Go back over those letters again. Was there anything peculiar about them?'
'Yes,' said Glodstone vehemently, 'there bloody well was. They...'
'No, sweetheart, you're not reading me. Did you see where they were posted?'
'In France. Definitely in France and in your envelopes. The ones with the crest on the back.'
'And in my handwriting. You said all that but how could you be so sure?'
'Because I've got your other letters to me about Anthony's allergies and whatnot. The handwriting was identical.'
'So that puts it back in my court. Now what did they say, and I mean exactly.'
As she drove slowly out of town Glodstone went through the details of the letters and their instructions with a total recall born of fear.
'Hotels you were booked into? Crossing via Ostend? Your whole route mapped out for you? And you did just what they said?'
'Until we got to Ivry. There was another letter there saying we had to turn back or you were going to die.'
'So you had to come on,' said the Countess, shaking her head sadly. 'And that was the only one that made sense.'
'That night they tried to stop us by putting oil on the road in the forest. We could have been killed. As it was, a man tried to hold us up '
'Stop right there. Can you describe him?'
Glodstone visualized the figure of Mr Blowther covered in oil and leaves, and found it difficult.
'But he was English? You're sure of that?'
'I suppose he was. He certainly sounded English. And there was another one at Calais who told the ferry people my wife had died. I don't have a wife.'
'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
