«I have no connexion with Peckham. Now, I…»
Griffon Or held up his hand. He said severely, «Where did your parents come from, if I may ask? That, my dear fellow, is the first step in the chain. Then we can go back from there – Somerset House, parish records, old tomb-stones. No doubt, with a good old English name like yours, we will get somewhere in the end.»
«My father was a Scot and my mother was Swiss. But the point is…»
«Quite, quite. You are wondering about the cost of the research. That, my dear fellow, we can leave until later. But, now tell me. From whereabouts in Scotland did your father come? That is important. The Scottish records are of course less fully documented than those from the South. In those days I am forced to admit that our cousins across the border were little more than savages.» Griffon Or bobbed his head politely. He gave a fleeting and, to Bond’s eye, rather false smile. «Very pleasant savages, of course, very brave and all that. But, alas, very weak at keeping up their records. More useful with the sword than with the pen, if I may say so. But perhaps your grandparents and their forebears came from the South?»
«My father came from the Highlands, from near Glencoe. But look here…»
But Griffon Or was not to be diverted from the scent. He pulled another thick book towards him. His finger ran down the page of small print. «Hum. Hum. Hum. Yes, yes. Not very encouraging, I fear. Burke’s General Armory gives more than ten different families bearing your name. But, alas, nothing in Scotland. Not that that means there is no Scottish branch. Now, perhaps you have other relatives living. So often in these matters there is some distant cousin…» Griffon Or reached into the pocket of the purple-flowered silk waistcoat that buttoned almost up to his neat bow tie, fished out a small silver snuff-box, offered it to Bond and then himself took two tremendous sniffs. He exploded twice into an ornate bandana handkerchief.
Bond took his opportunity. He leaned forward and said distinctly and forcibly, «I didn’t come here to talk about myself. It’s about Blofeld.»
«What’s that?» Griffon Or looked at him in astonishment. «You are not interested in your line of descent?» He held up an admonishing finger. «Do you realize, my dear fellow, that if we are successful, you may be able to claim direct» – he hesitated – «or at any rate collateral descent from an ancient baronetcy founded» – he went back to his first volume and peered at it – «in the year 1658! Does it not excite you that a possible ancestor of yours was responsible for the name of one of the most famous streets in the world – I refer of course to Bond Street? That was the Sir Thomas Bond, Baronet of Peckham in the County of Surrey, who, as you are no doubt aware, was Comptroller of the household of the Queen Mother, Henrietta Maria. The street was built in 1686 and its associations with famous British folk are, of course, well known. The first Duke of St Albans, son of Nell Gwynn, lived there, as did Laurence Sterne. Boswell’s famous dinner party took place there, with Johnson, Reynolds, Goldsmith, and Garrick being present. Dean Swift and Canning were residents at different times, and it is intriguing to recall that while Lord Nelson lived at number 141, Lady Hamilton lived at number 145. And this, my dear sir, is the great thoroughfare of which you bear the name! Do you still wish to establish no claim to this vastly distinguished connexion? No?» The bushy eyebrows, raised in astonishment, were now lowered in further admonishment. «This is the very warp and woof of history, my dear Commander Bond.» He reached for another volume that lay open on his desk and that he had obviously prepared for Bond’s delectation. «The coat of arms, for instance. Surely that must concern you, be at least of profound interest to your family, to your own children? Yes, here we are. ‘Argent on a chevron sable three bezants’.» He held up the book so that Bond could see. «A bezant is a golden ball, as I am sure you know. Three balls.»
Bond commented drily, «That is certainly a valuable bonus» – the irony was lost on Griffon Or – «but I’m afraid I am still not interested. And I have no relatives and no children. Now about this man…»
Griffon Or broke in excitedly, «And this charming motto of the line, ‘The World is not Enough’. You do not wish to have the right to it?»
«It is an excellent motto which I shall certainly adopt,» said Bond curtly. He looked pointedly at his watch. «Now, I’m afraid we really must get down to business. I have to report back to my Ministry.»
