Without taking his eyes from the card, M picked up his intercom phone and asked Miss Moneypenny if she could locate Lord Shrivenham and ask him to come into the office. ‘I don’t care if he’s dining with the Prime Minister, or even if he’s at Buck House. This is a matter of some urgency. Just get him here.’ M looked up at the two men. ‘I think you’ll find that Basil Shrivenham will have something to say about this.’ His eyes were as bleak as the North Sea in winter.
While they waited, Bond – deciding that Bailey was safe – told the whole story of his drive into London from Hereford. He left nothing out.
All three men looked very concerned by the time Lord Shrivenham arrived.
5
THE MEEK SHALL INHERIT
Lord Shrivenham’s name belied his appearance. When people spoke of Basil Shrivenham, others who had never seen the man, pictured him as a sleek, distinguished peer of the realm. In truth, he was large, ungainly, with big, very clumsy hands, and a clump of greying hair which stood on end. In his late fifties, Lord Shrivenham looked troubled, tired, harassed and untidy.
After the initial introductions, M addressed his old friend as Shrivenham, while the peer was very correct, punctiliously referring to Bond’s chief as M.
‘Wanted you to see this, Shrivenham.’ M passed the Avante Carte piece of plastic across his desk.
His Lordship took the card and examined it as though it might explode at any moment. Eventually he said, ‘Good grief!’, turned it over again and exclaimed, ‘Well, well. The fellow did it after all.’
‘What fellow did what?’ Chief Superintendent Bailey began, but M held up a hand and turned to Basil Shrivenham, taking the card from him.
‘I’d like you to repeat to these gentlemen what you told me during our discussion earlier,’ M said quietly.
‘About the Valentine man?’
‘Yes. Especially about his approach to you at Gomme-Keogh.’
Shrivenham nodded, looked over at the card on M’s desk and shook his head as though he still could not believe his own eyes. ‘Do they know?’ he asked.
‘About your daughter? About Trilby and the Meek Ones? Yes, they know all about it. Everything about it. No need to worry yourself, Shrivenham. Just tell them of your own dealings with the so-called Father Valentine.’
‘Well.’ He placed his big hands on his knees then decided that was not right so he folded his arms. He looked very uncomfortable. ‘You know my daughter had problems?’ he began, stopping as though he really did not want to go on.
Bailey stepped in to ease him through the difficulties of facing the truth and spitting it out in front of strangers. ‘The Honourable Trilby Shrivenham became addicted to heroin, sir. She received help from Father Valentine, the leader of a religious sect known as the Society of the Meek Ones. He treated her and she recovered. Came off the drug.’
‘Yes.’ Shrivenham hesitated again, then launched into a lengthy, somewhat halting monologue. It appeared that Trilby had come off heroin about seven months before. She had returned home for a long weekend and told her parents that she would be joining the Society of the Meek Ones. Leaving home. ‘Wife and I thought it was a fad – a phase, you know?’
‘But it wasn’t?’ Bond prompted gently, backing up Bailey.
‘We didn’t know at that time – ’course not. Both of us were just glad to see the girl fit and well again.’ He pronounced ‘girl’, ‘gel’. ‘Trill – that’s what we call Trilby, sort of pet name, eh? Trill. Always called her Trill.’
Inwardly, Bond sighed. If he was nothing else, Lord Shrivenham was a terrible bore.
‘Well, we’d have done anything for Trill at that time. Looking so well, and in control of things. Couldn’t refuse her a favour. She told us about this priest, or whatever he is. Calls himself Father Valentine. Naturally we were very grateful to him – for what he’d done. Understand?’
‘Of course, sir,’ from Bond.
‘So when she said this Valentine man wanted some advice – banking advice – I agreed to see him.’ For the first time that night, Shrivenham smiled. When he smiled Bond was reminded of a Hallowe’en pumpkin.
‘Thought he was out to borrow money, to tell you the truth.’ He looked around the room almost aggressively. ‘And I’d have lent him money at the time. At reasonable interest as well. Felt I couldn’t do enough for him.’ He paused again, and they all thought he had run out of steam, but it was only to catch his breath. Shrivenham continued, as slowly and long-windedly as before.
