'Thank you, Miss Crabley, but I'm engaged just at the moment,' he said to stifle any shrill disclosures. 'Please tell the Bishop I'll call him back as soon as I'm free.' And, hoping he had impressed the Clyde-Brownes, he replaced the receiver and leant across the desk. 'I really don't think you have anything to worry about...' he began and knew he was wrong. Through the window he could see Slymne crossing the quad carrying two revolvers. God alone knew what would happen if he marched in and...The Headmaster got to his feet. 'If you'll just excuse me for a moment,' he said hoarsely, 'I'm afraid my bowels...er...my stomach has been playing me up.'
'So have mine,' said Mr Clyde-Browne unsympathetically, but the Headmaster was already through the door and had intercepted Slymne. 'For God's sake put those beastly things away,' he whispered ferociously.
'The thing is...' Slymne began but the Headmaster dragged him into the lavatory and locked the door. 'They're only replicas.'
'I don't care what...They're what?' said the Headmaster.
'I said they're replicas,' said Slymne, edging up against the washbasin nervously.
'Replicas? You mean '
'Two real revolvers are missing. We found these in their place.'
'Shit!' said the Headmaster, and slumped onto the seat. His bowels were genuinely playing him up now.
'The Major is checking the ammunition boxes,' continued Slymne, 'I just thought you'd want to know about these.'
The Headmaster stared bleakly at a herb chart his wife had pinned up on the wall to add a botanical air to the place. Even the basil held no charms for him now. Somewhere in Europe Glodstone and that litigious bastard's idiot son were wandering about armed with property belonging to the Ministry of Defence. And if the Clyde-Brownes found out...They mustn't.
Rising swiftly he wrenched the top off the cistern. 'Put the damned things in there,' he said. Slymne raised his eyebrows and did as he was told. If the Headmaster wanted replica firearms in his water closet that was his business. 'And now go back to the Armoury and tell that Fetherington not to move until I've got rid of the parents. I'll come over myself.'
He opened the door and was confronted by Mr Clyde-Browne, for whom the mention of stomachs and lavatories had precipitated another bout of Adriatic tummy. 'Er...' said the Headmaster, but Mr Clyde-Browne shoved past him and promptly backed out again followed by Slymne. 'The toilet's not working. Mr Slymne here has been helping me fix it.'
'Really?' said Mr Clyde-Browne with an inflection he relied on in cases involving consenting adults charged with making improper use of public urinals, and before the Headmaster could invite him to use the toilet upstairs he was back inside and had locked the door.
'You don't think...'said Slymne injudiciously.
'Get lost,' said the Headmaster. 'And see that...the Major doesn't stir.'
Slymne took the hint and hurried back to the armoury. The Major was looking disconsolately at several empty boxes in the ammunition locker. 'Bad news, Slimey old chap,' he said. 'Two hundred bloody rounds gone. The Army isn't going to like it one little bit. I've got to account for every fucking one.'
'Not your fault,' said Slymne. 'If Glodstone chooses to go mad and pinch the key...'
'He didn't. Peregrine had the thing. And to think I used to like that boy.'
'Well, the Head's got his hands full with the Clyde-Brownes and I don't think he's having an easy time.'
The Major almost sympathized. 'I don't see how he can avoid sacking me. I'd sack myself in the circumstances. More than flesh and blood can stand, that bloody couple.' He wheeled himself across to a rack of bayonets.
'Don't tell me they've taken some of those too,' said Slymne.
'I wish to God they had,' said the Major. 'The Army wouldn't worry so much. Mind you, I hate
