had claimed to be Wanderby's mother. Perhaps all this talk about international scholars and the police was subtle means of getting him to talk. 'It all seems very odd,' he muttered.
'You can say that again,' said the Countess as another shot rang out below. Peregrine had just winged Dr Abnekov who had made the mistake of urinating out of one of the windows and had learnt what it felt like to be circumcised by a revolver bullet. As his yells receded the Countess got to her feet. 'Where's your car?' she asked.
Glodstone hesitated. He still couldn't make head or tail of the woman but there was nothing to be gained from lying. 'I left it hidden in an old sawmill. I didn't want anyone to steal it.'
'Yeah, well I'd say you showed good sense,' said the Countess. 'We'll just have to chance it. This place is beginning to feel like the condemned cell and I don't fancy sitting here waiting. Help me move the bed. But quietly.'
Glodstone got to his feet and clutched the sheet to him. It was beginning to feel like a premature shroud. 'Is that wise?' he asked as another shot rang out, 'I mean it sounds like a battle out there.'
'Which is why we're moving now. So long as they're occupied we've got a chance.'
They moved the bed and the Countess unlocked the door and went out into the passage. Glodstone followed her unwillingly and stopped.
'So what's holding you?' demanded the Countess. 'Got cold feet or something?'
'It's just that I've got no clothes and...well...I wouldn't want to compromise you,' he murmured.
'Jesus, at a time like this he talks about compromising. If we don't hurry I'm going to get compromised by a bullet.'
Glodstone gave in and traipsed nervously down the steps after her. 'In here,' whispered the Countess when they reached a large open landing directly above the gateway. Opening a door she pushed him inside. 'You'll find some of my husband's clothes in the bedroom. He was twice your size but you'll look better in something dark. That sheet goes with your complexion.'
Glodstone shuffled across the carpet into the next room and found some suits in a wardrobe. Whoever the woman's husband might be she hadn't been lying about his build. The brute must have stood six foot in his socks and his waistband was in the upper fifties. Still, anything was preferable to that sheet. Glodstone put on a shirt while the Countess busied herself in the other room. By the time he was dressed and could move about without tripping (he'd had to roll the bottom of the trousers up eight inches to achieve this feat) she had finished packing a suitcase.
'Right,' she said, fastening a rope ladder to a hook above the window that overlooked the drive and the avenue of walnut trees, 'exit one Countess followed by bear. You can hand the case to me when I'm out. And then we'll head for your car.'
'But I'll never make it dressed like this,' said Glodstone, 'where are my own clothes?'
'If they're back from the dry-cleaners they'll be in the office down below but I wouldn't advise trying to get them. That way the only place you'll make is infinity. Let's hit the fire escape.'
She dropped the ladder out of the window and climbed over the sill. 'Now the case,' she said. Glodstone handed it to her. It was remarkably heavy. As she disappeared he stood irresolute. He had no doubt now that she was the Countess and to some extent he could be said to be rescuing her, but the thought of trying to walk fifteen kilometres in oversize men's wear and lugging that suitcase appalled him. And where was Peregrine? A shot from below should have told him. It certainly decided him. Glodstone climbed over the sill and slithered down the rope ladder.
In the little office Peregrine was in high spirits. This was the life the world, the action he had read and dreamt about and had been prepared for. It was no longer imaginary. It was real and exciting, matter of life and death and in the case of the latter he'd undoubtedly been successful. He'd certainly shot one swine stone-cold dead and had just potted another who'd
