Free The Last Houseparty by Peter Dickinson Page B

the inspection pit glistened with wetness. Vincent twisted slightly, swinging the fading beam towards the rear to pick out glistening spots along the chassis and an area of blackness on the exhaust pipe where it curved into the silencer, still perceptibly giving off a faint fume from the hot metal. He rose and dusted his hands.
    â€œWell?” snapped Lord Snailwood.
    â€œThe oil seal’s g-gone on the fluid flywheel. There’s a pretty serious leak. That’s why she’s losing so much power. Most of that smell isn’t exhaust—it’s oil from the leak being blown back on to the exhaust pipe.”
    â€œHow long has this been going on, eh?”
    â€œI don’t know, sir. The leak’s pretty serious. She wasn’t pulling too badly when I started off this morning, but she hardly made the hill out of Wycombe on the way back. It might have g-gone all of a sudden. Or McGrigor might have known about it and just k-kept topping the oil up till he found a chance to replace the seal.”
    â€œDammit, he ought to have done it at once.”
    â€œIt’s a fair size job, sir. Most owners would send the c-car back to Daimler to have it done.”
    â€œRubbish. What do you think I employ a trained mechanic for? Find me something to kneel on, will you? I see I’ll have to look into this myself. Give me that torch, Vincent.”
    â€œThe battery’s dead, sir. I’ll fix up the …”
    Vincent was interrupted by Lord Snailwood snatching the torch from his hand, pressing the switch several times to and fro, and finally glaring at the glass, behind which the bulb now glowed so faintly that the actual shape of the filament was discernible as a gold coil. Here was a dereliction whose mechanics the Earl could grasp. He switched off and tossed the torch on to the driving seat, then gave a curious little hop, as though he had been bitten from behind. It might have been the first step in a vehement dance of rage to which he could never give full expression.
    â€œI tell you, Vincent,” he said in a slow, hoarse voice, “this is the last straw. The utter last straw. Where is that secretary woman? She shall type me a letter. I won’t stand it any more. Zena filling my house with wogs and sheenies. Black spot all over Ophelia. McGrigor refusing to let me look at my own clock. They’ve no right to expect it. What do you say? They’ve no right, eh?”
    â€œI daresay I c-could pick the lock of the tower and take a look at the c-clock without McGrigor.”
    â€œPick the lock? Rubbish! I’ll fetch my own key!”
    â€œI thought McGrigor …”
    â€œCourse I have a key! I’ll go and fetch it at once, hey? What do you say to that?”
    â€œBetter to wait till after the noon strike, sir. It’ll have to be wound, then. It would save making two visits.”
    â€œOh, very well, very well. Now look here, Vincent—what I want you to do is take a thorough look at this fly-piece thing and let me know how long it’s been leaking. Then find that secretary woman and bring her to my study. She shall write me a letter dismissing McGrigor, and I’ll show you where I keep the keys, eh? Then get hold of that new fellow—name’s slipped my mind for the moment, you know, dash it, you saw him helping with the roses last afternoon … where was I?”
    â€œYou want me to show him how to wind the c-clock, sir.”
    â€œCourse I do. You don’t have to tell me things like that!”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œWell, get on with it. Got to know about the car before I sack McGrigor, dash it. Got to be fair on the fellow. Caesar’s aunt, hey? So I’m relying on you, Vincent.”
    â€œAll right, sir.”
    â€œIt’s the last straw, I tell you!”
    Lord Snailwood threw his arms above his head and brought them down in a gesture such as Moses might have made when smashing the Tables of the Law. He