James Bond - 028 - Never Send Flowers

by John Gardner

  ‘An ex-actor, my dear. A former thespian.’ Dragonpol even talked like some Edwardian actor-manager. ‘We’ll see you both for dinner, then. Seven-thirty for eight o’clock. Please don’t bother to dress, we’re very informal here.’ He began to move away, then stopped, turning back. ‘I’ll send Lester, or one of the boys, to bring you down. You need an Indian guide to get around this place.’

  The East Turret turned out to be anything but Edwardian. As they had judged when looking down on the castle from a distance, the turrets were exceptionally roomy, and the East Turret was particularly sumptuous, with its own private lift and two sets of rooms, one above the other, connected by a cleverly designed staircase which was totally enclosed. The treads were huge oblongs. As Flicka said, ‘We could dance on these – individually.’

  The elevator took them directly into the circular sitting-room. The decor looked very expensive – blue and white, with large easy chairs, a long settee and marble tables. The wall above the bar was decorated with theatrical drawings which looked like original charcoal sketches for stage sets.

  The unusually wide flight of steps took Bond into the bedroom. Here the design changed. Instead of following the circular line of the walls, the bedroom had been squared off, the windows set very deeply into the walls. The bed itself was the centrepiece – a vast four-poster, like an island in the midst of a green and gold sea.

  Bond prowled around, opening doors, and taking off the case.’IU in the views from the windows. The bathroom, he realized, was slightly above the bedroom and at the very top of the turret. From its main window he could see right across the shallow-sloping roof to the great tower, with clear arched windows set in it at intervals. He returned to the circular sitting-room.

  ‘ “It’s a real thrill to be here, and to see you in the flesh.” ’ He imitated Flicka’s awed voice.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘What about you and the Irish flirt – “I’d have talked for longer if I’d known how good looking you were” . . . Jesus, this place is creepy, James.’

  ‘All huge castles are creepy. What’s so different about this one?’

  Flicka stood close to the elevator doors. ‘You do realize that we’re virtually prisoners in this place.’ She demonstrated by pressing the buttons. The small indicator did not light up, neither could they hear the usual whirr of machinery. ‘What do you make of that, James?’

  ‘What do I make of the whole business?’ he asked himself. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if some of those stories about Dragonpol’s retirement are true.’

  ‘Which ones in particular?’

  ‘That he had a complete breakdown. Was unable to perform: unhinged by his own talent. I mean that whole extraordinary business of the painting – all that dressing up, the make-up and the lights shone directly in our eyes. That was for our benefit: an act for us. He knew we were on our way. Did you get a look at Hort’s easel?’

  ‘No, she moved me right away from it.’

  ‘Right. You want to know why? It was a daub, a squiggle of lines, paint splashed on to the canvas, no painting of the great man as Richard III. They were both playing with us. I think his first intention was to put the fear of God into us. Maybe he changed his mind at the last minute, but I think we should be prepared for some further bits of fantasy.’

  ‘He’s living in another world, that’s for sure – “Please don’t bother to dress, we’re very informal here.” When did you last hear a line like that?’

  Bond walked back into the great circular room, his restless eyes looking for possible hiding places for security cameras, or listening devices. There were many and there was no way he could possibly sweep the suite without the proper equipment.

  ‘And what about Lester and “the boys”?’ he asked. ‘They look like ordinary servants to you – particularly in this day and age when servants are a thing of the past?’

  ‘ “The boys” give off a certain something that I recognize.’ Flicka was pacing around the room, brow creased and hands moving nervously. ‘They’re more like bodyguards than flunkies.’

  ‘Quite. Bodyguards or male nurses. A pair of very tough bantam weights, and I’d put money on them knowing a lot of tricks designed to damage your health. Lester could well have been his dresser, but his own clothes leave much to be desired.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You didn’t notice the bulge? The man’s carrying. Shoulder holster, and something pretty lethal in it. The other strange thing is that I’ve seen Dragonpol on stage and screen, admittedly cloaked in the great acting roles, but I don’t really recognize him.’

  ‘You don’t? I’d recognize him anywhere.’

