‘Are you ready?’ Pritpal was eager to be off. He was studying his pocket watch and impatiently tapping its glass with a fingernail.
‘Think so,’ said James, checking himself one last time.
Most boys in their first year at the school wore short ‘Eton’ jackets and clownish shirts with huge stiff ‘Eton’ collars. The cut-off jackets were more commonly known as ‘bum-freezers’ – for obvious reasons – and the shirts were awkward and uncomfortable. However, once a boy was taller than five foot four, he could wear the same uniform as the older boys – a black coat with long tails, a shirt with a more ordinary collar and a fiddly little white tie.
James had recently been measured by the Dame and it was discovered that he was now fractionally over the required height. As was the custom, he had saved changing into his new clothes until today – the Fourth of June. It was one of the most important days in the Eton calendar, and the only day of the year when the younger boys were allowed to dress up.
Pritpal, who was only just over five foot, still wore his bum-freezer but he had put on a smart grey waistcoat and was wearing a shirt collar with folded wingtips called a ‘stick-up’.
The senior prefects at Eton, known as ‘Pop’, were instantly recognisable, with their gaudy waistcoats and tightly rolled umbrellas. All the other boys in the school had to carry their umbrellas unrolled. But not today. On the Fourth of June all boys were allowed rolled umbrellas.
It wasn’t raining, so James had no use for an umbrella, and he wasn’t going to cart one around just for the privilege of having it rolled. He would buy a flower for his buttonhole, but that would be the extent of his showing off. He had no desire to ape the foppish dress of Pop.
He turned to Pritpal. ‘How do I look?’
‘Very grown up, I’m sure,’ said Pritpal, getting up from the chair. ‘Now, come along. Let us go and buy some flowers before they are all gone.’
There was one last thing and James would be ready.
He glanced sourly at his freshly cleaned top hat, sitting on his bed. How he hated that hat. He longed for the day when he could throw it in the bin and be done with it. But rules were rules.
He picked up the hat and they left.
Outside, they joined a mob of excited boys who were wandering down through town towards the river. On the Fourth of June the school was open to all, and the streets were already growing busy. Later they would be busier still, packed with parents, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, locals, sightseers, old boys and groups of newspaper photographers eager to get pictures of it all.
Eton was the most famous school in the country and many of the important men in England had studied here. King Henry VI had founded it nearly 500 years ago and since then it had built up countless bizarre traditions that were fascinating and baffling to outsiders. Most of them were bizarre and baffling to James as well, and he wondered if he would ever get the hang of the place.
But he felt carefree and relaxed today. It was a fine sunny morning and he was enjoying the holiday atmosphere. He had been tense ever since that night on the roofs and was at last beginning to unwind.
A pack of boys was clustered around an old woman with a stall selling flowers on Barnes Pool Bridge. James and Pritpal pushed in and James was just offering his money when he was grabbed from behind and pulled backwards. He spun round angrily and saw a wild-eyed boy whose blotchy face was streaked from crying. At first James didn’t recognise him.
‘Get off me, you idiot,’ he snapped, slapping the boy’s hands away.
‘I need the keys, James,’ said the boy, his voice strained, and at last James recognised him.
It was Mark Goodenough, the boy from the Danger Society who hadn’t made it the other night. The boy whose family was missing.
‘Oh, it’s you, Mark,’ said James. ‘Are you all right?’ he added, although he could see quite plainly that he wasn’t.
‘I need the keys,’ Mark repeated.
‘What keys?’ asked James, confused and embarrassed for Mark. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ People were beginning to look at them.
‘For the garage,’ said Mark. ‘I need the car.’
James put a hand on Mark’s arm and led him away from the crowd.
‘Mark,’ he said quietly, ‘I can’t let you take the car. Not today. Not like this.’
Mark was older than James and considerably bigger. He tore his arm free and glared at James with such anger in his eyes that James feared he might hit him, but in the end he just swore and stormed off.
‘I’ll find Perry,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘He’ll let me take it.’
James and Perry were the only two members of the society who had keys to the garage.
