Buck House?'
'Actually he's Captain of the Queen's Heads,' said MI 5. 'I thought that was rather a nice touch.'
'Captain of...you mean he's a lavatory attendant? Good God, man, no wonder that blasted Yank guessed he'd seen him before.' He stopped and looked at MI 5 suspiciously. 'He's not another swine like Blunt, is he? Has he had positive vetting?'
'Oh absolutely. Comes from an eminently respectable Catholic family in the Falls Road area of Belfast. Anyway he's only in charge of the visitor's loos. Don't suppose he's set eyes on Her Majesty.'
'I should bloody well hope not. And if I were in your shoes I'd see to it she doesn't set eyes on the wallah. Wouldn't blame her for setting those damned Corgis on the brute. Anyway, thank the Lord that's settled. Even the present American administration wouldn't have the gall to start checking the Palace.'
Chapter 24
At the cortege drove slowly out of the Crematorium, Glodstone stared miserably at the back of the chauffeur's head. It was one of the ironies of having attended his own funeral that he should now recall that 'chauffeur' came from the French for stoker; presumably even modern furnaces had to be attended by somebody to take out the ashes. Whoever had just been incinerated (probably an unidentified tramp or something they'd finished with in the dissecting-rooms at one of the teaching hospitals) had gone to his Maker bearing Glodstone's name. It was there on the death certificate and a little obituary would shortly appear in the Old Groxboumian. The Great Adventure had gone up in smoke.
'I know just how you feel,' said the Countess, patting his hand. 'Mourir c'est partir un peu.'
'What?' said Glodstone.
'To die is to part a little. But it won't be for long. By the time the surgeon's finished with you you'll be a new man.'
'Surgeon?' said Glodstone. 'What bloody surgeon?'
'The plastic one. He's said to be terribly good with burns.'
'Burns? Considering where I'm supposed to be he'd have to be fucking miraculous.'
'There's no need to use that sort of language,' said the Countess sharply, 'I haven't gone to all this trouble and expense to have you swearing like a trooper.'
Glodstone considered the change in her own language and said nothing. There was something about this extraordinary woman that frightened him and it was only when she stopped the car at the top of Hampstead Heath and they were walking down to the tube station that he brought up the matter of burns and plastic surgery.
'What the hell do I need plastic surgery for? Apart from whoever went up in that coffin...'
'Well, we won't go into that now,' said the Countess, 'that's all past and done with. You've got to look to the future and since you refuse to go to Brazil you'll just have to do what I tell you. The main thing will be to alter the shape of your ears. They're the give-away and the police always look at them first. Then '
'But with this wig on no one can see my blasted ears,' said Glodstone.
'I'm not going to be married to a man with a toupee. It's unbecoming and anyway it won't fit your image. As far as the rest of you...'
But Glodstone wasn't listening. 'Did you say 'married'?' he asked.
'Of course I did. You don't imagine for one moment that I'm going to live in sin with you, do you?'