  ‘I’m not talking about physical authoritiesouthing recognition. There’s something not quite right with the man. That spark isn’t there.’

  ‘Oh, come on, James. You know actors, they’re like watchers when they’re off stage, nude, as it were. Mostly they appear to be terribly ordinary people when they’re off. With watchers, it’s the other way around. They go invisible when they’re working and seem larger than life when they’re off. Surely it’s normal enough?’

  Bond frowned. ‘Maybe. Maybe you’re right, but David Dragonpol was not your run-of-the-mill actor, and this man just doesn’t feel right. If I didn’t know it was him, I’d swear he was a ringer.’

  ‘Or, perhaps you’re right about the mental collapse. You’ve seen people after a breakdown: they look the same, but something vital has gone.’

  ‘Could be.’ He did not sound convinced, nor, in fact, was he. While Flicka went off to take a bath and, to use her words, ‘Pretty myself up,’ he wandered around the rooms of the East Turret, poking and prying into every drawer and closet, his mind quietly wrestling with the enigma that was David Dragonpol. The truth, he considered, lay in the man’s relationship with Laura March who had been, according to those who knew and worked with her, a person of high intellect and nobody’s fool. If the facts were correct, she had loved this man – unless the break-up was really of her making and because he had become so strange.

  He thought again of Carmel Chantry’s description of that very break-up. How she had been called here, to Schloss Drache – ‘. . . she came into my office looking ill – white, unsteady. It was a Friday afternoon and she said D.D. had called her. There was some drama and he was sending his private aircraft for her. On the Monday she came in and told me it was all over.’ That was what Carmel had told him, so it was unlikely that Laura had taken the initiative. Private aircraft? He wondered. Now where would he keep that? Carmel had intimated that there was some kind of landing strip nearby. Well, it could not be within walking distance, the terrain was too rocky for that. He continued to think, going round in circles until Flicka called out that she was finished in the bathroom.

  When he reached the bedroom, he saw that she had laid out a long, black, backless evening gown. ‘So, you are going to be formal.’

  ‘Of course. What about you? Did you by chance bring a dinner jacket?’

  ‘Like certain credit cards, I never leave home without it,’ he smiled. Then, ‘Flick, when your people spotted the Dragonfly passing in and out of Switzerland, did he travel by normal commercial airlines?’

  ‘Yes. Usually, that is.’

  ‘What do you mean, usually?’

  ‘He does have a private aircraft, but he’s pretty sparing in its use. He also has problems with it.’

  ‘What kind of problems?’

  ‘He hasn’t got any clearance to bring it into Switzerland. I remember we checked that out. He has landing rights in England and France, but none of the other countries. Why?’

  ‘Why, yourself? Why hasn’t he got landing rights?’

  ‘Because we nobbled him. Look, James, we’ve been watching this guy for some time, and my immediate boss was convinced that he had contacts with terrorist groups and dodgy arms dealers. He’s been up to no good, so we put the word out in certain quarters. He can use this country – Germany – France authoritiesouthing and the UK,
but we managed to put a block on him elsewhere. If he wants to go into the Scandinavian countries, or Spain, Portugal and Italy, he has to fly the friendly skies by the nearest friendly carrier.’

  ‘What excuse did you give him?’

  ‘For not getting landing rights? Oh, I guess the various countries used all kinds of excuses – doubts about the safety of his aircraft, or the aircrew. He can huff and puff as much as he likes, but there’s no law that says any country has to tell him the reason he’s been banned. Sometimes, I guess they wouldn’t tell him at all, they’d just reject his flight plan, and refuse any alternatives he presented. He’d soon get the message.’

  ‘But you have nothing solid against him? No really firm evidence?’

  ‘No, and as far as I know he’s never made a fuss about being refused landing rights. I can check if you think the phones are safe.’

  ‘Leave it for now.’

  ‘I love Dragonfly. I think we should use that as his crypto.’

  Bond unpacked his garment bag, hung his spare suit and the dinner jacket, placed other articles in drawers and retreated into the bathroom.

