In turn they were taken to a ground-floor bathroom covered in mildew, which was quite visible in the light from a pair of candles. The newcomer, Beth, who was careful to keep her face in shadow, guarded Flicka, and Cuthbert watched over Bond. They were then taken up the main stairs, which creaked and cracked underfoot. The house smelled damp, musty, full of decay, and the room – two flights up – in which they were eventually locked had the paper hanging in great triangles off the wall. In one corner there was an old iron radiator to which they were handcuffed – two pairs this time – and left with a single candle burning in the center of the room.
It was a long narrow chamber with one dormer window and bare wooden boards underfoot. At one time this could easily have been a servant's bedroom, and Bond wondered what misery the place had seen in die shape of young girls sent away from home for the first time and finding themselves with this small room as their only place of privacy.
A few moments after they had been secured to the radiator, Beth returned with two cups of a nondescript soup and a couple of chunks of bread. She said nothing to either of them, even though Flicka tried to make bright conversation and thank her. They heard a key click in a lock outside and her footsteps echoing away on the dry rotting boards as she went downstairs.
"What do you think, James?" Flicka whispered.
"I think we'd better try and get out of these damned handcuffs."
"I've already taken a look at the pipe they've got me hooked to. Solid as a stone."
"This one's rusty as hell, but I'm going to try." He felt up and down the pipe with his free hand. It was obviously the conduit for hot water to flow into the radiator, but a professional plumber would have problems getting it unscrewed.
"You think they've got orders to kill us?" Flicka asked.
"Not yet, but I think it's an even bet that they're waiting for orders. If they had been told to do away with us, it would be all over by now."
"A happy thought."
"They're a happy little pair. Psychopaths of the kind who take a pride in their work. I guess they're Tarn's human Rottweilers." He was twisting the cuffs against the pipe, turning his right hand over and over so the short chain tightened. Eventually he could move it no further. Now he used his left hand to add pressure on the right-hand cuff, trying to see if he could get enough leverage to shatter the pipe, or even break the chain between the cuffs.
After half an hour he stopped; drank the soup, which had gone cold; and ate a couple of mouthfuls of bread. He did not want to raise any false hopes, but the radiator pipe was bending slightly against the steel of the cuff, causing a cutting bruise in his wrist but certainly doing damage to the rusted metal.
He rested for a few minutes and then began again. Far away, deep below them in the house, they could hear voices as the three men and Beth talked.
"We must be well away from any other houses," he said, panting with the exertion of working on the pipe. "They're behaving as though they own the place."
"Of course, we've no way of knowing if they do." For the first time, she began to sound really concerned.
Bond told her to try and get some rest. "Who knows, we might need all our strength before tonight's through."
He worked on, making a little progress, and shortly heard her breathing take on the deep, steady note of sleep.
Bond was not about to give up, though his wrist soon became torn and bleeding. He had no idea of what time they had left, but slowly the old radiator pipe was cracking under the tough steel of the handcuffs. Minutes turned into hours and time had absolutely no meaning, then suddenly, with a loud wrenching crack, the pipe gave way and he gently pulled his hand free of the radiator.
The candle was guttering, almost out, and from beyond the one grimy window came the first sign of dawn, the sheer black night turning into an unearthly pearly light.
There was nothing he could do about getting Flicka free, as she was shackled to the main section of the old radiator. Flexing his torn, bruised, and bleeding wrist, he stretched out his legs and began to try and move all his limbs, which were cramped and singing with pain. He had just managed to get himself into an upright position, leaning his back against a wall, when the bright light of a pair of headlamps swept across the window and there was the sound of a car stopping behind the Rover in front of the house.
Pulling himself along the wall, Bond slowly made his way to the window but kept to one side, not daring to let himself be seen. As he had thought, the small dormer window was set into the roof of the house, and from below came the sound of voices raised in argument. He heard Cuthbert say, quite loudly, "But we can't just leave them here."
Another voice, which he recognized plainly as Max Tarn's, said, "Well, that's what we're going to do. I want no more blood on anyone's hands. Not yet, anyway. We have a lot to do."
"They'll turn us in, Chief!" from Archibald.
"Get in the car, you perverted little monster, and do as the Chief says." This time the voice was that of Maurice Goodwin.
"I'm not perverted. You've no right to speak to me like that Cuthbert, help me. We can't leave that pair upstairs."
"We have to if the Chief says so."
There was the sound of a short scuffle and a yelp of pain from Archibald: "That's my bloody wrist, Goodwin. Leave me alone."
"Get in the car, then. We haven't got that much time."
Bond pulled himself right up to the window and saw that both the Rovers were outside, motors running, the first one about to pull away. Then, as he strained his eyes, he clearly saw the figure of Max Tarn in the headlights, as he stomped around the front of the second car and bent to get into the rear seats. Moments later the cars moved off, their taillights growing dim as they headed down the drive.
He waited for a good three to four minutes, crouched by the window, listening for the sound of anyone left below them. Nothing. Not a movement nor a word.
"Flicka," he called gently. "Flicka. I'm free and -"
"And they've gone. I heard. What the hell's happening?"
"Well, we're alive, so I'm going to see if they've left anyone behind." He went over to the door, tried the handle, felt slight movement against the flimsy lock, then stepped back and kicked. Once. Twice. On the third kick the woodwork around the lock splintered and the door swung back.
A slight glimmer from the dawn was starting to filter into windows below. The candles had been extinguished, so he waited until his eyes adjusted to the darkness before making his way along the passage to the stairs, then down to the second-floor landing, with its long balustrade leading to the main staircase and the hall.
In the hallway the front door had been left open, blowing a chilling wind into the shell of the house. Some debris, papers or leaves, flicked through the door, making a scratchy sound on the quarry-tiled entrance.
In the hall, by the foot of the stairs, he saw something small, hunched, and black, which at first he thought was a cat or, worse still, a large rat. He kicked out in a reflex, and to his surprise the object skittered along the floor, hitting the skirting board with a dull thud and the sound of a bell. It was an old telephone, still attached to the wall.
He lifted the receiver, expecting nothing, and almost jumped with fright as he heard the dial tone. Automatically he dialed the contact number. It was a female back at the distant end.
"Brother James," he said, hearing the rasp of his dry throat and realizing that he was out of breath.
"Give me the answer to question three, Brother James."
Obviously nobody back in London was taking any chances. Before leaving for Cambridge they had been through the usual list of word codes and what they liked to call telephone security. Bond viewed all this with a certain amount of cynicism, but he dragged the correct word out of his memory.