Читать книгу Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Murder - Bonnie Macbird - Страница 17

n the following day, the expected dinner invitation arrived, not from Isla McLaren, but from Laird Robert McLaren himself, and at five minutes past seven our carriage, fees charged to our hotel, pulled up at the Grand Hôtel du Cap in nearby Antibes. I was never particularly comfortable in my formal attire, though Holmes seemed quite at ease. The letter was flattering and had indicated that the laird wished to make use of Holmes’s ‘renowned skills’. It would be a case, we presumed.

‘Whatever the task may be, Watson, we must stay on our guard. The McLarens are not yet entirely cleared of any connection to that bombing, and may in fact wish to draw us into their fold for their own reasons.’

‘Surely they can intend no violence at this dinner.’

‘Unlikely. But you have your Webley with you?’

I nodded.

The Grand Hôtel du Cap was a far cry from the Beau Soleil. Ensconced in a wooded hill overlooking a brilliant blue sea and a rocky beach, the building arose like a tiered pink bride’s cake from among the olive and cypress trees.

The lobby was gleaming marble, with velvet benches and liveried porters swarming around the richly attired guests. Everything and everyone conveyed a look of polished ease. The concierge waved a hand and a page ushered us down a long hallway past magnificent views of the ocean to gilded doors leading to a private dining room.

Seated there was our party, already assembled. There were five people: three gentlemen and two ladies, one with her back to the door. Expensive tailoring, tartan details in the waistcoats of the gentlemen, glittering gowns on the ladies, and an overall impression of immense wealth worn with casual ease made up my immediate impression.

At the head of the table, a large man in his fifties rose to greet us. ‘Welcome Mr Sherlock Holmes, and Dr John Watson,’ he boomed in a deep voice, with a strong Scots brogue. A mane of dark, greying curls surrounded a handsome face, now creased with a warm smile. ‘You are guests of the Clan McLaren, and I am Sir Robert McLaren, Laird of Braedern.’

Holmes nodded his head in acknowledgement.

‘Sir, we thank you,’ I said.

‘My sons, Charles and Alistair,’ said the laird, indicating the two younger men with a sweep of his hand.

The two arose and nodded a greeting. Both were tall and robust, wide-shouldered and dark-haired. The elder had bushy eyebrows which gave him an angry demeanour. The younger had a high forehead and a permanent look of arch incredulity.

‘My daughter-in-law, Catherine, wife of Charles.’ A blonde lady in a glittering pale blue gown looked up demurely at us over a glass of champagne. She nodded a wan greeting.

‘And my younger daughter-in-law—’

‘Mrs Isla McLaren,’ said Holmes in a flat voice. ‘Wife of Alistair.’

Something passed over the laird’s face but he recovered in an instant. ‘You have met, then?’

Before Holmes could answer, Isla McLaren interjected. ‘As I said, Father, I chanced upon Dr Watson in Nice, and recognized him from a newspaper photograph. I failed to mention that we spoke briefly. I am sure he told Mr Holmes about it. Did you not, Dr Watson?’

I nodded. I was not accustomed to prevarication on short notice. I could feel Holmes’s eyes upon me.

Isla McLaren smiled warmly at us both. She was radiant in a deep purple beaded evening dress, and even with her small gold spectacles, stood out from the group as an early blooming iris might in a spring green garden. She coughed softly, while very subtly putting a finger to her lips. She wished us to be silent about our previous meeting.

Holmes exhaled.

‘Do come and sit down, gentlemen,’ said the laird. ‘It is our winter holiday and we are celebrating, as we do every year, this time at the Grand Hôtel du Cap. Your reputation is known, Mr Holmes. It was Isla who prevailed upon me to invite you tonight.’

He winked at her and I suddenly guessed that this canny gentleman might very well be aware of his daughter-in-law’s previous visit to us in Baker Street.

‘In any case, she suggested we would enjoy meeting you,’ said the laird.

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.

I could sense Holmes had gone very still beside me.

‘It cannot be done, Father,’ said Charles, the eldest, sourly. ‘He has only just met us.’

‘What is the point?’ asked his blonde wife, a small bead of sweat appearing on her brow. She dabbed at it with a napkin.