Valentine had come to see him in the Gomme-Keogh offices in the City, and he did not want to borrow money. He wanted advice about the financial arrangements of setting up a credit card company. Shrivenham pointed out that it would be very difficult. The major companies were operated from huge financial institutions, banks, and conglomerates, even chain stores which allowed credit on purchases.
‘Seemed he wanted to give members of his religious sect certain financial facilities. Very hot on the sanctity of marriage – said he had both rich and poor in the Society, but insisted that everyone had the same start in their married lives. He showed me some – and only some – of his banking arrangements. America; Cayman Islands; Hong Kong; Switzerland, of course. Seemed sound enough – if they were genuine. Yet I told him plainly – I mean you have to be damned plain speaking as a merchant banker. I told him he would fall very foul of government financial policy, not to mention the law.’
‘You obviously didn’t convince him,’ Bond said with a half laugh.
Shrivenham gazed at him without humour. ‘Obviously not,’ he said. ‘But I must admit I’ve never heard that this Avante Carte thing had got off the ground – in my position I pride myself on knowing most of the world’s credit card facilities. Worrying. Very worrying.’
‘Did he actually mention what he was going to call his card?’ Bailey asked.
‘Oh yes.’ Shrivenham stared at the Special Branch man as though he was looking at a half-wit. ‘Oh yes,’ he repeated. ‘That’s the shock of it. Couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw the thing on M’s desk. Yes, he said he would call it Avante Carte.’ At last he seemed to have dried up completely.
‘Tell them what else he said.’ M stirred in his chair.
‘Well, he isn’t the kind of man who shows pique, or temper. But, as he left, he said to me that one day his credit card idea would be more powerful than all the other credit cards put together. Those were his exact words – “more powerful”.’
‘Did you take to Father Valentine? Did you like him?’ asked Bailey.
‘Can’t say I did really, no. There was something just not quite right about him. Odd, couldn’t put my finger on it, but he seemed, well, somehow sinister. Quiet, calm, unassuming, but sinister. Doesn’t really add up.’
‘I’ve known murderers who were quiet, calm and unassuming,’ Bailey said. ‘They were cold-blooded killers, nevertheless.’
‘And, even though you tried to put him off, he still appeared to be intent on going ahead with the credit card thing?’ Bond probed.
‘Oh, yes. Most certainly, yes. He seemed a little obsessive about it. Maybe that was the thing I found sinister. Never thought he’d do it, though.’
‘Apart from this obsessiveness, you didn’t detect anything abnormal?’ Bond once more.
Shrivenham frowned, screwing his face up. He reminded Bond of a small child going through the motions of trying to remember the answer to a tricky question. At last he said no. The man had been very soft-spoken, rational – except for the determination about Avante Carte. ‘He had eyes, though,’ Shrivenham said, as though this was something unusual in a human being. ‘I mean, one was taken by the eyes. Clear. Piercing. Very striking, those eyes. Looked right through one, if you see what I mean.’
‘Colour?’ barked M.
‘What?’
‘Colour of the man’s eyes? D’you recall the colour?’
No pause this time. ‘Black. Black as night.’ He halted suddenly, looking puzzled. ‘Wonder why I
said that? Black as night. If something’s really black I usually say “jet black”.’
Probably Father Valentine had that effect on you, thought Bond. Father Valentine sounded more than sinister to him, what with the night-black eyes and the soft voice. Father Valentine sounded a fair old charmer. ‘You only saw him the once?’ he asked aloud.
Shrivenham nodded. ‘Just the once. Then old Trill went back to the Society. Heard from her twice. Written a hundred times. She doesn’t reply. Dorothea gets very down about it. I do as well, of course. Funny lot these Meek Ones. Last people I’d want Trill to subsidise. But she’s done it. Every last penny.’
‘Well.’ M cleared his throat. ‘Well, thanks for coming in, Shrivenham. I wanted these officers to hear your story. I should tell you we’ll be following up on the credit card thing – the Fraud Squad will as well. But I think you can be certain we’re all going to have a closer look at your friend Valentine and the Meek Ones.’
‘They have this place near Pangbourne – Berkshire. Used to belong to Buffy Manderson . . .’
