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,ronchas,bat's wingcorseques,war forks and other thrusting weapons of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, which gleamed under the light thrown from a huge steel candelabra of intricate modern design. The arrangement was in no way cluttered or overdressed.
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.
'After you, ladies.' As they turned, Bond detected a tiny noise on the balustraded gallery above them. Glancing up quickly, he was just in time to see a figure slipping into a doorway on the landing. It was only a fleeting glimpse, but there was little doubt in Bond's mind concerning the identity of the man. He had studied too many pictures and silhouettes of him in the past few days. Franco was still at Murik Castle.
The room in which Bond now found himself was long and wide, with a high, ornate ceiling, decorated in the same bold style as the hall. The walls were a delicate shell pink, the furnishings designed for comfort, and mainly in leather and glass. The wall opposite the doorway had been transformed into one huge picture window. Even in this light, Bond recognised the tint of the glass, similar to that in the Oval Office of the White House, but in a pink shade and not the green of that elegant seat of power. One would be able to see out of this huge window; but, from the outside, the human eye would only be able to note light, without detail. It was undoubtedly bulletproof.
'Well now, a drink, Mr Bond.' Mary-Jane stood by a glass cabinet. 'What will you take after all our exertions?' She made it sound coquettish.
Bond had an overwhelming urge to ask for a Virgin on the Rocks, but chose Talisker. 'When in Scotland...' he explained. 'A small one. I'm not a great drinker a little champagne sometimes, and a well-made vodka martini. But here... well...'
Mary-Jane Mashkin smiled knowingly, opening the cabinet and taking out the fine malt whisky. 'There.' She held out the glass of amber liquid which glowed like a precious stone in the light.
Lavender had seated herself on a deep leather sofa. 'Well, it's certainly nice to have someone else staying here, Mr Bond. Especially for the Games.' She looked him straight in the eyes as she said it; as though trying to pass a message. Yet, as he looked quizzically at her, Bond saw the eyes alter, the steady look faltering, her gaze shifting over his shoulder.
'They're looking after you, then, Mr Bond?' Murik had come silently back into the room, and Bond turned to acknowledge his presence. 'I have verbally chastised Caber,' the Laird continued. 'He has no right to manhandle people even if he does suspect them of poaching or spying.' The old, dangerous grey lava lurked in Anton Murik's eyes, and Bond saw that he was holding out the Nitefinder headset. 'An interesting toy, Mr Bond.'
'In my profession we use interesting toys,' Bond smiled, raising his hands. 'I have to admit to carrying out a reconnaissance of the castle. You invited me; but my training...'
Murik gave a small smile. 'I understand, Mr Bond. Probably more than you will ever know. I rather like your style.'
Lavender asked what the strange glasses and headset might be, and Bond told her briefly that they allowed you to see clearly in the dark. 'Very useful for night driving,' he added.