‘A jolly idea,’ said Alistair, with a touch of belligerence. ‘I like it.’

Holmes turned to me and smiled like a friendly executioner. ‘What an interesting notion, Watson!’ He then turned to the laird. ‘Sir, you compliment me greatly. But I must decline this kind offer as, frankly, it would be nothing short of embarrassing to your family. If you will excuse us, please.’ He rose to go. I rose with him.

‘But, Mr Holmes, do stay. Consider it not the price of your dinner, I would never be so bold, but merely the polite request of one who admires you.’ The laird could not have been more charming. Yet somehow I knew that underneath he was well aware of his insult. There appeared to be a double meaning in everything the man said. The evening grew more curious.

Isla McLaren burst out ‘Sir Robert! I would never have recommended Mr Holmes for anything like this. He is a professional, not a travelling player. Really, sir, you insult our guests.’

‘No insult at all. Sit down, Mr Holmes. And Dr Watson. I have something which may attract your interest.’ He snapped his fingers.

Charles McLaren at once stood up and took from his pocket a small leather bag held closed by two drawstrings. He loosened the top and poured out a small pile of what looked like at least fifty gold sovereigns on the table before Holmes. They glittered in the candlelight, a tempting mound of freedom and luxury. But at such a cost to Holmes’s pride. I glanced at him.

Holmes, whom I thought to know so well, was ever a surprise. A slow smile spread across his face. I had seen it before, after solving a crime and just before confronting the perpetrator. It did not bode well for this overbearing laird. I felt a prickle of incipient amusement.

‘Ah, the laird is most convincing,’ said he. He turned to Charles who loomed next to him. Despite his very fine clothes the man had an aura of violence. ‘Sit down, Chimney, for I perceive that is your nickname. Before your bad back has you limping from the room, exchange seats with your brother and take the hand of your wife, who may very well learn to love you again. Although some effort will be necessary to forgive your philandering.’

There was an audible gasp from those around the table. Isla McLaren coughed to stifle a laugh. The laird stared at Holmes in some confusion.

‘Well, your method bears some explanation,’ said the laird. ‘But you may very well have hit the nail on the head. Has he, Charles?’ Charles said nothing but reddened. Poor Catherine looked down at her lap and I felt a pang of sympathy for her. Alistair offered Charles his seat with a flourish and the elder brother duly changed places and sat, glowering.

The laird laughed, although with some discomfort. ‘Well, then, you have just given us confirmation, son. You must learn discretion.’ He turned to Holmes. ‘And how did you come to this theory? Pardon us, Catherine.’

‘They are not theories,’ began Holmes. ‘They are—’

‘I am no philanderer!’ exclaimed ‘Chimney’. He turned to Holmes in a fury, and pounded his fist on the table, making the silverware jump. ‘Be damned man, I will not have my name besmirched.’

‘I am merely acting at your father’s behest,’ said Holmes quietly.

‘Hmph. I see that you are right,’ said the laird. ‘Charles, you reveal yourself piteously. Get control. Mr Holmes, I demand to know your reasoning. What are the clues?’

‘Perhaps it would be best—’

‘Sir, I insist.’

Holmes shrugged, and then turned on his considerable charm. The malice beneath it was obvious to me but masked, I hoped, to others. I glanced at Isla McLaren. Her look of alarm told me I was mistaken. At least one other saw what was ahead.

‘It was quite simple. Obvious, really,’ said Holmes. He turned back to Charles. ‘Your wife called you by your nickname earlier when you arose to speak to that waiter. Softly, but I heard it. Your shifting in your chair, obvious discomfort, and the placement of a small pillow to support your lumbar region – none of the rest of the chairs has one – and your particular manner of eyeing the flaxen-haired young woman pouring coffee, and your wife’s observation of this tells me what I need to know. Perhaps your back condition is not due to riding horses, but some other strain. You must take care. And then, the gambling—’

His furious wife stifled a gasp. Holmes turned to her. ‘By the way, you, my dear lady, must see a doctor and soon. The slight palsy in your hand and your pale face indicate lead poisoning. It could be the use of an inauspicious cosmetic, and made all the worse by drink. Perhaps Doctor Watson could be of service.’