‘What the devil was all that about?’ said Pritpal, fitting a flower into his buttonhole. ‘What car was he talking about?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said James, thoughtfully. ‘He’s upset. Forget it.’
James hadn’t told anyone outside the society about the car. He had let Pritpal in on some of his secrets, but not all – even your best friends are liable to blab.
‘Do you think he will be all right?’ said Pritpal.
James watched Mark disappearing over the bridge, scattering boys in his path. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, trying not to sound worried. ‘I hope so.’
Two hours later, James was strolling with his Aunt Charmian, trying to get a glimpse past a great crush of people at the cricket match being played on Agar’s Plough between the school XI and the Eton Ramblers, a team of old Etonians. Nearby, on Upper Club, a band from the Rifle Brigade was playing a lively tune, but it was nearly drowned out by the roar of chatter coming from the circulating crowd, as parents caught up with the latest gossip and boasted about how well their boys were doing at the school.
James caught sight of Andrew Carlton, standing bored and restless as his parents pestered a bishop. Charmian didn’t know anyone else here, but she enjoyed the spectacle, observing it all with the detached eye of an outsider, and James enjoyed showing her around.
Charmian was an anthropologist, and had travelled the world studying different peoples and cultures. In her time she had lived with Eskimos in Greenland, the Tuareg in the Sahara, the Mindima mud men of Papua New Guinea and the Paduang hill tribes of Burma, whose women stretched their necks with heavy brass rings, but she had seen nothing more exotic than this gathering at Eton.
‘I really should know the significance of all this,’ she said, an amused grin on her face. ‘But I’m afraid I don’t.’
‘It’s to celebrate King George the Third’s birthday,’ James explained.
‘Why on earth would anyone want to do that?’ said his aunt with a little laugh.
James laughed as well. ‘He was a great friend of the school, apparently. He was always hanging about the place, chatting to the boys.’
‘Good for him,’ said Charmian.
Windsor Castle was just over the other side of the Thames, and ever since Henry VI’s day, the English monarchs had taken varying degrees of interest in the school. A boy had once saved the life of Queen Victoria when a madman had tried to shoot her outside the railway station. James had seen the current king, George V, on a couple of occasions, and often wondered what the life of a king must be like, behind those high castle walls.
Charmian took James for lunch at a restaurant on the river and afterwards they made their way down to some meadows next to the river known as the Brocas. A large and excited crowd had gathered here, ready for the main highlight of the day, the Procession of Boats.
The sun was sparkling on the water, turning the usually dull and muddy Thames an attractive bright blue speckled with silver shards.
‘How are you getting on with your lessons?’ Charmian asked, turning her face to catch the sun.
‘I don’t suppose I’ll win many prizes for my work,’ James said. ‘I try to be interested in it all, but I do sometimes wonder what the point of studying Latin is.’
> Charmian laughed. ‘Well, don’t ask me! They didn’t teach me much more at school than how to snag a husband. And I don’t think I can have paid enough attention in those particular lessons. Now, good Lord, what’s this?’
The first of the boats had appeared from under the railway bridge, being rowed by a crew of boys wearing old-fashioned sailors’ outfits from Nelson’s time – white trousers, striped shirts, blue jackets and straw hats decorated with huge bunches of flowers. A tiny cox sat in the back, dressed as a miniature admiral, steering.
As the boats reached the end of the Brocas, the rowers stood up and held their oars upright beside them in the boats, a tricky and wobbly manoeuvre. James, like many of the boys watching, hoped that someone might fall in, but it didn’t happen today.
As the other boats went past Charmian turned to James.
‘I know what I’ve been meaning to talk to you about,’ she said. ‘The holidays.’
‘Are you still going away?’ said James.
‘I’m afraid so. It’s the chance of a lifetime. An expedition up the Amazon. We’ll be meeting tribes who’ve never seen an outsider. With a way of life unchanged for thousands of years…’ She paused for a moment and put an arm round James. ‘I’m sorry to abandon you,’ she said, ‘but perhaps we can think of a tame relative to pack you off to.’