  They were both dressed and ready by seven-fifteen, and once more they tried to summon the elevator without success. At exactly seven-thirty they heard the mechanism whirr. The cage came up, stopped, and the door opened to reveal the grave Lester, his head tilted as if something unpleasant had been placed directly under his nose. He showed no surprise on seeing the guests dressed formally. Without a word, he ushered them into the cage, and he remained silent through the lengthy trek along the many passages and corridors that took them finally into a large oval room: light, airy with a full twenty-five-foot bow window taking up the far end, which looked out on to the large walled garden they had seen from above.

  ‘I said we dined informally.’ Dragonpol’s voice was brimming with surprise, even though he wore a dark blue silk dinner jacket and Maeve, by his side, looked coolly exquisite in a white full-length gown into which she might have had to be sewn. At her throat a single diamond drop hung from a heavy gold chain, while around half-a-million pounds’ worth of rings flashed from her fingers.

  ‘Isn’t this informal?’ Bond feigned surprise. ‘I naturally thought you meant I didn’t have to wear tails.’

  Dragonpol gave a little shrug, then turned to a nearby drinks table. ‘It’s such a pleasant evening, I thought we might take our drinks into Maeve’s garden. What will you have?’

  Flicka asked for a screwdriver, while Bond chose his usual vodka martini. Dragonpol then led them through a small door to the right of the tall window. A few seconds later they emerged into the garden which seemed to be enveloped by the sweetest meld of smells. Bond thought of England in June, and cloudless early July days among the most beautiful gardens in Europe. It was late August, the time when the scent of flowers fades, and dust settles across borders and trellises. Here, though, everything appeared to be in full bloom, and the odours were enhanced by that freshness which comes from well-watered lawns and bushes.

  ‘You did all this, Maeve?’ She stood quite close to him.

  ‘Lord no. Our paternal grandfather did most of it.’

  ‘David called it your garden.’

  ‘Only because I spend a lot of time out here, but we have two full-time gardeners. My passion is roses.’

  ‘Really, ed careful’ from Flicka, easing herself between Maeve and Bond, one hand resting proprietorially on Bond’s sleeve. ‘I also have a liking for roses.’

  Dragonpol led the way, along a paved path flanked with large circular beds and flowering bushes. ‘You had better allow me to show you the way to Maeve’s passion. My grandfather had a sense of humour, and there are many water tricks in this place. In fact, I will show you one that you might have seen in America. Stand still for a moment.’

  They had just passed a small birdbath set between bushes to the right. Dragonpol stepped forward and placed his foot squarely on a triangular piece of stone. With no warning a jet of water arced from the birdbath, passing over their heads to land in the middle of a small stone column forward and to the left of them. The jet seemed to hit the column and bounce upwards again, leaping forward and to the right where it struck the head of a piece of statuary. From the statue the jet leaped back forming a perfect arch over their heads, striking another column on their left, from which it gave the illusion of jumping again on to the birdbath, from whence it began its travels again.

  ‘They have a giant version of this water trick at the Disney Epcot Center in Florida.’ Dragonpol laughed, like a child, delighted as the jet of water continued to jump from birdbath to column, to statue to column, and back to the birdbath, repeating the sequence again and again.

  ‘And your grandfather installed that?’ Flicka was also laughing delightedly.

  ‘Oh, yes. This was working here long before Mr Disney was even born.’

  ‘The castle has been in your family a long time?’ Bond asked, and it was Maeve who replied.

  ‘It looks very old, I know, but it was built in the 1840s on the site of a former castle, Schloss Barholtz, which had been destroyed by fire. Our great-grandfather built it and our grandfather finished it. Then, when it became David’s property, he started to modernize the interior. You like the East Turret suite?’

  ‘I’d like it more if we were not imprisoned there.’ This time Flicka did not laugh.

  ‘Imprisoned?’ Dragonpol sounded sharp and a little angry. ‘What do you mean, imprisoned?’

  ‘The elevator would not respond. It was as though someone had left it at the bottom level with the doors jammed open.’

  ‘That fool Lester. Sometimes he is too much. I apologize. Lester has a habit of doing that to strangers visiting for the first time. The castle is large, as you know; also we have a great deal of renovation going on, particularly on the second and third floors where I’m setting up the museum. He does not like to think of people getting lost. It’s quite easy to get lost in Schloss Drache.’ His voice dropped at the last sentence, giving the impression that this was some kind of threat.

