'Not going to give him a chance to dislike it. Hired a charabanc for the trip.'
'A charabanc. Now there's a word that's gone out of fashion,' said the Chaplain.
'I stick to the old ways, Padre,' said Glodstone, rubbing his pipe against the side of his nose to give it a greasy shine. 'They are still the best.'
Mr Slymne noted the archaism. It was another of the irritating facets of Glodstone's character that he seemed to ignore that the world had changed. But it was good to know that Glodstone would be away when the school was almost empty. Very good.
And so, when the parents had been and the coach with Glodstone's steam-engine enthusiasts had left, Mr Slymne slipped quietly along the corridor that connected his house with Gloddie's, carefully checking that each study was empty and that no one was about, and arrived at the door of Glodstone's rooms. For a moment he hesitated and listened but there were none of the usual sounds of the school. He was safe but his heart was beating palpably fast. Two deep breaths to quieten it and he was inside the room and the door was shut behind him. He crossed to the desk. The cigar box had been in a drawer on the left-hand side. Slymne tried the top one and found only exercise books and a broken pipe. The box was in the second. Keeping below the level of the window, he knelt and opened it. The envelopes were inside with the letters. With sudden decisiveness Slymne reached for the bottom one, took it out, examined the crest on the back and noted the French stamp, and put it carefully into the inside pocket of his jacket. Then he shut the drawer and hurried back to his room.
There he took out the letter and read it through with a growing sense of anti-climax. It was simply a short note written in a large flowing hand informing Mr Glodstone that Anthony would be a week late in returning to school because his father was in Paris and would be flying back to the States on September 10th. The letter was signed 'Yours sincerely, Deirdre de Montcon.' Mr Slymne sat staring at it trying to think why Glodstone would want to keep a business letter so carefully in a cigar box and bring it out with the almost reverential look he had seen on his face through the telescopic lens. Perhaps he ought to look at the other letters in the box. They might reveal a more intimate relationship. He would do that when he took this letter back but in the meantime he would photograph it. First he measured the envelope and made a note of its exact dimensions. Then fitting the 55mm Micro lens to his Nikon, he photographed both the letter and the envelope and finally, moving in to within a few inches, photographed the address on the notepaper and the crest on the back of the envelope. That done, he put the letter and envelope in his pocket and slipped back to Glodstone's room, all the time listening for any sound that might indicate there was anyone about. But the school was still silent and the musty smell Slymne always associated with its emptiness during the holidays seemed to pervade the place.
Inside Glodstone's room he checked the letters in the cigar box, replaced the one at the very bottom and was no wiser. Why on earth did Glodstone bring these letters out and handle them as if they were precious? Slymne looked round the room for a clue. The photograph of Rear-Admiral Glodstone on the quarter deck of H.M.S. Ramillies told him nothing. Nor did a water-colour of a large square Victorian house which Slymne supposed to be Glodstone's family home. A pipe-rack, another photograph of Glodstone at the wheel of his Bentley, the usual bric-a-brac of a bachelor schoolmaster, and shelves filled with books. An amazing number of books. Slymne had had no idea Glodstone was such an omnivorous reader. He was about to cross to a bookshelf when a sound outside halted him. Someone was coming up the stairs.
Slymne moved. With understandable swiftness, he was through the door of Glodstone's bedroom and wedged up against the washbasin behind it when someone entered the study. Slymne held his breath and was conscious of a horrible weakness. Who the hell could be about when the school was supposed to be empty? And how in God's name was he to explain his presence hiding in the bedroom? For a moment he supposed it might be the woman who cleaned Glodstone's room and made his bed. But the bed was made and whoever was in the study was putting a book back on a shelf. Several minutes
