English would hit Mrs Clyde-Browne's gentility harder. 'Really,' she said, 'if it weren't for the obvious fact that you're not yourself I would find your attitude extremely sordid.'
'You would, would you? Well let me tell you I know sordidity when I see it and I know blackmailers and add that lot to your calling yourself a countess and '
'But she is a countess,' said Peregrine as his father ran out of words, 'I saw her passport and she lives in this jolly great Chateau. It's called Carmagnac and it's ever so nice. And it's there I shot the professor.'
'Oh, you never did,' said Mrs Clyde-Browne reproachfully, 'you're making it up.'
'Christ!' said Mr Clyde-Browne, and downed his Scotch. 'Will you keep out of this. We've enough...'
'I most certainly won't,' retorted Mrs Clyde-Browne, 'I'm his mother...'
'And he's a fucking murderer. M-U-R-D-'
'I know how to spell, thank you very much. And he's not, are you, darling?'
'No,' said Peregrine. 'All I did was shoot him. I didn't know he was '
'Know? Know? You wouldn't know mass murder from petty larceny,' shouted his father, and grabbed the paper, 'well, the rest of the bloody world knows...'
'If I might just get a word in,' said the Countess. 'The rest of the world doesn't know...yet. Of course, in time the French police will be in touch with Scotland Yard but if we could come to some arrangement...'
'I've already asked you how much you're demanding, you blackmailing bitch. Now spit it out.'
The Countess looked at him nastily but kept her cool. 'For a man supposedly at the top of your profession you are really remarkably obtuse,' she said. 'The truism about the law applies. You are an ass. And what's more, if you don't moderate your language I shall call the police myself.'
'Oh, you mustn't,' wailed Mrs Clyde-Browne on whose dim intelligence it had slowly dawned that Peregrine really was in danger. Mr Clyde-Browne edged onto a chair.
'All right,' he said, 'what are you suggesting?'
'Immunity,' she said simply. 'But first I would like a nice cup of tea. It's been a hard two days getting your son out of France and '
'Get it,' Mr Clyde-Browne told his wife.
'But, Harold '
'I said get it and I meant get it. And stop blubbing, for God's sake. I want to hear what this blo...this lady has to say.'
Still sobbing, Mrs Clyde-Browne left the room. By the time she returned with the tea-tray Mr Clyde-Brown was staring at the Countess with something approaching respect. He was also drained of all emotion except terror. In a life devoted to the belief that all women were an intellectual sub-species whose sole purpose was to cook meals and have babies, he had never before come across such a powerful intelligence. 'And what about that?' he asked, glaring with horror at Glodstone.
'I have arranged his future,' said the Countess, 'I won't say where, though it may be in Brazil...'
'But I don't want to go to Brazil,' squawked Glodstone, and was prompdy told to hold his tongue.
'Or it may be somewhere else. The point is that Mr Glodstone is going to die.'
On the couch Glodstone whimpered. Mr Clyde-Browne perked up. This woman knew her onions. 'And about time too,' he said.
'And isn't it time you phoned your brother?' asked the Countess. 'The sooner he can get the ball rolling the sooner we can wrap this up. And now if you'll excuse us...'
This time Mr Clyde-Browne didn't try to stop her. He knew when he was beaten. 'How will I get