‘I’ll be all right,’ said James.
‘I’m sure you will,’ said Charmian.
James stepped back to get a better view and, in so doing, trod on someone’s foot. He turned round to apologise.
It was Mr Merriot, James’s classical tutor.
‘Steady on, there, James,’ he said, with a smile. Merriot was tall, with unruly grey hair and long, gangly arms and legs, like a stick insect. As usual, an unlit pipe jutted out of his face from beneath his big beaky nose.
James introduced his aunt and Merriot introduced a man at his side.
‘This is my colleague, John Cooper-ffrench.’
Cooper-ffrench was a stocky, fierce-looking man wearing a Homburg and grey suede gloves. He had a wide, bullish nose, deep-crimson skin and a fussy little moustache.
‘Mister Cooper-ffrench is president of the Latin Society here at Eton,’ Merriot explained.
‘James was just telling me that he doesn’t see the point of studying Latin,’ said Charmian and James broke into a nervous sweat.
‘Oho, doesn’t he now?’ Merriot’s eyes widened with mock amazement.
James tried not to blush.
‘And I’m afraid I’m with him on that,’ said Charmian.
‘Poppycock!’ Cooper-ffrench barked, his voice croaky and hard-edged. ‘I couldn’t expect you to fully understand, madam, but I can assure you that Latin is the very root and foundation of our great English language. Without an understanding of Latin, how can a boy ever hope to be truly eloquent? Perhaps it is not so important for women, who need not concern themselves with these matters, but for a man to get on in the world, the study of Latin is absolutely vital. No man can consider himself educated unless he is fluent in the language.’
‘Oh, please don’t get me wrong,’ said Charmian politely. ‘I think the study of language is a fine thing. I myself speak five, and I’ve come across more varieties around the world than I could count, each one fascinating in its own way.’ She paused for a moment and smiled at the beetroot-faced master. ‘But, come along, Mister Cooper-ffrench, do you really think that in this day and age the most important thing a boy can learn at school is Latin?’
‘I do, madam,’ Cooper-ffrench snorted, his face growing redder by the minute. ‘Why, if I had my way, a boy would be taught nothing else.’
‘Would a knowledge of Latin help James if he were shipwrecked?’ said Charmian. ‘Or if he had to escape from a burning building? Would a knowledge of Latin help him if he was faced with gangsters, or diamond smugglers or a madman with a bomb?’
‘Really, Miss Bond,’ said Cooper-ffrench with a patronising chuckle. ‘You mustn’t let your feminine imagination run away with you. This is Eton. I hardly think this boy, James Bond, is going be living a life of high adventure. Why, I would think a career in banking more likely, or insurance or perhaps the law, where a knowledge of Latin is essential. I am not just talking about the language, however, but also the civilising influence of the culture.’
‘Oh, but Mister Cooper-ffrench,’ said Charmian sweetly, ‘the classics are chock-full of stories of gods coming down to earth in disguise and ravishing women. Though perhaps you think that’s all us women are good for?’
‘That is a gross misrepresentation of the classics,’ said Cooper-ffrench.
‘The Romans were a thoroughly rotten bunch,’ said Aunt Charmian. ‘Their emperors were forever killing each other. In the fifty years between AD 235 and 285 they got through twenty of them! So I hardly think these are the people who should be showing us how to behave in a civilised manner.’
‘Well!’ Cooper-ffrench scoffed. ‘I’m not going to argue with you about this. I think that whoever said that a little learning in a woman is a dangerous thing was absolutely right. Good day to you.’
So saying, he gave a little bow and walked off in a huff.
Merriot laughed. ‘I’m afraid our Mister Cooper-ffrench is somewhat lacking in a sense of humour.’
Merriot himself was considerably less pompous about the classics and was, all in all, rather easy-going and genial. He and Charmian soon fell into a noisy conversation, ignoring the stately procession of passing boats.
James was only half paying attention, feeling drowsy in the late-afternoon sun, when Perry Mandeville barged through the crowd, looking worried and out of breath.
