clothes were in white, with navy trimmings and hat. Bond wondered if their outfits were originals from Murik's Roussillon Fashions.
The younger girl was laughing, turning towards Murik, the gilet flaring away from her to reveal firm and impertinent breasts, under the dress, in splendid proportion to the rest of her body. The sight was breathtaking, and Bond could see why the Laird of Murcaldy kept her on what M referred to as a tight rein. Lavender Peacock looked like a spirited, healthy and agile girl. To Bond's experienced eye, she also had the nervous tension of a young woman unused, and straining at the leash. Left to her own devices, Lavender Peacock might well carve a path of broken hearts – even broken marriages – through Scottish and English society, in a matter of months.
Bond narrowed his eyes, straining and never taking them off the girl. She talked animatedly, constantly glancing at Murik. Concern seemed to pass over her face each time she looked at the Laird, but Bond only took this in as a kind of side issue. He was looking for something more. Something essential to the whole scheme of insinuating himself into the Laird of Murcaldy's immediate circle. Something M had revealed to him in great detail during their hours of planning.
It was there. No doubt. The triple, heavy rope of matching pearls clearly visible around Lavender's neck. From this distance, under the shade of the paddock trees, it was, of course, impossible to tell if they were the real thing: but they would, undoubtedly, be taken as such. The real thing certainly existed – ?500,000 worth of
The pearls had been kept in trust for Lavender until her twenty-first birthday, having originally been a wedding present from her father to her mother, during whose lifetime they had been kept mainly in a bank vault.
Lavender – M told Bond – had broken this habit, against Anton Murik's advice, and now wore them on every possible occasion. In the confines of M's office, Bond wondered, aloud, if the Laird of Murcaldy did, in fact, allow the pearls to be worn. Substitution would, for a man of his resourcefulness, be relatively easy. M had snappily told him this was not the point. The Peacock pearls were known to be worn in public. They certainly seemed to be around Lavender's neck this afternoon.
Bond thought they could not be around a prettier neck. If he had been taken with the photograph of the girl, he was certainly dazzled by the real thing. Murik had turned away and was talking to the two women, while the trainer leaned close to the jockey, giving him last instructions. In the background China Blue looked as docile as ever: as spirited as a wooden rocking horse.
It was time for Bond to move. The entrance to the paddock was busy, with people passing in and out. Already he had noticed that the Ascot race course officials were only giving cursory glances at proffered owners' passes. Within the next few minutes, Anton Murik and his party would be coming through this entrance – which doubled as the main exit – out into the Royal Enclosure, through which they would presumably pass on their way to the Tattersalls Stand. The whole of the present operation's future depended upon timing, and Bond's skill. With the binocular case over his right shoulder, race card held open, firmly, in his left hand, he made his way into the paddock, flicking the owner's pass quickly in front of the official who seemed most preoccupied.
Horses were being mounted, and two had already begun to walk towards the exit that would take them down on to the course. Bond circled China Blue and the group around him; staying back, seeming to keep his eyes on another horse near by.
At last, with a final call of good luck from the assembled party, China Blue's jockey swung into the saddle. Murik, the Mashkin woman, the trainer and Lavender moved back, pausing for a second as the horse walked away, urged forward by the jockey, who, Bond noticed, looked very relaxed and confident.
Murik's party began to move slowly towards the exit through which Bond had just come. It was now becoming crowded with owners, their families and select friends leaving to view the race. Carefully Bond stepped close to Murik's party. The Laird himself was talking to the trainer, with Mary-Jane Mashkin standing to one side. Lavender Peacock was to their rear. Bond sidled between her and the Laird with his two companions, staying behind them just long enough for others to press around him, therefore putting several people between Murik's group and Lavender Peacock, so that she would be reasonably far behind them when they reached the exit.