‘Sir Bulham Manderson,’ M translated.
‘Yes. Buffy’s country place. Had to sell, of course. Upkeep beyond any fellow’s means nowadays. Beautiful place. Hundred rooms. Acres of land. Good fishin’. Buffy’s moved into some poky little flat in Mayfair – seven rooms and a balcony. Roughing it a bit. See him sometimes at the club. I often . . .’
‘Shrivenham, thank you.’ M cut him short before he could continue reminiscing about poor old Buffy roughing it in a seven-roomed flat in an exclusive Mayfair block. ‘Thank you for coming in. I’ll be in touch.’
‘Ah, time I was off.’ Lord Shrivenham appeared to wake from a snooze of nostalgia, and, at that moment, M’s intercom telephone rang. Moneypenny – who usually left at around six in the evening – was still there. It was now well after midnight.
M spoke to her in a low voice after his initial rather curt response. ‘When?’ he asked. Then, ‘Yes. I see.’ His eyes slid towards Bond who thought he detected uncertainty or concern in the brief look. ‘Yes,’ M said again. ‘Yes, you can leave that to us. I’ll tell him. Bond and the Chief Super’ll do the rest. Good.’ He put down the telephone and looked at Basil Shrivenham. ‘Got a bit of a shaker for you, Basil.’ It was the first time he had used his old friend’s first name.
‘For me?’ Shrivenham’s face went a little less ruddy, and his eyes showed even more anxiety. ‘Bad news?’
‘No. No, I think probably good news. Your daughter’s turned up.’
‘Trill? Where? She’s alright?’
‘She’s at home. At your home. Bit shaken, I gather. Needs a doctor, but at least she’s there – away from the Meek Ones.’
Basil Shrivenham looked as though he was going into shock – his face beginning to grey out. ‘Well, I’d better get on back.’ He clung to his chair, as though in need of support. ‘Better find out what’s happening. Doctor and all that. If you’ll excuse me . . .’
‘No,’ M said with the kind of commanding tone nobody – not even a Prime Minister – would have disobeyed. ‘No. You’ll go with these officers.’ He looked up as Moneypenny came quietly into the room. ‘First go with my good Miss Moneypenny, here. She’ll give you coffee, tea, or something stronger if you want it. I shall talk to Bailey and Bond, then they’ll accompany you home. I think you’ll find that best.’
‘Oh, well, if you say so, but shouldn’t I ring Dorothea or something?’
‘Just go, Basil. Everything will be fine.’
Looking more dazed than ever, Shrivenham allowed Moneypenny to lead him from the room.
As soon as the door was closed, M began to talk. About twenty minutes before, Trilby Shrivenham had been found by a patrolling police constable in the doorway of the Shrivenhams’ house near Eaton Square. She was, to use the officer’s own words, ‘in a semi-conscious condition’. He had put it down to either drink or drug abuse and was about to call into his local station when Lady Shrivenham, hearing the voices at the door, had come to investigate and identified her daughter.
‘Sorry, Bond. I know you’ve had a tough day, but I think we’re onto something. I’d like both of you to go with Shrivenham, see the girl – and her doctor. He’s going to wait until you arrive. Size up the situation. Report back to me, then we’ll see what has to be done. I’m going to need someone down at the Meek Ones’ HQ as soon as possible, and I’d also like you both to read this file on Scorpius/Valentine – that is the old file, and some updated stuff Wolkovsky brought over.’
‘I need sleep at some point.’ Bond’s voice was that of a very tired man. ‘Don’t think I can go down and act as look-out in Berkshire straight away.’
M gave a cross little scowl. ‘No. No, you’re not superhuman, I suppose. Anyway, I’ll probably need you for something else I have in mind. We’re desperately short-handed at the moment. Question is who can I spare to watch the Berkshire place?’
‘Can we use safe outside talent?’ Bond asked.
‘What kind of talent?’
‘The SAS sergeant who drove me down. He’s trained. Keen. Knows all the tricks. We’ve used their people before now.’
‘Yes.’ M was not enthusiastic. Then – ‘You got his name, number and all that?’
‘Naturally.’
‘Leave them with me. Name of Pearlman, or something, you said earlier?’
