Free The Last Houseparty by Peter Dickinson Page A

sicker after its halt. Sluggish and reeking, but still ineffably sedate, it nosed round the corner tower, along the north front and the main entrance to the courtyard with the clock tower above, and at last in through the double doors of the old Coach House, dim-lit by grimy lower sections of lancet window high up on its inner wall. Vincent switched off the motor, but Sally stayed on his lap, vigorously heaving the large wheel to and fro. During the actual drive she had been entirely submissive to his movements, making no effort to steer of her own accord.
    â€œC-come on, young lady,” he said. “I have to look after my g-guest.”
    â€œI like it here. Let’s stay a bit longer. You’re warm.”
    â€œA bit too warm, thanks. C-c-come on, miss Nanny will be wondering what’s bec … bec … happened to you.”
    â€œI hate Nanny. She’s too new … I like you, Vince.”
    Suddenly she took her hands off the wheel, squirmed round and hugged him by the neck in a gesture almost as violent as that with which she had seized her mother in the nursery the previous afternoon. Vincent sat rigid. The child, more tentatively, as if aware of moving into treacherous ground, placed her lips against his cheek and kissed him wetly. He did not respond until she lowered her head and twisted it to and fro against his jacket, like a puppy nuzzling its way to warmth. With a jerk Vincent raised his hands, took Sally round the rib-cage and wrenched her loose. She screamed.
    â€œYou’re a silly little guh … guh … guh …” he said, shoving her across and dumping her in the passenger seat. Her scream became a sob. He paid no attention, but opened his door and stepped out on to the running board. Lord Snailwood was standing by the rear mudguard, sniffing in a puzzled way at the oily air.
    â€œAh, Vincent,” he said. “Looking for you. You heard McGrigor says he’s sick?”
    â€œYes, sir. That’s why I’m driving the Daimler.”
    â€œSent a note by that daughter of his to say he won’t show us the clock. Vincent, I tell you I don’t care for the way this motor is beginning to smell. McGrigor insists it’s only because of the shirt-valves, but I suspect she’s blown a gasket, eh?”
    â€œI don’t think so, sir. The engine could do with a tune, but I think the real trouble’s something to do with the transmission. If you’d like …”
    Vincent had stepped down as he was speaking but was still holding the door. Now Sally emerged, her face blubbered. Without looking at either of the men she edged along the running-board, climbed down and walked between them, sniffing loudly. Lord Snailwood stared at her but said nothing. As soon as she was out of the Coach House she broke into a stumbling run, crying as she went. Vincent was about to follow when Lord Snailwood said, “No, no. Must talk to you about the Daimler. Thought for a long time McGrigor’s not been looking after it. Same with the clock. Mark you, don’t think he’s sick at all. Swinging the leg, that’s more like it. Afraid of being found out when he shows you what he’s been up to. What’s that you were saying about the transition?”
    â€œI’ll just take a dekko, sir. Hold on.”
    As if it were a relief to be dealing with the certainties of the world of machines Vincent took a large hand torch from the front pocket of the car, crouched down and swung himself further still, keeping his knees just clear of the floor by supporting his weight on the running board and on the knuckles of the hand that was holding the torch. Its beam shone yellow over the underside of the chassis, darkening perceptibly as the brief initial impulse of the exhausted battery died. A drop of clear oil fell from the bell-housing from which the transmission shaft emerged. Another fell almost at once, and then another. The big timbers that covered