Glodstone gaped at her. 'Pringle,' he said. 'The name is Pringle.'
'That's not the way I read your Y-fronts. They're labelled Glodstone. So's your shirt. How come?'
Glodstone fought for an excuse and failed. 'I borrowed them from a friend,' he muttered.
'Along with the glass eye?'
Glodstone clutched the sheet to him hurriedly. This woman knew far too much about him for safety. Her next remark confirmed it. 'Look,' she said, 'there's no use trying to fool me. Just tell me what you were doing sneaking around in the middle of the night and rescuing so-called people.'
'I just happened to be passing.'
'Passing what? Water? Don't give me that crap. Some hoodlum breaks in here last night, beats up the clientele, dumps one of them in the river, and you just happen to be passing.'
Glodstone gritted his dentures. Whoever this beastly woman was he had no intention of telling her the truth. 'You can believe what you like but the fact remains...'
'That you're my son's housemaster and at a guess I'd say he wasn't far out when he said you were a psycho.'
Glodstone tended to agree. He was feeling decidedly unbalanced. She couldn't be the Countess. 'I don't believe it. Your son told you...It's impossible. You're not the Countess.'
'OK, try me,' said the Countess.
'Try you?' said Glodstone, hoping she didn't mean what he thought. Clad only in a sheet he felt particularly vulnerable.
'Like what you want me to tell you. Like he's circumcised, got a cabbage allergy, had a boil on his neck last term and managed to get four O-levels without your help. You tell me.'
A wave of uncertain relief crept over Glodstone. Her language might not fit his idea of how countesses talked, but she seemed to know a great deal about Wanderby.
'Isn't there something else you want to tell me?' he asked finally to put her to the test about the letters.
'Tell you? What the hell more do you want to know? That he hasn't got goitre or something? Or if he's been laid? The first you can see for yourself or Miss Universe 1914 can tell you. And the second is none of your fucking business. Or is it?' She studied him with the eye of an expert in perversions. 'You wouldn't happen to be an asshole freak, would you?'
'I beg your pardon?' said Glodstone, stung by the insult.
'No need to,' said the Countess nastily. 'It's not my sphincter you're spearing and that's for sure. But if I find you've been sodomizing my son you'll be leaving here without the wherewithal.'
'Dear God,' said Glodstone crossing his legs frantically, 'I can assure you the thought never entered my head. Absolutely not. There is nothing queer about me.'
'Could have fooled me,' said the Countess, relaxing slightly. 'So what else is on your mind?'
'Letters,' said Glodstone.
'Letters?'
Glodstone shifted his eye away from her. This was the crunch-point. If she didn't know about the letters she couldn't possibly be the Countess. On the other hand, with his wherewithal at stake he wasn't going to beat about the bush. 'The ones you wrote me,' he said.
'I write you letters about Anthony's allergies and you make it all the way down here to discuss them? Come up with something better. I'm not buying that one.'
But before Glodstone could think of something else to say, there was the sound of a shot, a scream, more shots, a babble of shouting voices, and the floodlights in the courtyard went out. Peregrine had struck again.
