'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...'
The Countess smiled sweetly. 'Let me introduce myself,' she said. 'My name's Deirdre, Countess de Montcon. And please don't apologize for your husband's language. He's just a little overwrought. And now if you'll excuse us...'
Mr Clyde-Browne didn't budge. 'You're not leaving this house until I've got to the bottom of this...this...'
'Murder?' asked the Countess. 'And of course there's the little matter of kidnapping too but I don't suppose that's so important.'
'I didn't kidnap you,' said Peregrine and blew his father's mind still further. If the sod was prepared to deny kidnapping while openly admitting he'd murdered, he had to be telling the truth.
'All right,' he said. 'How much do you want?'
The Countess hesitated and made up her mind not to go back to American slang. Kensington