Bond sidestepped again, allowing himself to be overtaken until he could push himself in just behind Lavender Peacock. They were five or six paces from the exit, now jammed with people trying to get through as quickly and politely as possible. Bond was directly behind the girl, his eyes fixed on the box clasp and safety chain at the back of her neck. It was clearly visible, and, as he was pushed even closer, hemmed in by the crowd, Bond caught the smell of the girl's scent – Mille de Patou, he thought: the limited edition, and the most expensive scent on the market. So exclusive that you received a certificate with your purchase. There were enough people around, and Bond was well screened. Allowing himself to be jostled slightly, he now pushed his shoulders forward for added protection, and bumped full into Lavender Peacock's back. The next complicated moves took only a fraction of a second, just as he had practised and planned them during the past few days. Keeping the left hand, which was clutching the open race card, low down by his side, Bond's right hand moved upwards to the nape of the girl's neck. The inside of his first and second fingertips grasped the box clasp which held the pearls, lifting them away, so that no strain would be felt by their owner. At the same time, his thumb passed through the safety chain, breaking it off with a deft twist. Now the box clasp fell into position, held tightly by the thumb and forefinger. He pressed hard, tilting, and felt the clasp give way.
The box clasp is constructed, as its name implies, as two metal boxes – in this case decorated by tiny pearls – which fit one inside the other. When released by pressure they fall apart, but there is an added safety feature. The inner box contains a small hook, which slips around a bar in the outer box. Using the thumb and first two fingers, Bond control led both boxes, slipping the hook from its bar. He then withdrew his hand, glancing down and dropping his race card. Silently the pearls fell to the turf. His aim and timing were perfect. The race card followed the pearls, falling flat and open on top of them. Lavender Peacock did not feel a thing, though Bond caused a minor clogging of the exit as he bent to retrieve his card, lifting the pearls with it, so that they were securely held inside the card.
Relaxed now, and holding the card and pearls, hidden behind the tail of his morning coat, Bond sauntered towards the Tattersalls Stand, following Anton Murik's party, at a discreet distance, as they moved towards the Tattersalls Stand-just as he hoped they would. Lavender had caught up with them, and Bond prayed she would not discover her loss before reaching the Murik box.
Bond slowed considerably, allowing the Laird's party to get well ahead. He knew there was still the vague possibility that some plainclothes policeman had spotted his moves. Any moment one of two things could happen- a cry from Lavender, announcing the pearls were missing; or the firm hand on his shoulder that would mean, in criminal parlance, that he was having his 'collar felt'. If the latter occurred it would be no use telling them to ring M. Precious time would have been lost.
Murik's party had now disappeared into the stand. Nothing happened, and Bond entered the side door, climbing the stairs to the second tier about two minutes after the Laird's group entered. On reaching the corridor running behind the boxes, Bond transferred the pearls to his right hand and advanced on the Laird of Murcaldy's box.
They all had their backs to him as he knocked and stepped inside. Nobody noticed, for they seemed intent upon watching the runners canter down to the starting line. Bond coughed. 'Excuse me,' he said. The group turned.
Anton Murik seemed a little put out. The women looked interested.
Bond smiled and held out the pearls. 'I believe someone has been casting pearls before this particular swine,' he said, calmly. 'I found these on the floor outside. Looks like the chain's broken. Do they belong to…?'
With a little cry, Lavender Peacock's hand flew to her throat. 'Oh my God,' she breathed, the voice low and full of melody, even in this moment of stress.
' 'My God' is right,' Murik's voice was almost unnaturally low for his stature, and there was barely a hint of any Scottish accent. 'Thank you very much. I've told my ward often enough that she should not wear such precious baubles in public. Now, perhaps, she'll believe me.'
Lavender had gone chalk white and was fumbling out towards Bond's hand and the pearls. 'I don't know how to-' she began.
Murik broke in, 'The least we can do, sir, is to ask you to stay and watch the race from here.' Bond was looking into dark slate eyes, the colour of cooling lava, and with as much life. This gaze would, no doubt, put the fear of God into some people, Bond thought: even himself, under certain circumstances. 'Let me introduce you. I am Anton Murik; my ward, Lavender Peacock, and an old friend, Mary-Jane Mashkin.'
Bond shook hands, in turn; introducing himself. 'My name is Bond,' he said. 'James Bond.'
