'Caber? Hamish? Malcolm? What is it?'
Bond instantly recognised the slight nasal twang of Mary-Jane Mashkin. 'It's Bond,' he shouted. 'You remember, Miss Mashkin. We met at Ascot. James Bond.'
She appeared, like the others, suddenly as though from the ground. 'My God, Mr Bond, what're you doing here?' She peered at the giant. 'And what's happened to
'Yon man gied me a butt to the neb,' he muttered, surly. Mary-Jane Mashkin laughed. 'A brave man, doing something like that to Caber.'
'I fear your man thought I was a poacher. He-well, he lifted me up, and became generally aggressive. I'm sorry. Am I trespassing?'
Caber muttered something which sounded belligerent, as Mary-Jane Mashkin spoke again, 'Not really. This track is a right-of-way through the Laird's land. We've been, doing a little night hunting, and looking at the digging.' She inclined her head towards the other side of the track where Bond had seen the low earth piles. 'We've just started working on a new drainage system. Just as well you didn't wander that way. You could've stumbled into a pretty deep pit. They've dug down a good fifteen feet, and it's over twelve feet wide.' She paused, coming closer to him so that he caught the scent of Madame Rochas in his nostrils. 'You didn't say why you were here, Mr Bond.'
'Lost,' Bond raised his hands in a gesture of innocence.
He had already slipped the Nitefinder set from his head, as though it was the most natural thing to be wearing. 'Lost and looking for the castle.'
'Which I guess you found.'
'Found, and was observing.'
She put a hand on his arm, 'Then I think you'd better take a closer look, don't you? I presume you were coming to visit.'
'Quite,' Bond nodded. In the darkness the men shuffled and Mary-Jane Mashkin gave some quick orders. There was, apparently, a Land Rover up the track a little way. 'I'll guide Mr Bond down and you follow,' she told Caber, who had calmly relieved Bond of the Nitefinder set.
'You should have taken the track straight ahead at the village,' she said when they were settled in the Saab and moving.
'I gathered that.'
The Land Rover was close behind as they swept up to the gates. A figure appeared to open up for them, and Mary-Jane Mashkin told Bond they kept the gates closed at night, and on special locks. 'You can never tell. Even in an out-ofthe-way place like this, where we know everybody, some stranger might…'
'Come in and ravage you all?' Bond grinned.
'Could be fun,' she laughed. 'Anyhow, it's nice to know we have a guest like yourself, Mr Bond – or can I call you James?'
'No need for formality here, I suppose,' said Bond as they came up to the main door with its great pillared porchway.
Behind them, Caber and the men called Hamish and Malcolm were climbing down from the Land Rover. Mary- Jane Mashkin called out for Hamish to inform the Laird, then turned to Bond, 'If you let Caber have your keys he'll take your luggage in, James.'
But Bond had carefully locked the door. 'I think the luggage can wait.' He made a courteous gesture towards the door of the castle. 'After being taken for a poacher, or a spy, the Laird might not want me…' He stopped, for the small, birdlike figure of Dr Anton Murik was emerging from the castle. He peered forward for a moment. Then his face lit up.
'Why, it's Mr Bond. You've come as promised – Good heavens, what happened to your nose, Caber?'
The big man was still dabbing blood away with his handkerchief. 'My fault, I'm afraid,' said Bond. 'Sorry, Caber, but you were a little over-enthusiastic.'
'I thocht yon man was some kindo' spy, or a poacher, Laird. I didna ken he was a visitor. Mind, he acted strange.'
'Get him to bring your luggage in, Mr Bond,' Murik smiled, and Bond repeated that it could wait. He had no desire for Caber to be messing about with the car.
'Fine,' beamed Murik. 'No need to lock anything here. We'll collect the bags later. Come in and have a dram,' and, with a sharp order to Caber and his henchman to look after the Saab, Murik ushered Bond through the gloomy porch-way.Mary-Jane Mashkin had already gone ahead, and as they crossed the threshold, Murik gave a small cackle of laughter. 'May have made an enemy there, Bond. Caber doesn't take kindly to being bested. You gave him a little nose bleed as well. Not good. Have to be careful.'
8 VIRGIN ON THE ROCKS
LATER BOND CONSIDERED that, in all probability, he had expected the Victorian Gothic gloom of the porchway to be reflected in the interior of Murik Castle-Landseer and deer antlers. He was, therefore, greatly surprised by the dazzling sight that met his eyes.
From the brooding exterior he was suddenly transported into another world. The hall, with its vast circular staircase and surrounding gallery, was decorated in shimmering white, the doors being picked out in black, and the matching white carpet underfoot giving Bond the impression that he was sinking into a soft, well-kept lawn.
The lower part of the walls was decorated, with elegant sparseness, by a series of highly polished, mint- condition halberds,
Murik spread out an arm, The raw materials of war,' he said. 'I'm a bit of a collector, though the best pieces are kept in other parts of the house-except, possibly, these.' He pointed to a gilded console table on which rested a glass case covering an open pistol box – a pair of duelling pistols, with tell-tale octagonal barrels, the case fitted out with all necessary accessories, brass powder measure and the like. 'Last known English duel,' Murik said proudly. 'Monro and Fawcett, 1843.' He indicated the nearest pistol. 'Monro's weapon. Did the killing.'
Bond stepped back to view the hallway again. There were other illuminations, placed strategically over modern pictures which hung higher up the walls. He recognised at least two from Picasso's Blue Period, and what looked like the original of Matisse's 'Pink Nude'.
Bond caught the smile on Murik's face. 'You're a collector of other things too,' he said. 'That looks like the-' 'Original? Yes,' Murik made a little swooping movement.
'But I thought -'
'That it was in the Baltimore Museum of Art?' The Laird nodded. 'Yes, well, you know the art world. After all there is a da Vinci 'Virgin of the Rocks' in the Louvre and in London. The same goes for the de Champaigne ' Richelieu '. Come now, Mr Bond. You would like a drink.' He raised his voice for Mary-Jane Mashkin, who appeared as though on cue at the top of the stairs.
'Had to do a quick change.' She smiled, making a regal descent and extending a hand which appeared to drip with expensive rings. 'Nice to see you, Mr Bond. It was kind of dark outside.' She raised her voice. 'Lavender, where are you? We have a guest. The nice Mr Bond is here. The one who was so helpful with your necklace.' She crossed the hall to Bond's right, opening a pair of double doors.
'You will excuse me.' Murik gave his birdlike nod. 'The ladies will take care of you. I must talk to Caber. I hope he did not treat you too roughly; though you seem to have given him good measure.'
'Come.' Mary-Jane Mashkin ushered Bond towards the drawing room, in the doorway of which Lavender Peacock now stood.
'Mr Bond, how nice.' Lavender looked even more like a young Bacall, and somehow seemed almost relieved to see Bond, her eyes shining with undisguised pleasure.
Both women were dressed in evening clothes, Mary-Jane having done her quick change into a sombre black, probably by Givenchy. Lavender glowed in flowing white which was, to Bond's experienced eye, undoubtedly a Saint Laurent. They motioned him towards the room.
