husband claims to be a personal friend of every High Court Judge in the country, not to mention the Lord Chancellor, I don’t fancy your chances in the witness box.’
‘But can’t we phone the Countess and explain …’ Slymne began.
‘What? That the school employs maniacs like Glodstone to come and rescue her? Anyway, the Secretary’s tried and the woman isn’t in the directory.’
‘But the cost—’
‘Will be funded from the school mission on the Isle of Dogs which is at least designated for the redemption of delinquents and no one can say it’s not being put to its proper purpose.’