  Bond laughed. ‘Bravo.’

  ‘Bravo?’

  ‘ &ldhich looked li

  11

  THE TRAIL OF BLOOD

  They dined in the castle’s magnificent great hall which, though David Dragonpol had obviously carried out major renovations, still retained the feel and atmosphere of an almost medieval refectory. Thick wooden beams made it seem as though the hall were built in a post and lintel construction; while a false roof not only gave the impression of height, but also that it was held in place by four massive A frames, the old wood coarse and stained.

  The walls appeared to be made of the original stone, and a huge open fireplace, complete with spit and other ancient iron artifacts, made Bond think of hunting dogs lying on skins before a roaring winter blaze, while men and women in roughly woven clothes made wassail at the long oak table.

  To complete the illusion, swords, pikes, shields and halberds decorated the walls, while the whole was lit by four intricate candelabra on the table. There was electric light, they were told, but it was pleasant, Dragonpol thought, to recreate an ancient setting.

  Before dinner they had walked for another few minutes in the garden, and Maeve had insisted that they see her greenhouse – a long and wide affair with its own heating system, run from an Edwardian iron stove. The greenhouse contained literally thousands of blooms – her roses in various stages – and she explained, in some detail, the work eventually, the animals became s ffont-family: sans-serif on her hybrid Bleeding Heart rose which had been going on for several years.

  ‘It’s a somewhat macabre venture,’ she had said as they walked back to the house. ‘But you must admit that it is a very beautiful flower.’

  Neither Bond nor Flicka had replied or even reacted. The Bleeding Heart rose had become an almost frightening symbol to both of them.

  They dined well, Dragonpol explaining that they preferred to eat English food when they w
ere at the castle. ‘Essentially the Dragonpols are Anglo-Saxon, with a strong Irish underlay.’ He chuckled. ‘In my grandfather’s time, nobody would dare put German food on the table here, no matter how good.’

  So they were served a delicious vegetable soup, turbot, very rare roast beef with all the traditional English trimmings – a Yorkshire pudding, correctly placed on the table in a large separate dish, Brussels sprouts and roast potatoes. The horseradish sauce was not the creamed variety, but real, making the eyes stream, and a truly hot English mustard banished all thoughts of the more bland Dijon or American varieties.

  For dessert, a huge trifle was brought in with much ceremony. ‘An old recipe of my mother’s,’ Maeve told them, and this was followed by an old-fashioned savoury, Angels on Horseback – fat oysters, wrapped in bacon and grilled, set on fingers of toast – before the cheese board and fruit made the rounds. The wines, however, were all German and of exceptional quality, while the entire meal was served by Lester with the assistance of one of the so-called ‘boys’, whom Dragonpol referred to as Charles.

  ‘You must have a very large staff. Unusual these days.’ Flicka was fishing.

  ‘No.’ Dragonpol appeared indifferent. ‘Apart from Lester and “the boys”, plus the gardeners, of course, we have a general maid and a very good Irish cook whose mother was married to a German, and spent her entire working life in my father’s employ. The Nazis left her alone, and she cared for this place during the Second World War. It’s an odd old family relationship, but it works well.’

  On four occasions during dinner, Bond tried to touch on Dragonpol’s career and referred to some of his more famous individual performances. Each time, the actor – if indeed he was such – managed to deflect the conversation, turning it back to the one subject which appeared to be close to his heart, that of transforming Schloss Drache into what he called ‘the definitive theatrical museum in the world’.

  It appeared that, while the servants lived in a set of rooms in the basement of the castle, both Maeve and himself occupied only this, the first – the ground – floor. ‘We have all we need here,’ he said. ‘There is this dining hall, the library, our drawing-room and two large suites of rooms which we have converted into private quarters. The Turret suites are there for guests, and this leaves the remaining three levels at my disposal for the museum. Everything I own has been invested in the museum, and I have already amassed an incredible collection. It will draw experts and fans from all over the world.’