by John Gardner
‘Of course. Yes, it’s standard.’
‘You saw that hybrid rose. Odd. I’ve never seen anything quite so perfect. The petals all seemed identical, and the blood-red tips could have been painted on, they were so symmetrical. Then there was the message which would strike the dimmest probationary detective as odd.’
‘ “This is the way it must end. Goodbye,” ’ she muttered, almost under her breath. ‘Sure, a murderer’s message, perhaps? Or a bit of sentiment . . .’
‘No, you were right the first time. Those four assassinations which took place last week, just before Laura was killed . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Would it surprise you that the same hybrid rose, with the same message, turned up at each of the funerals? The General in Rome; our MP, here in London; old Pavel in Paris, and the CIA man, Fish, in Washington. In the case of the MP, Shaw, and the Russian, it was made clear that there should be no flowers, yet the rose turned up at each interment . . .’
‘And the same message? Exactly the same message?’
‘Exactly. Word for word, and nobody has been able to trace the source. They simply and walked quickly,Uappeared at the graveside, or the crematoriums, as if by magic. There is one tiny clue – and it doesn’t mean much. In Paris, the undertaker saw a young boy – thirteen or fourteen years old – hanging around the graveside before the service. Again, in Washington, there was a schoolgirl, early teens, seen in the funeral home, looking at the flowers.’
‘Kids paid to drop off the rose?’
‘That’s what I would go for.’
‘And the message was exactly the same – yes, I asked before.’
‘Word for word. A calling card left by the killer, or killers. It’s like a terrorist group claiming responsibility. Someone, or some organization, is telling us that, not only did they murder Laura, but also the four high-profile people as well.’
‘And the rose? I heard you talking to some expert about roses.’
He paused, closing the files, and piling them neatly on his knees. ‘That’s the most interesting piece of information. The man I spoke to is probably the world’s greatest expert on roses. He’s responsible for at least twelve new varieties himself, and what he doesn’t know about other growers could be written on a pin head.’
‘He gave you a name? It’s a well-known rose?’
‘Not well known, but he knows of one person who’s been experimenting with a white rose bearing blood-red tips on each petal. As far as he’s aware, the person concerned has not actually pulled it off. He told me that one was exhibited at a show last year and it came very near to the perfection the grower is seeking. It was named Bleeding Heart, and he actually spoke to the grower who said she thought the perfect specimen would be ready in a year or two.’
‘Someone we know?’
‘Someone we’re going to know. A widow, aged forty-one, by the name of Maeve Horton. Maeve Horton, the younger sister of David Dragonpol. Maeve Horton who lives with her brother in his castle, Schloss Drache, on the banks of the Rhine. Maeve Horton, sister to David Dragonpol who, if we believe that letter we found, was “brother and dear dead lover” to Laura March.’
‘So we pay a call on David Dragonpol and his sister?’
‘You bet we do.’
He worked the phones again for a couple of hours, first checking flights, making bookings and car reservations; then trying his many official contacts, winkling out a telephone number for Dragonpol at Schloss Drache. By midnight everything was in place.
On the Thursday morning, they flew to Bonn, took delivery of the rental BMW and began the long drive down the Rhine to Andernach where they spent the night, and part of Friday morning at the delightful Villa am Rhine. It was from their suite at this hotel that Bond used the telephone number which he was told would get him in touch with Dragonpol.
The telephone was answered by a woman who spoke fluent German with an atrocious British accent, so he launched straight into English. ‘Mrs Horton? Is that Mrs Horton?’
‘Yes, who’s this?’ She had a low, very calm voice and sounded as though she was the kind of woman who expected bad news every time the telephone rang.
‘You won’t know me, Mrs Horton. My name’s Bond. James Bond, and I really need to speak with your brother, Mr Dragonpol. Is he available?’
She started to speak, then stopped and waited for a moment in silence. Bond had the impression she was not alone. Then: ‘What’s it about, Mr Glidrose Publications Ltd , f Boned?’
‘Bond,’ he corrected. ‘I’m a representative of a British government agency. I have my opposite number from Switzerland with me, and we really do have to speak with Mr Dragonpol if it’s convenient. If not, we will wait, of course, but I personally feel it would be best to get this over and done with as quickly as possible.’ He let the words sink in, and felt that she had probably put her hand over the receiver and was talking to someone else.
Then that familiar voice, known throughout the world, spoke into his ear. ‘Mr Bond? This is David Dragonpol.’ The voice was unmistakable, and the man’s face came straight to mind as soon as he spoke: calm, firm and with an authority you could feel even on the telephone.
‘I’m very sorry to trouble you, sir, but this really is quite important.’
‘You’re from a British government agency, my sister tells me, so that means you want to talk to me about Laura . . .’ He left the end of the sentence unsaid, as though calculating that Bond would fill in the gaps. It was very theatrical.
‘Yes, sir. It won’t take long, I . . .’
‘I understand, yes. I suppose I’ve been waiting for someone to arrive on my doorstep. Can you come over today?’
‘This afternoon if that’s convenient, Mr Dragonpol.’