‘Have you seen M-Mark?’ he asked.
‘I saw him earlier, yes,’ said James. ‘He was in a bad way.’
‘He hit me,’ said Perry, indignantly. ‘Quite hard, actually, I think he’s m-mad, he was trying to get the keys for the garage off m-me, when I wouldn’t help him he punched m-me, a proper punch, m-mind you, and ran off saying he was going to break in.’
‘How long ago was this?’ said James, anxiously glancing over at Merriot and his aunt who were still deep in conversation.
‘About five m-minutes,’ said Perry. ‘M-maybe m-more, I’ve been looking all over for you, what do you think we should do? It was like confronting a wild m-man, he quite put the wind up m-me.’
‘We’d better go,’ said James.
He gabbled a hasty excuse to Charmian and set off at a run with Perry.
‘We’ve got to get to the garage and stop him,’ he said, elbowing a fat lady in a fur stole out of the way. ‘The state he’s in – if he takes that car, anything might happen.’
4
Out of Control
‘It seems they found the remains of his father’s boat,’ said Perry. ‘Pretty grisly stuff. Floating wreckage and dead bodies. It looks like there was a fire of some sort.’
James and Perry were pushing through the aimlessly milling hordes, ignoring the complaints and shouts as they jostled people aside.
‘Have they found his family?’ said James.
‘I don’t know,’ said Perry. ‘It’s all a bit of a m-mess. When M-Mark’s housemaster told him the news, he lost his cool.’
The narrow roads of Eton had not been built for cars, and, on days like this, when everyone turned up in a motor and then proceeded to wander in the roads, the traffic was at a near standstill. So the boys left the pavement and ran in the road, moving faster than the traffic.
‘But what does he want the car for?’ James shouted, dodging round a big black Daimler.
‘To get away from all this, I imagine,’ Perry shouted back. ‘I don’t think he could cope with seeing all the other boys with their parents.’
They crossed the Thames into Windsor. It was less busy here, though traffic for Eton was still backed up. They were concentrating too hard on running now to be able to talk any more. They passed the castle, turned into Peascod Street, then left the main road. In a fe
w minutes they were in a scruffy part of town, running down a grimy alley between small factories and warehouses, their footsteps echoing off the high grey walls.
At last they came out into a small courtyard and crossed over to some crumbling mews buildings. In the days when transport had still been pulled by horses these had been stables, but they had long since been converted into garages for motor vehicles.
They immediately saw that Mark had already been here. Been and gone. The doors to the garage were hanging open, the padlock lying broken on the cobbles.
The garage itself was empty.
‘We’re too late.’ Perry shook his head and looked at James. ‘If he has a smash, that’s the end of your m-motor.’
‘Never mind that,’ said James. ‘If he has a smash, that’s the end of him.’
‘But what can we do?’ said Perry, peering into the empty garage.
‘He can’t be long gone,’ said James, sniffing the air. ‘I can still smell fumes. He must have left only a few minutes ago. He won’t risk going through the centre of Windsor and back through Eton; it’s too crowded and he’d be stopped straight away if a beak saw him. The quickest way out of town from here is Albert Road towards Staines.’
‘Then there’s still a chance,’ said Perry. ‘It’ll be slow going. You saw how busy the roads are.’
‘Think we can catch him?’ asked James.
‘We can try,’ said Perry. ‘I know a short cut. Come on.’
Perry led James out of the courtyard and up a narrow flight of steps that led to a dark, twisting alley behind a row of shops. Halfway along Perry ducked into the back garden of a pub and then vaulted over a wall on the other side. James followed and found himself in a row of allotments. Perry steamed ahead past neat plots of beans and cabbages and out on to a long side street lined with lime trees. They pounded down the pavement and reached the main road just in time to see a car approaching and slowing for the junction.
The black-and-white Bamford and Martin was unmistakable: it was a sleek, open-topped roadster, built for speed. And the boy behind the wheel was unmistakable too, despite his tear-stained face and windswept hair.