Bonnie Macbird - Unquiet Spirits - Whisky, Ghosts, Murder

He then indicated two empty seats at the table, next to one another at the far end, facing him and the rest of the group. I moved to my chair, but Holmes remained just inside the door.

I could sense my friend evaluating this and weighing his choices. ‘Is this a social occasion then?’ he asked. ‘I understood there was something you wished to discuss.’

The laird smiled. ‘In time. The first order of business is to join us in this wonderful place for dinner. The cuisine here is worth its fine reputation.’ His tone changed. ‘Do be seated.’ It was almost a command.

I was surprised to see Holmes acquiesce. Thirty minutes later we were well into a vast dinner with multiple courses of unusual fish, chicken, and beef dishes, seasoned with the bright flavours of the South, solicitous French waiters hovering at our elbows. Holmes said little but I conversed slightly with each person in turn and as the meal progressed, I took to examining them furtively, wondering what Holmes would deduce from each.

To the laird’s left, his elder daughter-in-law, Catherine, was an elegant woman of erect posture and initially rigid bearing, blonde-haired and beautiful, if slightly vacant. She struck me as a person who was holding something back, and I noted that as the dinner progressed, she ate but little, yet consumed glass after glass of wine. Every so often a tiny grimace passed over her, as if she were in pain. As the evening wore on, she grew ever more limp and unfocused.

Between Catherine and myself sat the younger son, Alistair, husband of our would-be client. I would not have put this man as Isla McLaren’s husband. Alistair resembled his father and brother physically, tall and muscular, but his sharp features and sarcastic wit, tinged with a combative tone, made me uneasy. Holmes sat beside me, the two of us opposite the laird.

Next to Holmes sat the largest man in the room, elder son Charles, red of cheek and athletic but with beetle brows overhanging strangely watery eyes and a nervous habit of glancing furtively around the table when he felt no one was looking. He was immense, and I could picture him hurtling cabers at a Scottish festival. He and his brother Alistair never addressed nor looked at each other. Their mutual dislike was clear.

Between Charles and the laird sat the intriguing Isla McLaren. A serene presence, she was careful not to regard Holmes or myself with anything resembling familiarity. Intelligence radiated from her, not in words, which were few, but in her subtly amused reactions to the conversation around her, which ranged in topics from the Universal Exposition in Paris, which the family had visited earlier, to the opening of the Moulin Rouge, and Nelly Bly’s attempt to duplicate Jules Verne’s round the world trip in eighty days.

Just prior to dessert, more champagne was brought in and placed in iced silver urns at intervals around the table. The laird held his hand over his flute, however, as he evidently had a different idea and whispered something to the server. In a moment a cart was wheeled in containing several hand-labelled bottles. The laird had brought with him several choice examples of McLaren whisky, of varying vintages and finishes.

He passed small glasses around, leaving the expensive champagne untouched. With each sample he held forth on the warm smokiness of one, and the toffee and chocolate notes of another.

I tried each, and rolling the amber liquid around my tongue, was able to discern something of what he described. They were stronger than my usual Black and White, and yet delicious in an aggressive, though very seductive fashion. I felt warmed and strangely relaxed.

I could well understand the developing preference for whisky. And I was surprised to learn that it was as nuanced and different as the much-vaunted French brandies.

Holmes did not partake, despite the laird’s urging. This might have been taken as an insult, I decided, and gave him an encouraging look. He remained inscrutable, but did ask one or two questions about the production and sales. Charles, the eldest son, answered with considerable pride.

A final sample was poured, darker, with a reddish tone. It had been retained for last. It had a strange, musky taste but was rich and complex. Not smoky, the laird explained, although some whiskies tasted of the peat burned in their making. But this was different. Whether it was the Highland waters, the particular old oak casks in which the spirit had been matured, or simply a bit of magic, this ‘edition’ was clearly the whisky on which the family would base their fortune. The laird and his sons savoured the few drops as if it were liquid gold. Not only was this the ‘Special Edition’ but it was from the laird’s favourite cask, number 59.

‘Each whisky has its own personality,’ said the laird. ‘This special is the one that will put Braedern permanently on the map. None can surpass it.’

‘We will aim for a very select market,’ said Charles.

‘An exclusive one,’ said the laird. ‘But business later, Charles. And now are we ready, ladies and gentlemen, for the evening amusement?’

‘Pray, not a singer,’ whispered Holmes to me, while pretending to pick up his napkin.

Coffee was served, and the laird requested that dessert be held for a few minutes. This rather ebullient gentleman clearly had something on his mind. He struck his glass with his spoon and the table hushed.

‘As you may have guessed, Mr Holmes, you have been invited here for a reason. Isla has spoken to me of your many accomplishments, and has made me aware of your powers.’ He held up a copy of Beeton’s Christmas Annual from two years before. The preparation inherent in this startled me, as my first writings of Holmes first appeared there.

‘When she mentioned you were here, nearby in Nice, the idea came to mind.’

‘Sir, I am at your service,’ said Holmes. ‘But I am not usually consulted in such a public forum. May I suggest we withdraw somewhere more discreet to discuss whatever case you may wish to lay before me?’

The laird burst out in a huge booming laugh, and was joined by the other men at the table. Catherine McLaren yawned. Isla McLaren, oddly, was staring down at her plate in embarrassment.

‘Case, Mr Holmes? There is no case. But, I have been impressed in reading of your uncanny ability to discern facts about those you meet, by observing how they part their hair, the trim of their moustaches, and the like. It is almost supernatural, I am told. And as you know, we Scots enjoy the supernatural. Or some of us do.’

Holmes stiffened. A tiny blossom of worry appeared in my mind.

‘My skills are quite of the natural type,’ said he. ‘There is nothing supernatural about them. If there is no case, perhaps there is a mystery of sorts. Some problem that may be troubling you or your family?’

There was an awkward pause.

‘Mr Holmes, on our last trip to the South of France, we had a different entertainment for each night of our stay. A lovely violinist. A singer. A fortune teller. And a sleight-of-hand artist. Three were excellent, though the singer was a bit of a novice.’

There was a rather fawning murmur of agreement from the group. Isla McLaren would not meet my eyes. The laird continued. ‘Although we live far from London, we are yet a family of sophisticated tastes. We have exhausted the entertainment in the immediate vicinity. This year I have decided to be more selective. It is my view that your analysis of each person at this table could be both illuminating and entertaining. I challenge you to give me some secret about each person here. And it will probably be the best amusement we have ever had in the South of France.’

I felt my face colour. Sherlock Holmes was being asked to be the evening’s entertainment. I cringed, thinking of my role in setting up this fiasco.