Griffon Or Pursuivant looked genuinely affronted. «And here is a name going back at least to Norman le Bond in 1180! A fine old English name, though one perhaps originally of lowly origin. The Dictionary of British Surnames suggests that the meaning is clearly ‘husbandman, peasant, churl’.» Was there an edge of malice in the Griffon’s watery eye? He added with resignation, «But, if you are not interested in your ancestry, in the womb of your family, then, my dear sir, in what can I be of service?»
At last! James Bond let out a sigh of relief. He said patiently, «I came here to inquire about a certain Blofeld, Ernst Stavro Blofeld. It seems that your organization has some information about this man.»
Griffon Or’s eyes were suddenly suspicious. «But you represented yourself as a Commander James Bond. And now the name is Blofeld. How does this come about?»
Bond said icily, «I am from the Ministry of Defence. Somewhere in this building is information about a man called Blofeld. Where can I find it?»
Griffon Or ran a puzzled hand round his halo of curls. «Blofeld, is it? Well, well.» He looked accusingly at Bond. «Forgive me, but you certainly have wasted plenty of my, of the College’s time. Commander Bond. It is a mystery to me why you did not mention this man’s name before. Now let me see, Blofeld, Blofeld. Seem to recall that it came up at one of our Chapter meetings the other day. Now who had the case? Ah, yes.» He reached for a telephone among the nest of books and papers. «Give me Sable Basilisk.»
7. The Hairy Heel of Achilles
JAMES BOND’S heart was still in his boots as he was conducted again through the musty corridors. Sable Basilisk indeed! What kind of a besotted old fogy would this be?
There came another heavy door with the name in gold and this time with a nightmare black monster, with a vicious beak, above it. But now Bond was shown into a light, clean, pleasantly furnished room with attractive prints on the walls and meticulous order among its books. There was a faint smell of Turkish tobacco. A young man, a few years younger than Bond, got up and came across the room to meet him. He was rapier-slim, with a fine, thin, studious face that was saved from seriousness by wry lines at the edges of the mouth and an ironical glint in the level eyes.
«Commander Bond?» The handshake was brief and firm. «I’d been expecting you. How did you get into the claws of our dear Griffon? He’s a bit of an enthusiast, I’m afraid. We all are here, of course. But he’s getting on. Nice chap, but he’s a bit dedicated, if you know what I mean.»
It was indeed like a college, this place, reflected Bond. Much of the atmosphere one associates with the Senior Common Room at a University. No doubt Griffon Or mentally put down Sable Basilisk as a young dilettante who was too big for his boots. He said, «He seemed very anxious to establish a connexion between me and Bond Street. It took some time to persuade him that I’m perfectly content to be an ordinary Bond, which, by the way, he, rather churlishly I thought, said meant ‘a churl’.» Sable Basilisk laughed. He sat down behind his desk, pulled a file towards him, and gestured Bond to a chair beside him. «Well, then. Let’s get down to business. First of all» – he looked Bond very straight in the eye – «I gather, I guess that is, that this is an Intelligence matter of some kind. I did my national service with Intelligence in BAOR so please don’t worry about security. Secondly, we have in this building probably as many secrets as a government department – and nastier ones at that. One of our jobs is to suggest titles to people who’ve been ennobled in the Honours Lists. Sometimes we’re asked to establish ownership to a title that has become lost or defunct. Snobbery and vanity positively sprawl through our files. Before my time, a certain gentleman who had come up from nowhere, made millions in some light industry or another, and had been given a peerage ‘for political and public services’ – i.e., charities and the party funds – suggested that he should take the title of Lord Bentley Royal, after the village in Essex. We explained that the word Royal could not be used except by the reigning family, but, rather naughtily I fear, we said that ‘Lord Bentley Common’ was vacant.» He smiled. «See what I mean? If that got about, this man would become the laughing-stock of the country. Then sometimes we have to chase up lost fortunes. So-and-so thinks he’s the rightful Duke of Blank and ought to have his money. His name happens to be Blank and his ancestors migrated to America or Australia or somewhere. So avarice and greed come to join snobbery and vanity in these rooms. Of course,» he added, putting the record straight, «that’s only the submerged tenth of our job. The rest is mostly official stuff for governments and embassies – problems of precedence and protocol, the Garter ceremonies, and others. We’ve been doing it for around five hundred years so I suppose it’s got its place in the scheme of things.»