Bond recited the telephone number Pearly had given to him when they parted.
M nodded. ‘I’ll have a word with his CO. When one gets strapped for bodies on the ground, as this Service is at the moment, we have to use other resources. It might be possible.’ He looked unhappy as he said it. ‘I shall be here all night. You two go off with Shrivenham and report in as soon as you can.’
Chief Superintendent Bailey gave a small cough, then a charming smile. ‘With respect, sir, I’d better get the HOB’s sanction on this.’
M flapped a hand, ‘It’ll be alright. I’ll take care of the Head of the Branch. You can be sure of that.’
The Special Branch man was obviously uncertain, but nodded and followed Bond from the office. Lord Shrivenham sat in the anteroom, which was Moneypenny’s domain, nursing a very large whisky. Moneypenny hovered.
‘Ready, sir.’ Bailey took the lead.
‘She is alright? I mean young Trill, she’s not . . . ? Well, not . . . You know . . . ?’ Shrivenham suddenly looked much older, as though the news of Trilby had taken some terrible toll on his stamina. Natural enough, Bond thought, especially coming hard on the heels of her friend Emma’s death.
Bailey was very calm. ‘The Honourable Trilby is under the influence of something, sir. You should know that before we go. Doctor’s with her and we don’t know if she’s gone back to her old habit – the heroin – or if it’s merely alcohol. The main thing, Lord Shrivenham, is that she’s at your home, which means she’s beyond Father Valentine’s influence. Let’s go and see what we can do for her.’
As they left the building, Bailey muttered to Bond that he hoped to heaven the girl was beyond Valentine’s influence. Bond nodded and wondered if he had the same troubled expression as the Branch man.
The Shrivenhams lived in one of those pleasant white Regency houses which you can see all around the Belgravia area. There were two unmarked cars outside, and the lights blazed within. A uniformed policeman stood guard over the front door and Bailey flashed his ID. Inside, a female servant of uncertain age fluttered around the hall, ready to be of help to anybody and everybody. She showed them in to an elaborate room stuffed with Victoriana, the mantelpiece alive with antique china pieces.
Sitting together on a velvet-covered buttoned Chesterfield were a large woman in a floral dressing gown which made her look like some grotesque bush in bloom, and a small man who bore all the marks of a doctor whose practice was in the heart of a well-heeled area. His hair was sleek, and he wore the uniform still expected of a doctor in this part of London – striped trousers, black jacket, waistcoat with watch chain, and a stif
f white collar set off by an immaculate grey silk tie.
Shrivenham pounced into the room like a big bear. The floral apparition rose and the two met in the middle of the room. Bond almost winced with amusement at the collision, but, as the unlikely pair embraced, he became embarrassed. Lord and Lady Shrivenham vied with each other for speech, and as they talked they used pet names – ‘Oh, Batty,’ said Her Ladyship on the verge of tears.
‘There, Flower, there,’ Basil Shrivenham soothed. ‘Flower, how is she?’
The scene was almost ludicrous, but information came pouring out. Trill was unconscious. The doctor thought it was drugs – not heroin, but something else.
Bailey nudged Bond and they detached themselves from the melodrama being played out on centre stage, turning to the doctor. ‘You’ve called a consultant?’ Bond asked after they had introduced themselves. The doctor’s name was Roberts, and at the question he seemed to lose the power of speech. He simply nodded.
‘What’s your opinion?’ from Bailey.
‘I think we should wait. I am professionally bound by certain . . .’
‘Not the time for ethics, I’m afraid,’ Bond said sharply. ‘Not with people like us. So tell us, doctor. Your personal opinion.’
‘I’d say someone fed her a cocktail of drugs. I have a nurse with her now.’
‘She’s going to live?’
The doctor looked down at his highly polished shoes. ‘I’ve got her on a drip, and given her mild antitoxins . . .’
‘She said anything?’
‘In a kind of delirium, yes. She comes in and out of it. Repeats one sentence again and again. “The meek shall inherit. The meek shall inherit.” ’
‘Can we see her?’ Bailey asked, and the doctor was poised to stand on ethics again, then thought better of it and led them from the room. They were aware of Lord and Lady Shrivenham in their wake like a pair of dreadnoughts.