The harsh facts were borne out by the betting odds, which stood at twenty-five-to-one. Bond gave a sardonic smile, knowing that M would be furious when he put in his expenses. If you're going to plunge rashly with the firm's money, he thought, do it with a little style. With this in his head, Bond approached a bookmaker whose board showed him to be Honest Tone Snare, and placed a bet of one hundred and ten pounds to win on China Blue. One hundred and ten pounds may be a negligible sum, but, to the Service accountants, even five pounds was a matter of arguable moment.
'You got money to burn, Guv?' Honest Tone gave Bond a toothy grin.
'One hundred and ten to win,' Bond repeated placidly.
'Well, you know yer own mind, Guv; but I reckon you've either got money to burn or you know something the rest of us don't.' Honest Tone took the money in return for a ticket that, if China Blue should-by some chance of fate -win, would yield Bond something in the region of two and a half thousand pounds: taking into account the eight per cent betting tax -hence the extra ten pounds stake.
Once in the Royal Enclosure, Bond felt his dislike for this side of the race meeting descend on him like a dark, depressing cloud. As much as he liked the female form, he was repelled by the idea of so many women, young and old, parading in fashionable dresses and outlandish hats. That was not what racing was about, he considered.
Some of them, he acknowledged, would be there for the sheer pleasure of the day, which had turned out to be warm and cloudless. Yet a fair majority attended only to be seen, attract the attention of the gossip columnists, and out-do one another with bizarre headgear. Maybe this aversion was a sign of maturity. A depressing thought; and to quell it, Bond headed for the main bar where he consumed two rounds of smoked salmon sandwiches and a small bottle of Dom Perignon.
On M's personal instructions, he had come into the Enclosure unarmed – the Browning still snug in the car. In case of trouble, Bond carried only the small pen emergency contact device, and the replica Dunhill cigarette lighter – which contained more dangerous possibilities than Messrs Dunhill would have approved.
Casually he strolled around the Enclosure, finally settling himself under the shade of the trees which surrounded the paddock. Safe in his pocket was M's other piece of cover – a well-forged owner's pass that would get him inside the paddock, and close to the target. He did not have to wait long. The horses were already entering the paddock, from the end farthest from the stands. Bond watched. Within a few minutes he identified China Blue.
The horse looked an unpromising proposition by any standards. The coat was dull and the animal had about him an odd, lack-lustre look – as though it would take dynamite rather than a jockey to make him perform anything more than a sedate canter on this warm afternoon. Bond gave the animal a good looking over and decided that it was just an unpromising-looking horse. This did not mean that the animal could not show unusual form. Stranger things had happened. Looking at the horse being led round by the stable-boy, Bond had one of those sudden instincts – the kind which so often saves lives in his profession – that he would win his money. There was more to China Blue than the eye could tell.
How? He had no idea. Frauds on race courses in England are rare these days. Anton Murik would certainly not resort to unsophisticated risks like doping or substitution, when competing against the kind of stock running in the Ascot Gold Cup. Yet Bond knew at that moment that China Blue would almost certainly win.
Suddenly the short hairs on the back of his neck tingled, and he experienced a shiver of suspense. A man and two women were approaching China Blue – the trainer turning towards them, hat in hand and a deferential smile of welcome on his face. Bond was getting his first view of Dr Anton Murik.
He shifted position, moving closer to the paddock entrance.
It was Anton Murik; the face of the man he had seen in the photograph. What the picture had not captured was the high mane of white hair sweeping back from the bulldog face. It came as a shock, until Bond remembered the photograph had been cut off just above the forehead. Also, no still photograph could ever capture the walk or manner. The Laird of Murcaldy was barely five feet tall, and walked, not as Bond had imagined, with the stride of a Scottish chieftain, but in a series of darting steps. His movements – hands, head, fingers and neck-were of the same quick precision. In a phrase, Dr Anton Murik, Laird of Murcaldy, was possessed with the movements of a grounded bird.
The features, and authoritative way he appeared to address his trainer, however, made up for any other physical deficiency. Even at this distance, the man clearly had a power that overrode physical peculiarities or eccentricities.
A born leader, Bond thought; sometimes the best of men, or the worst; for born leaders usually knew of their power early in life, when they chose either their good or evil angel as a guide to success.
The two women with Murik were easily recognisable. Oddly, Bond considered, they were identically dressed, except in the matter of colour. Each wore a classic, V-necked, mid-calf length dress in a knitted bouclé. Over the dress was a short, sleeveless gilet.
The elder of the women – obviously Mary-Jane Mashkin- wore the ensemble in navy, with white trimming, and a neat, short-brimmed hat in white.
The ward, Lavender Peacock, was taller, more slender, and just as stunning as her photograph. Her identical clothes were in white, with navy trimmings and hat. Bond wondered if their outfits were originals from Murik's Roussillon Fashions.
The younger girl was laughing, turning towards Murik, the gilet flaring away from her to reveal firm and impertinent breasts, under the dress, in splendid proportion to the rest of her body. The sight was breathtaking, and Bond could see why the Laird of Murcaldy kept her on what M referred to as a tight rein. Lavender Peacock looked like a spirited, healthy and agile girl. To Bond's experienced eye, she also had the nervous tension of a young woman unused, and straining at the leash. Left to her own devices, Lavender Peacock might well carve a path of broken hearts – even broken marriages – through Scottish and English society, in a matter of months.
Bond narrowed his eyes, straining and never taking them off the girl. She talked animatedly, constantly glancing at Murik. Concern seemed to pass over her face each time she looked at the Laird, but Bond only took this in as a kind of side issue. He was looking for something more. Something essential to the whole scheme of insinuating himself into the Laird of Murcaldy's immediate circle. Something M had revealed to him in great detail during their hours of planning.
It was there. No doubt. The triple, heavy rope of matching pearls clearly visible around Lavender's neck. From this distance, under the shade of the paddock trees, it was, of course, impossible to tell if they were the real thing: but they would, undoubtedly, be taken as such. The real thing certainly existed – £500,000 worth of mohar pearls, graded and strung on three short ropes, all held by a decorated box clasp and safety chain at the back of the neck.
The pearls had been kept in trust for Lavender until her twenty-first birthday, having originally been a wedding present from her father to her mother, during whose lifetime they had been kept mainly in a bank vault.
Lavender – M told Bond – had broken this habit, against Anton Murik's advice, and now wore them on every possible occasion. In the confines of M's office, Bond wondered, aloud, if the Laird of Murcaldy did, in fact, allow the pearls to be worn. Substitution would, for a man of his resourcefulness, be relatively easy. M had snappily told him this was not the point. The Peacock pearls were known to be worn in public. They certainly seemed to be around Lavender's neck this afternoon.