Jeffrey Archer - A Twist in the Tale

‘Don’t worry,’ said Barker eventually. ‘I’ll do my best not to let you down. And in return for such excellent hospitality perhaps both of you would be kind enough to leave Saturday evening free? There is,’ he explained, ‘an inn near Sefton Hall I have wanted to visit for some time: the Hamilton Arms. The food, I’m assured, is more than adequate but the wine list is...’ he hesitated, ‘considered by experts to be exceptional.’

Henry and I both checked our diaries and readily accepted his invitation.

I thought a great deal about Sefton Hamilton during the next ten days and awaited our lunch with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation. On the Saturday morning Henry drove the three of us down to Sefton Park and we arrived a little after twelve thirty. Actually we passed through the massive wrought-iron gates at twelve thirty precisely, but did not reach the front door of the hall until twelve thirty-seven.

The great oak door was opened before we had a chance to knock by a tall elegant man in a tail coat, wing collar and black tie. He informed us that he was Adams, the butler. He then escorted us to the morning room, where we were greeted by a large log fire. Above it hung a picture of a disapproving man who I presumed was Sefton Hamilton’s grandfather. On the other walls were a massive tapestry of the Battle of Waterloo and an enormous oil of the Crimean War. Antique furniture littered the room and the one sculpture on display was of a Greek figure throwing a discus. Looking around, I reflected that only the telephone belonged to the present century.

Sefton Hamilton entered the room as a gale might hit an unhappy seaside town. Immediately he stood with his back to the fire, blocking any heat we might have been appreciating.

‘Whisky!’ he bellowed as Adams appeared once again. ‘Barker?’

‘Not for me,’ said Barker with a thin smile.

‘Ah,’ said Hamilton. ‘Want to keep your taste buds at their most sensitive, eh?’

Barker did not reply. Before we went in to lunch we learned that the estate was seven thousand acres in size and had some of the finest shooting outside of Scotland. The Hall had one hundred and twelve rooms, one or two of which Hamilton had not visited since he was a child. The roof itself, he assured us finally, was an acre and a half, a statistic that will long remain in my memory as it is the same size as my garden.

The longcase clock in the corner of the room struck one. ‘Time for the contest to begin,’ declared Hamilton, and marched out of the room like a general who assumes his troops will follow him without question. We did, all the way down thirty yards of corridor to the dining room. The four of us then took our places around a seventeenth-century oak table that could comfortably have seated twenty.

Adorning the center of the table were two Georgian decanters and two unlabeled bottles. The first bottle was filled with a clear white wine, the first decanter with a red, the second bottle with a richer white and the second decanter with a tawny red substance. In front of the four wines were four white cards. By each lay a slim bundle of fifty-pound notes.

Hamilton took his place in the large chair at the top of the table while Barker and I sat opposite each other in the center, facing the wine, leaving Henry to occupy the final place at the other end of the table.

The butler stood one pace behind his master’s chair. He nodded and four footmen appeared, bearing the first course. A fish and prawn terrine was placed in front of each of us. Adams received a nod from his master before he picked up the first bottle and began to fill Barker’s glass. Barker waited for the butler to go round the table and fill the other three glasses before he began his ritual.

First he swirled the wine round while at the same time studying it carefully. Then he sniffed it. He hesitated and a surprised look came over his face. He took a sip.

‘Um,’ he said eventually. ‘I confess, quite a challenge.’ He sniffed it again just to be sure. Then he looked up and gave a smile of satisfaction. Hamilton stared at him, his mouth slightly open, although he remained unusually silent.

Barker took one more sip. ‘Montagny Tête de Cuvée 1985,’ he declared with the confidence of an expert, ‘bottled by Louis Latour.’ We all looked toward Hamilton, who was unable to hide a triumphant grin; but in contrast, the butler’s face went ashen-gray.

‘You’re right,’ said Hamilton. ‘It was bottled by Latour. But that’s about as clever as telling us that Heinz bottles tomato sauce. But as my father died in 1984 I can assure you, sir, you are mistaken.’ He looked round at his butler to confirm the statement. Adams’ face remained inscrutable. Barker turned over the card. It read: ‘Chevalier Montrachet Les Demorselles 1981.’ He stared at the card, obviously unable to believe his eyes.

‘One down and three to go,’ Hamilton declared, oblivious to Barker’s reaction. The footmen reappeared and took away the fish plates, to replace them a few moments later with lightly cooked grouse. While its accompaniments were being served Barker did not speak. He just stared at the other three wines, not even hearing his host inform Henry who his guests were to be for the first shoot of the season the following week. I remember that the names corresponded roughly with the ones Hamilton had suggested for his ideal Cabinet.

Barker nibbled at the grouse as he waited for Adams to fill a glass from the first decanter. He had not finished his terrine after the opening failure, only taking the occasional sip of water.

‘As Adams and I spent a considerable part of our morning selecting the wines for this little challenge, let us hope you can do better this time,’ said Hamilton, unable to hide his satisfaction. Barker once again began to swirl the wine round. He seemed to take longer this time, sniffing it several times before putting his glass to his lips and finally sipping from it.

A smile of instant recognition appeared on his face and he did not hesitate. ‘Château la Louvière 1978.’

‘This time you have the correct year, sir, but you have insulted the wine.’

Immediately Barker turned the card over and read it out incredulously: Château Lafite 1978. Even I knew that to be one of the finest clarets one might ever hope to taste. Barker lapsed into a deep silence and continued to nibble at his food. Hamilton appeared to be enjoying the wine almost as much as the half-time score. ‘One hundred pounds to me, nothing to the President of the Wine Society,’ he reminded us. Embarrassed, Henry and I tried to keep the conversation going until the third course had been served — a lemon and lime soufflé which could not compare in presentation or subtlety with one of Suzanne’s offerings.

‘Shall we move on to my third challenge?’ asked Hamilton crisply.

Once again, Adams picked up a bottle and began to pour the wine. I was surprised to see that he spilled a little as he filled Barker’s glass.

‘Clumsy oaf,’ barked Hamilton.

‘I do apologize, sir,’ said Adams. He removed the spilled drop from the wooden table with a napkin. As he did so he stared at Barker with a desperate look that I felt sure had nothing to do with the spilling of the wine. However, he remained mute as he continued to circle the table.

Once again Barker went through his ritual, the swirling, the sniffing and finally the tasting. This time he took even longer. Hamilton became impatient and drummed the great Jacobean table with his podgy fingers.

‘It’s a Sauternes,’ began Barker.

‘Any halfwit could tell you that,’ said Hamilton. ‘I want to know the year and the vintage.’

His guest hesitated.

‘Château Guiraud 1976,’ he said flatly.

‘At least you are consistent,’ said Hamilton. ‘You’re always wrong.’