A Twist in the Tale (19 page)

Herod would
have had little trouble in convincing the list of gentlemen Hamilton proffered
that the slaughter of the innocents was merely an extension of the child care
programme
.

Once again I
became more interested in Suzanne’s culinary efforts, especially as she had
allowed me an indulgence: Cheddar was to be served as the final course. I knew
the moment I tasted it that it had been purchased from the
Alvis
Brothers’ farm in
Keynsham
; we all have to be
knowledgeable about something, and Cheddar is my
speciality
.

To accompany
the cheese, Henry supplied a port.
which
was to be the
highlight of the evening. “
Sandeman
1970,” he said in
an aside to Barker as he poured the first drops into the expert’s glass.

“Yes, of
course,” said Barker, holding it to his nose. “I would have known it anywhere.

Typical
Sandeman
warmth but with real
body.
I hope you’ve laid some down, Henry,” he added. “You’ll enjoy it
even more in your old age.”

“Think you’re a
bit of an authority on wines, do you?” said Hamilton, the first question he had
asked all evening.

“Not exactly,”
began Barker, “but I -”

“You’re all a
bunch of humbugs, the lot of you,” interrupted Hamilton. “You sniff and you
swirl, you taste and you spit, then you spout a whole lot of
gobbledegook
and expect us to swallow it. Body and warmth
be damned. You can’t take me in that easily.”

“No one was
trying to,” said Barker with feeling.

“You’ve been
keen to put one over on us all evening,” replied Hamilton, “with your ‘Yes, of
course, I’d have known it anywhere’ routine. Come on, admit it.”

“I didn’t mean
to suggest-” added Barker.

“I’ll prove it,
if you like,” said Hamilton.

The five of us
stared at the ungracious guest and, for the first time that evening, I wondered
what could possibly be coming next.

“I have heard
it said,” continued Hamilton, “that
Sefton
Hall
boasts one of the finest wine cellars in England. It was laid down by my
Other
and his father before him, though I confess I haven’t
found the time to continue the tradition.” Barker nodded in belief. “But my
butler knows exactly what I like. I therefore invite you, sir,
tojoin
me for lunch on the Saturday after next, when I will
produce four wines of the finest vintage for your consideration. And I offer
you a wager,” he added, looking straight at Barker. “Five hundred pounds to
fifty a bottle- tempting odds, I’m sure you’ll agree- that you will be unable
to name any one of them.” He stared belli-
gerently
at
the distinguished President of the Wine Society.

“The sum is so
large that I could not consider-”

“Unwilling to
take up the challenge, eh, Barker? Then you are, sir, a coward as well as a
humbug.”

After the
embarrassing pause that followed, Barker replied, “As you wish, sir. It appears
I am left with no choice but to accept your challenge.”

A satisfied
grin appeared on the other man’s face. “You must come along as a witness,
Henry,” he said, turning to our host. “And why don’t you bring along that
author
johnny
?” he added, pointing at me. “Then he’ll
really have something to write about for a change.”

From Hamilton’s
manner it was obvious that the feelings of our wives were not to be taken into
consideration. Mary gave me a wry smile.

Henry looked
anxiously towards me, but I was quite content to be an observer of this
unfolding drama. I nodded my assent.

“Good,” said
Hamilton, rising from his place, his napkin still tucked under his collar.

“I look forward
to seeing the three of you at
Sefton
Hall on Saturday
week. Shall we say twelve thirty?” He bowed to Suzanne.

“I won’t be
able to join you, I’m afraid,” she said, clearing up any lingering doubt she
might have been included in the invitation.

“I always have
lunch with my mother on Saturdays.”

Hamilton waved
a hand to signify that it did not concern him one way or the other.

After the
strange guest had left we sat in silence for some moments before Henry
volunteered a
statement.
“I’m sorry about all that,”
he began. “His mother and my aunt are old friends and she’s asked me on several
occasions to have him over to dinner. It seems no one else will.”

“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 house 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
grandfath-er
.
On the other walls
was
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 into 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
centre
of the table were two Georgian decanters and two
unlabelled
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
centre
, facing the wine,
leaving Henry to occupy the final place at the far 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
al
} looked towards Hamilton who, in contrast, displayed an
unhappy frown.

“You’re right,”
said Hamilton. “It was bottled by
Latour
. But that’s
about as clever as telling us that Heinz bottle tomato sauce.

And 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’s face
remained inscrutable. Barker turned over the card. It read: “Chevalier
Montrachet
Les
Demorselles
1983”.
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 decanters, 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.
“Chateau 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 sub-
tlety
with any of Suzanne’s offerings.

“Shall we move
on to my third challenge?” asked Hamilton crisply.

Once again,
Adams picked up a decanter 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
apologise
, 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
tast-ing
. This time he took even longer. Hamilton became
impatient and drummed
the greet
Jacobean table with
his podgy fingers.

“It’s
a Sauternes
,” began Barker.

“Any half-wit
could tell you that,” said Hamilton. “I want to know the year and the vintage.”

His guest
hesitated.

“Chateau
Guiraud
1976,” he said flatly.

“At least you
are consistent,” said Hamilton.

“You’re always
wrong.”

Barker flicked
over the card.

“Château
d’Yquem
1980,” he said in disbelief. It was a vintage that
I had only seen at the bottom of wine lists in expensive restaurants and had
never had the privilege of
tast-ing
. It puzzled me
greatly that Barker could have been wrong about the Mona Lisa of wines.

Barker quickly
turned towards Hamilton to protest and must have seen Adams standing behind his
master, all six foot three of the man trembling, at exactly the same time I
did. I wanted Hamilton to leave the room so I could ask Adams what was making
him so fearful, but the owner of
Sefton
Hall was now
in full cry.

Meanwhile
Barker gazed at the butler for a moment more and, sensing his discomfort,
lowered his eyes and contributed nothing else to the conversation until the
port was poured some twenty minutes later.