`Welcome to Schloss Drache, sir-madam.' The butler was essentially English, from the tone of his voice to the way he moved and directed his underlings. The whole thing smacked of a time quite out of joint, like stepping back into a long dead era.
`If you will come this way, the master is waiting for you in the library.' He ushered them into a hallway which smelled of polished wood, and Bond had an immediate impression of trophies in glass cases, stags' heads mounted high on the walls, and some oil paintings which looked suspiciously like genuine Turners.
The butler led them up a small flight of steps an along a corridor lined with pictures, but these were more recognizable. Again they were oil paintings but their subjects were well known to even the most casual observer for they were all portraits of great actors and actresses, not from a time long gone by, but from the immediate past, or the present. He spotted Orson Welles, Olivier, Richardson, Gielgud, Jimmy Stewart, John Wayne, Monroe and a host of others, stage and screen mixed together in stunning colours.
The corridor led directly into a long, airy room lined with tier upon tier of books, all beautifully bound in leather, arranged by colour, so that there was an extraordinary illusion that you were looking at walls slashed with a rainbow. At the far end of the room, tall, leaded windows caught rays of light which seemed to fall in a prearranged pattern, catching Bond and Fredericka in cones of blinding brightness, so that, for a moment, they both blinked, Fredericka raising her hand to protect her eyes.
Then, almost as quickly as the light had caught them so it disappeared, leaving only a faint trace of real sunshine shafting in through the huge windows.
`Welcome, Mr Bond, and you also, Fraulein von Grusse.' The voice was distinctive, with only a trace of David Dragonpol's true voice.
He stood directly behind a large globe which looked like a theatrical prop. One hand touched the globe, while the other rested at his waist. He was quite unrecognizable. Long, full dark hair fell to his shoulders, though in reality everyone knew that the man's hair was light, almost sandy in colour. The nose, usually so patrician, was now hooked and beaky, making him look like a predatory bird. Deepset eyes seemed to glow like burning coals, and his lips were twisted into a deformed curl, like an S lying on its side. He wore a black doublet and hose, the doublet slashed in gold and a huge medallion of a boar's head hung on a golden chain around his neck.
The hand on the globe was more claw than hand, the fingernails long, curling and obscene, while rings of gold, sparkling with jewels, seemed to weigh down the almost skeletal fingers.
`It's good to see you here.' The voice was now completely unrecognizable. `If you have not realized it already, I am Richard of Gloucester.
Richard the Third of England.' `Barking mad,' Bond whispered, but obviously not softly enough.
`Woof-woof!' said the apparition before it began to laugh, a hideous cackling sound that sent a chill down Bond's back and made Fredericka grasp for his hand, digging her nails into his flesh in fear.
`Richard's himself again,' screamed the strange creature, and with that he struck the globe which began to turn rapidly, making a heavy clunking sound with each revolution.
CHAPTER TEN
SCHLOSS DRACHE
The cackle turned into a soft laugh. The strange creature's hands moved, closing together, and the long- taloned fingers gripped the wrists, one after the other, seeming to snap off the skin, bone and nails. Now, latex gloves dangled from the fingertips of one hand, while the other moved upwards to rip the long black hair from his head.
The body appeared to change before their eyes, straightening up, growing.
`Oh, I'm so sorry, but I couldn't resist that. You should have seen your faces. My name's David Dragonpol. Fraulein von Grusse and Mr Bond, welcome to Schloss Drache.
He fiddled with his nose, pulling off the putty which had shaped the strange crooked beak. Half revealed before them was Dragonpol himself. Even the voice had returned to normal.
`You see, Hort fancies herself as a painter, and I'm posing for her. She has this idea that oil paintings of me in my best roles will look well in one of the museum rooms. I can't say I ,agree with her.
Hort, come and meet our guests.
They followed his eyes and for the first time saw a woman seated behind an easel set in a kind of niche to one side of the long book-laden left-hand wall. Putting down her palette, she rose gracefully-a poised hostess, dressed in paint-daubed jeans and a T-shirt, the front of which carried the words `Go For It! Life is not a dress rehearsal.' She came towards them with a smile and a hand held out to be either kissed or shaken.
`Maeve Horton,' she introduced herself. `We spoke on the telephone, Mr Bond.' Her hand was cucumber cool and the wide dark eyes seemed to be visibly stripping Bond of his clothes. She was very tall, almost a full six feet, with the slim agile body of a dancer, and a face which had the clear skin and regular features of an Irish girl. `I'd have talked for longer if I'd known how good looking you were.
`Come on, Hort, not so much of the blarney.' Apart from the doublet and hose, Dragonpol was fully recognizable now, raking his fingers through the mane of straw-coloured hair, revealing the face which had captured the imagination of millions, the actor who could transform himself into any character he chose. `You probably know we have Irish family connections.' He gave them both that winning smile, brimming with a near tangible charisma. `Hort plays the Irish colleen to the hilt.
Everyone calls her Hort, by the way, never Maeve.' Maeve Horton made a tutting sound, part way between `whisht' and `ocht'. Then she turned to Fredericka, as Dragonpol took Bond's elbow and steered him away from the women, speaking softly.
`I always try to be delicate in these matters. In this day and age one has to be blunt. I wasn't certain of the sleeping arrangements, Mr Bond -` `Call me James.' He was trying to take in as much as possible, from the obvious charms of Hort, to the concealed lighting around the bookshelves and forward of the tall window. He now understood why they had been almost blinded with light as they had come into the library, for there were two rows of baby spots, neatly concealed by a valance, one row pointing down, the others focused towards the library door.
`James, what I need to know is -. Well, to be blunt, sleeping arrangements ... are you and Fraulein von Grusse merely colleagues or are you an item, as they say?
`The latter, David I may call you David, yes?' `Of course. Glad I asked, because I can now give you the East Turret room. It's a regular bridal suite. Hort spent the bulk of her honeymoon there, poor dear..
`Mrs Horton is widowed, I believe?' Dragonpol gave him a wry smile. `It's a sad story, yes. Her husband was, oh, it's difficult.
Maybe I'll tell you the whole story later if we have time.' He turned to the two women who seemed to be chatting amicably enough.
`Come along, I'll get Lester to show you to your quarters. Lester used to be my dresser. He really wanted to be an actor and I think he has now taken the butler's role quite well. He enjoys the snobbery of it all.' He strode out down the corridor, shouting for Lester at the top of his voice an eccentric English country squire: or was that also a piece of role-playing? Over the years, Bond had known many actors, and had never met one who was averse to playing parts of his own choice in private.
Many of them could not really face normal everyday lives without putting on that second skin of a character, and he had quickly made the assessment that David Dragonpol was one of these. After all, Fredericka had pointed out that he sometimes travelled in disguise.
Lester appeared from some servants' quarters with his two flunkies looking like bodyguards.
`Two for the East Turret, Lester. You lads take the luggage up.
Lester gave a majestic bow and indicated, in a somewhat superior manner, that Bond and Fredericka should follow him. He was a tall, dignified man who seemed to think that smiling had become a mortal sin.
`It's good to have you here, James. And you, Fraulein von Grusse ... er.
`Oh, call me Fredericka, everyone does. It isn't every day that I get to meet a famous actor. It's a real thrill to be here, and to see you in the flesh.' She almost simpered.
`An ex-actor, my dear. A former thespian.
Dragonpol even talked like some Edwardian actor-manager. `We'll see you both for dinner, then. Seven-thirty for eight o'clock. Please don't bother to dress, we're very informal here.' He began to move away, then stopped, turning back.
`I'll send Lester, or one of the boys, to bring you down. You need an Indian guide to get around this
