After a good rub down and shave, he changed into lightweight slacks with a matching beige shirt and cord anorak. He slipped his feet into comfortable Adidas sports shoes. Normally he would have preferred the soft moccasins, but, as a possible confrontation was imminent, Bond thought it best to choose reliable athletic shoes that would not slide or let him down.
He filled the gunmetal cigarette case – making a resolution that he would not smoke until after the test, whatever it might be -and put it in the jacket, together with his Dunhill lighter. The pen alarm was clipped into the inside of the jacket, while Q'ute's version of the Dunhill was deposited in his right-hand trouser pocket.
Quietly he left the room. Passing through the hall, Bond heard voices from the dining room. Breakfast was obviously in progress, but first he had to take a quick look at the Saab.
The car was locked. Perhaps they had not got around to running a full check on it. Certainly, once he was inside, he saw that nothing seemed to have been moved or touched. Slipping the keys into the ignition, Bond started the motor. It fired straight away, and he allowed it to idle for a few seconds. When he switched off, Bond found Donal standing on one side of the car, and the man he recognised from last night as Hamish on the other.
Removing the keys, he put on the wheel lock and activated a switch under the dashboard, then climbed out with a curt 'Yes?' to Donal.
'Breakfast is being served in the dining room, Mr Bond.' The butler's face showed no emotion, and Bond assumed the man had about as much sensitivity as a block of stone. He replied that he was just going in. Not looking at either of the men, Bond locked the driver's door and stalked into the house.
Lavender and Mary-Jane were both seated at the table when he entered the room, where a sideboard almost groaned with dishes reflecting the old-style expensive life lived by the Laird in his castle. Bond by-passed the eggs-fried and scrambled – bacon, kippers, kedgeree and other delights; choosing only two pieces of dry toast and a large cup of black coffee. Breakfast was his favourite meal, but on this occasion he knew it would be unwise to fill his stomach.
Both Mary-Jane and Lavender greeted him with seeming pleasure, and Bond had only just seated himself when Anton Murik came in, dressed, as befitted a Scottish laird, in kilt and tweed jacket, his pugnacious face all smiles. He also seemed pleased to see Bond, and the talk was easy, Lavender giving no sign of what had passed between them during the night. All three appeared to be excited about the Murcaldy Games, Murik himself particularly bouncy and full of good humour – 'It's my favourite day of the year, Mr Bond. Even tried to get back here for it whenever I was out of the country. Landowners and people like myself have a responsibility to tradition. Traditional values mean anything to you, Mr Bond?'
'Everything.' Bond looked straight into the lava of the eyes. 'I've served my country and abide by its traditions.'
'Even when it lets you down, Mr Bond? Or should I call you Major Bond?' Murik let out a small cackle of laughter.
So the Laird had swallowed the bait: followed up the one clue available – the Saab registration – and got the facts back, as M had arranged. Bond tried to look puzzled.
'We'll talk later, James Bond.' Again the laugh. 'If you're able to talk. I think your breath may be taken away by the Games. It's quite a show.'
'Quite a show,' echoed Mary-Jane, smiling. She had said little during breakfast, but appeared unable to take her eyes off Bond – an experience which he found disconcerting, for the look she gave him lay half-way between one of feminine interest, and that of a Roman empress sizing up a gladiator. There was no hint of the malice she had shown on leaving his room the previous night.
Bond remarked that things seemed to be starting outside. He was rewarded by Murik, who launched into a complete and lengthy programme of events that would take place throughout the day. 'Almost dawn to dusk. I must get going. After all, the Laird is the host. You will excuse me, I trust.' He turned at the door. 'Oh, Mr Bond, I would particularly like to see you at the wrestling. My man Caber is Champion of Glen Murcaldy-that's the equivalent to being the Laird's Champion around here – a singular honour. He takes challengers at noon sharp. Please be there.'
Bond had no time to answer, for the man was gone, almost with a hop, skip and jump. So that was it: a bout with the giant Caber. Bond turned to the ladies, trying to be gallant, asking them if he could be their escort. Lavender said yes, of course; but Mary-Jane gave her enigmatic smile, remarking that she would have to accompany the Laird. He would, she said, have to 'make do' with Lavender. Bond could not decide if the remark was meant to sound belittling, but Lavender hardly seemed to notice, rising and asking Bond if he would give her a few minutes to get ready.
'The child doesn't get much company.' Mary-Jane slid an arm through Bond's, in a surprisingly familiar manner.
'There aren't many of the right sort around here, and she's impressionable.'
'You make her sound very young and unsophisticated.'
Bond spoke quietly.
'In many ways she is. I've tried-for Anton's sake of course-but I fear unless a good and understanding man arrives in the area, she'll have to go to London or Paris. She needs a good course in sophistication.' She giggled, 'Perhaps if you please the Laird he'll present her to you as a prize.'
Bond gave her a cool, humourless, look.
'Oh come on, I was only joking.' She laughed again.
'Look,' said Bond, trying to change the subject, 'I wonder – do you have a library? I realised last night that I came without any reading matter.'
'Of course. I'll take you there before I go out to join the Laird. But what a pity, James, that you won't allow other things to occupy your nights. No hard feeling about last night, by the way.'
'None for my part,' said Bond, puzzled by her friendliness.
'Pity,' she giggled. Then her expression changed, and he glimpsed the face behind the mask. 'For my part there are a lot of feelings. I said you could avoid trouble, but you refused, James, and you'll be sorry. I have suggested a small test at the Games. Anton agrees. In fact he thought it amusing. You will be matched with Caber at the wrestling, and Caber has his blood up. Given his head, he'd kill you.' Another laugh. 'And just for giving him a bloody nose. How vain men are. But come, I'll show you the library. You may need it, and a lot of bed-rest, when Caber's finished with you.'
The library backed on to the drawing room, and was decorated in light colours. Three of the high walls were covered with books, and there were library steps on fitted rollers for each wall. The fourth wall contained three large, bay windows, each provided with a padded surrounding seat.
It took Bond a few moments to get his bearings and work out how the books were graded – moving the high steps along each wall until he found what he wanted. First, he quickly chose a book to cover his story – snatching one of his old favourites, Eric Ambler's The Mask of Dimitrios, from its place among the novels. Then he made for his real quarry: a thick, beautifully bound copy of Webster's Dictionary, which he dragged out and placed on a large lectern.
Thumbing the volume to the letter W, Bond ran his finger down the lines of words until he came to Warlock. Rapidly he scanned the entry. It gave the usual definition 1: 'One given to black magic: SORCERER, WIZARD. 2: CONJURER.' Then Bond's eyes slid up to the derivations, and his heart skipped a beat. 'Old English - wæloga one that breaks faith, scoundrel, the Devil.'