David Dickinson - Death of a wine merchant

Georgina turned round and made her way back towards the Hall. The afternoon light was beginning to fade. She had thought and thought about what William might have seen in her Long Gallery on the day of the murder. Had he seen the murderer leave the state bedroom and press the gun into Cosmo’s hand? Had he seen something which he didn’t think was important, but which was of vital importance for the murderer? Had one or other of those possibilities led to his death, the murderer creeping into the Hall under cover of darkness and luring the boy outside to strangle him by the lake and throw the body into the water, pockets filled with stones? Her butler, Charlie Healey, a man with wide experience of violent death in the Boer War, didn’t think much of these theories. Somehow Georgina Nash didn’t believe in them either. Her permanent image of William was of the boy, five or six weeks ago, standing behind one of the guests’ chairs at one of the rare formal dinner parties she and Willoughby gave, holding himself perfectly still, looking very handsome in his black suit and white shirt, ready to help with the serving or removal of dishes as required. Hidden away in William’s cupboard they had found a magazine full of pictures and engravings of the great transatlantic liners where he hoped to serve as a steward sometime in the future. Looking through the illustrations of the state cabins with their unimaginable luxury on the top deck, the vast and ornate drawing rooms and libraries and dining rooms, Georgina could see where the appeal lay for the young man. She was back by the Hall now. She heard footsteps coming, loud footsteps, coming on the road from Aylsham. Perhaps it was William. Her heart leapt. She was sure it was him! He was back at last!

But when the figure came round the bend she saw it was only the vicar, come to open up the Church for evensong.

Lady Lucy had organized the Powerscourt dining room with considerable care. Three places were laid at the top end of the table nearest the hall. There were no knives or spoons, but half a dozen glasses, three for red wine and three for white, and a tumbler for water. By the side of each place was a large French saucepan for the participants to spit their wine into. Lady Lucy didn’t feel they were perfect, the large saucepans, but they would suffice. She wondered if somewhere in London you could buy special glasses for the special substances of the man they called the Necromancer. Francis had put the list of pre-phylloxera wines in the centre of the table.

As they took their places with Powerscourt at the head of the table, Sir Pericles on his right and Lady Lucy on his left, Freme was rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

‘I can’t tell you how much I am looking forward to this. So many times in my life I have drunk wine that I knew to be fake. Undrinkable stuff composed of water and raisins and elder berries from some slum in the East End, diluted claret, watered down with low-grade red from Languedoc brewed up in some warehouse in the south of France, unspeakable burgundy made with apple juice and brandy cooked up in a seedy cellar in Hamburg, I think I’ve seen them all. But to know every bottle is a fake before you start tasting, that is a great joy. Powerscourt, how to you intend to proceed?’

‘I do have a plan of campaign, as a matter of fact. I think we should start with the Nuits St Georges they gave me the other day, before today’s delivery. Couple of sips of that and then compare it with the ones that came today.’

‘Capital!’ said Sir Pericles Freme and smiled broadly at Lady Lucy. Powerscourt was busy with the corkscrew. He poured three small helpings into their glasses. ‘To the Necromancer,’ he said, sipping at his wine. Sir Pericles took a small sip of his Nuits St Georges and spat expertly into his saucepan. He looked at Powerscourt like a man who cannot quite believe what he is tasting. ‘Would you both oblige me by taking another sip of this one you brought from the shop? I am somewhat confused.’

All three were served another small helping by Powerscourt acting as wine waiter. All three spat carefully into their saucepans. Lady Lucy suspected that the business of spitting wine into saucepans at one’s own dining table would not have met with her mother’s approval. She wondered which of the many words of disapproval in her mother’s wide vocabulary of words of disapproval would have been employed for the practice. Disagreeable? Demeaning? Unworthy? Vulgar? Common? Common, she decided, that would have been the adjective of choice. Sir Pericles, she noticed, looked like a man who has just been given an enormous and impossible piece of mental arithmetic.

‘I’ll be damned, Powerscourt! Excuse my language, Lady Lucy. Could you put the right cork back in that bottle? You have the right cork? Good. You see, I don’t think that this Nuits St Georges is a forgery at all. I think it’s the real thing. I’ll take it round to one or two people I know after we’ve finished here. It’s the rich taste, the body of the wine. I’m sure it’s real. Come, let us try one of the Nuits St Georges that came today.’ Sir Pericles examined the label with great care, even producing a small magnifying glass from his jacket pocket for a closer look. ‘They sometimes make silly mistakes with the labels, these forgers. We had some Chateau Margaux years ago labelled Chateau Margo, as if the spelling had been done phonetically. Last year, I remember, we had a large consignment of Chablis with the year 1909 on the label. Time travelling Chablis perhaps. I’m sure H.G. Wells would have enjoyed a bottle or two.’

Once again Powerscourt poured out three small glasses of the Necromancer’s burgundy. ‘Try to remember the taste of the one before,’ Sir Pericles said quickly before anybody drank. They took cautious sips of the wine.

‘What do you think, Lady Lucy?’ asked Sir Pericles ‘What do you make of it?’

‘Well,’ said Lucy, ‘it’s definitely not the same as the one before. But it’s not absolutely disgusting, though I thought I detected a faint hint of a nasty aftertaste. If you told me at a posh dinner at Whites Hotel that this was pre-phylloxera Nuits St Georges I’d probably believe you. I’ve only ever tasted one bottle of pre-phylloxera wine and that was a Chateau Lafite with my grandfather shortly before he died. I have to say I can’t remember the taste or the bouquet at all. Is that very bad of me?’

‘Not at all,’ said Sir Pericles, ‘perfectly normal. What about you, Powerscourt?’

‘I agree with Lucy,’ said Powerscourt loyally.

‘Let’s try one more red, one of the Bordeaux, I think. Then we’d better taste the Pouilly Fume you brought from the shop, Powerscourt. You’ve kept it separate from the others?’

Powerscourt pointed to a small cabinet by the wall where one bottle had been placed. He opened the Chateau Figeac from Bordeaux and poured a small amount into clean glasses.

‘Well,’ said Sir Pericles, ‘certainly not the real thing, but not bad, not bad at all. I suspect our friend has got hold of some cheaper claret from a lesser Chateau and diluted it with red from the Languedoc and maybe a shot of brandy. But I should say the fellow knows his blending well, how to mix the things up in the most convincing manner. Now then, last but not least, that Pouilly Fume, if you please.’

He sipped very slowly at his glass of white. This time he didn’t spit it out. ‘If I was a betting man,’ said Freme,’ I think I’d put money on this Pouilly Fume being the real thing. I think they were trying to confuse you.’ He finished his glass. ‘Lady Lucy, your thoughts?’

‘Delicious,’ she said, ‘absolutely delicious. We must order some for the cellar. You’re not going to tell me, Sir Pericles, that this one is a forgery?’