Silence and Circumstance by Roy Dimond

Author:Roy Dimond [Dimond, Roy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Historical Mystery
Publisher: Untreed Reads
Published: 2015-03-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-One

France/Italy

The Orient Express was all that both Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Ian Fleming had imagined. How it had become Agatha Christie’s favorite mode of transportation was obvious. Service, accommodations, food, virtually everything was done with unequalled style and panache.

This environment appeared to mature young Ian. Sir Conan Doyle asked if he would like a drink in the train’s lounge and Mr. Fleming chose an early night because he wanted to go over some notes he had jotted down.

“Thoughts about our quest?” asked Sir Doyle.

“No sir. There was a family back home who lived near the estate of the ancestors of the Elizabethan spy John Bond. I used to attend a preparatory school on the Isle of Purbeck in Dorse with their son. On our way to school, we used to tell each other the most elaborate lies. We both knew that we fibbed, but it was great fun to try and outdo one another. He made up these wild stories about a spy who always introduced himself as “Bond, John Bond,” and I fabricated nonsense about flying cars and a silly magical family. I called it Chitty Bang Bang or some such nonsense. It was a wonderful diversion. Foggy mornings were always the most inspiring. I’ve been rewriting those tall tales hoping there might be some theme or nugget enticing me towards something worth writing.” He shrugged as if acknowledging that he most likely was deceiving himself.

“Well I shall leave you and your muse to your imaginings. I think I may go forward and have a nightcap.” He chuckled as he told the playboy Fleming, “Don’t wait up.”

Missing the irony, Ian unconsciously waved good-bye and pulled a blanket over his shoulders, his eyes focusing intensely on the scraps of paper strewn about.

In the lounge, Sir Doyle called for a waiter and ordered a red 1884 Malbec wine and a cigar. Pretending not to notice the stares from his fellow passengers, he swished the sample in his mouth and announced it acceptable. After snipping his cigar, he accepted a light from the waiter and nodded for him to pour a glass. His status as creator of Sherlock Holmes forgave a certain aloofness that he used with discretion. Sir Conan Doyle was a man very similar to Holmes. His physical manner was that of an aristocrat, but when desired, he could walk the docks of London like any other laborer. In this establishment, he wore the mantle of artist, not an artist who slung words about hoping to create genius but an artist who created genius with words gently sieved onto pages. This common touch allowed the casual reader to be enthralled without ever knowing that he was actually enjoying words wrought like lightning bolts straight from the fingers of a literary god.

This mantle of artist also meant that the public would quite naturally remain at arm’s length. He intently puffed his cigar, his brow furrowed, the Malbec sipped and savored. His fellow passengers sauntered past, slowing only to nod. A few even bowed formally, in their own way giving thanks for allowing them to be in his presence.

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