‘Of course. Look, why don’t you stay for the night? We can talk. I’d welcome talking to someone else about this whole terrible business. Have dinner with us, then, perhaps I can show you around Schloss Drache. If you have the slightest interest in the theatre or any of the performing arts, you’re in for a very pleasant surprise.’
‘It’s very kind of you, sir, but – well, there are two of us . . .’
‘Yourself and . . . ?’
‘Fräulein von Grüsse, from Switzerland. As I said to Mrs Horton, she’s my opposite number, so to speak.’
They made arrangements. Dragonpol gave him directions to follow what he considered the best route: ‘The most scenic route anyway, the most dramatic, for you first see Schloss Drache from above.’
Now, they were looking at it, from a viewing area fenced off at the roadside with room for perhaps half a dozen cars. Together they leaned on the rails and took in the gorgeous view: the great river, its banks rising in irregular hills of stone and dark green fir trees.
‘Aw heck,’ Flicka frowned. ‘I thought it would be all blue and gold like the one in Orlando.’
‘Or the one in California.’
‘Or even the one in Paris, France, now.’
‘Out of luck, Flick. I don’t think Sleeping Beauty lives in this one.’
Directly below them the huge rectangle of grey stone seemed to merge with the rock against which it stood. Originally, Bond thought, Schloss Drache was probably built around a large courtyard, but obviously this, at some time, had been roofed in with reddish-grey slate which rose from the stone walkways behind battlements some ten feet thick. The windows indicated that the massive place was at least four storeys high. Huge rooms, Bond figured. In each corner, close to the battlements, a circular turret rose, hugging the wall. Even from this distance it was clear that the turrets could easily accommodate two, if not three, fair-sized rooms.
At the far north-west side of the main structure a chunky square tower rose, like an enlarged version of many of the Norman towers seen on English churches. The top out of here.outhing of the tower was lined with battlements, and from there a man would be able to see, literally, for miles, in all directions.
From the viewing area it was also obv
ious that the first sight, which made the entire Schloss look as though it were growing from the rock, was not correct. Now, you could see clearly that a thick wall sprouted from the rear, enclosing what seemed to be a large garden set among the rocks. They could see stone walkways, and paths, sudden flashes of colour, bushes, even trees and fountains landscaped into this unlikely setting.
‘I wonder if that’s where she grows the roses?’ Flicka was resting her head against his shoulder and he turned to kiss her lightly on the forehead, smelling the fresh scent of her hair. For a second his mind flashed away to other places, other times, and the distinctive scents of other women. Twice he had sworn never to get too involved again, for it always led to disaster. Yet Flicka seemed different from the others. She demanded nothing of him, and gave only affection. Never once had either of them sworn undying love, or demanded commitment to any sort of lasting relationship. He gave her a squeeze and slowly they walked back to the car.
A kilometre or so along the road they came to a notice in German, Italian, Spanish, French and English. It told them ‘Private Road. To Schloss Drache Only. Unauthorized Persons Must Keep Out.’ The slip road, a little further on, was also marked, and, taking it, they found themselves descending towards the river, down a narrow road which zig-zagged perilously, then plunged into a dark thicket of pine trees, emerging alongside the river, then turning until the castle was lowering down on them. Its mountainous walls appeared to be leaning in against the sky – that strange optical illusion made when clouds move as you look up at tall buildings.
‘Makes you wonder how many people died when they put this place together.’ Flicka made no attempt to disguise her awe.
‘Certainly puts the building of the pyramids to shame.’ He eased the car forward. The road narrowed, leading to a small bridge which opened on to a stone turning circle directly in front of a pair of magnificent arched doors reaching up for something like thirty feet. They were old, but their immense brass hinges and fitments gleamed as though they were polished regularly, and the doors themselves were also slick with some kind of wood preserver.
‘I wonder how you attract attention? Is there a bell pull? Does Igor come shuffling out?’ As Flicka spoke, the doors began to move, swinging back to reveal an open courtyard.
‘I think they already know we’re here.’ Bond took the car slowly through the gates and into the courtyard that contained two Range Rovers, a black Merc and a sleek Lexus. He pulled in beside the Lexus, the gates closed behind them, and he took a quick look at the surroundings. Three sides of this parking entrance looked like a classic monastic cloister, complete with arches and gargoyles. The wall facing them was cloistered, but split in two where a set of long stone steps ran up to another vast door: this one looking vaguely Victorian, complete with stained-glass panels.
As they climbed out, a butler, complete in tail coat, and two younger men in green livery, appeared from the doorway and descended on the car, opening the boot and removing luggage with the expertise of a pair of thieves.
‘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 eventually, the animals became at careful 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 and 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 Flicka in cones of blinp, blood red a
she came into my office looking ill –on b even
10
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. Fräulein von Grüsse 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 Flicka, 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 other focused towards the library door.
‘James, what I need to know is . . . Well, to be blunt, sleeping arrangements . . . are you and Fräulein von Grüsse eventually, the animals became ed carefulmerely 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 honeymo
on 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, Flicka 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 Flicka 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, Fräulein von Grüsse . . . er . . .’
‘Oh, call me Flicka, 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.
