The Whisky Affair (Raymond Armstrong Series) (5 page)

“Your tennis was good at Loughborough University, right? Even got a ranking in England?” She paused.

“Seems like an eternity ago… But yes, I was decent, especially on the baseline. I never did quite ‘get’ playing on grass and my volley was my one big weakness. If I had mastered that – well who knows?”

“Were you there at the same time as Sebastian Coe? The university seemed to get so popular for sports science after his time there.”

“Hey, I am four years younger than him, maybe more. I am still a spring chicken you know.”

“Ha, I hardly think – what is it? – fifty-three is young.”

“Just glad I could retire at fifty and appreciate a normal life.”

“Normal? Are you kidding?” They continued to chat for hours, catching up on their twenty years apart.

“Hey Anne, you look amazing this evening, by the way.

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” she said, laughing. “I have a lot of studies to complete in preparation for the conference. I will see you in the morning,” she said, blowing him a kiss with her hand as she made her way to the stairs.

Raymond couldn’t believe he ever let her go.

Raymond came down for breakfast at 8:30. Anne did not show up until 9:15.

She looked as if she had hardly slept and he put it down to her study and preparation for Paris. She seemed quite focused on the art conference when he’d rather she was focused on him. He hadn’t suggested a nightcap the night before though she was more gorgeous, funny, intelligent, and desirable than he ever could have imagined after all this time. If she’d been available, he would even have happily stayed up all night talking to her.

You can’t win them all.

They had arranged to meet that morning for a coffee and Raymond asked Anne to take him on a tour of the Island’s castle, which, despite its age, was in remarkable condition. From the town center, they wandered up the path to the castle that overlooked the town and the harbor. Genuinely interested the castle’s history, Raymond was full of questions.

“What would be the oldest part of the castle?” Raymond enquired. She pointed to the small tower adjacent to the main hall. “That was built in the 13th century while the rest of the castle was completed in the 16th century. The original castle was built in 1230, I believe.”

Anne continued with the story. “There have been many special visitors to the castle over the years, including Robert the Bruce. He actually captured the castle from the English and kept it for himself for over twenty years. The castle was closely associated with the Royal Stewart family for centuries and after 1371, was never taken again.”

“Do you know who the current Duke of Rothesay is?” Anne asked.

“Um – not sure,” Raymond said shaking his head.

“Prince Charles. Whenever he visits Scotland, they refer to him as the Duke and not the Prince. Rothesay is a royal burgh, founded by the Crown in 1401. Making it a royal burgh tied the Duke of Rothesay to the royal family. Although the term was abolished by law in 1975, the traditions of Bute never changed… So today it is still called a Royal Burgh of Scotland.”

Raymond was enjoying Anne’s company more than he could have imagined. He had not felt this way in many years.

Unable to contain himself, he commented, “And there’s an American tie to Bute but I don’t know the details. Please tell me the story.”

“American tourists love this bit of trivia.” She gestured for him to step closer and she lowered her voice.

“In 1820, brothers – John and Daniel Stewart – left Bute and emigrated to Virginia. Other Stewart descendants from Rothesay were already established in the colonies, mainly as tobacco merchants. Profits from exporting tobacco were reinvested and investments expanded into railroads and other lucrative industries. The story goes that Jeb Stuart, a cousin of the two brothers, was a cadet at West Point when he met General Robert E. Lee. The families became close and both had an enormous impact on the impending Civil War and the Southern Confederacy.”

“Not a lot of people would know that,” Raymond said in his Michael Caine voice. “Thanks so much Anne.” He studied her. “You look a tad exhausted this morning. Are you okay?”

“Just family stuff. I was on the phone with my kids last night after I went to my room. No big deal. Anyway, now that I’ve finished this guided tour, donations are welcome.” She chuckled.

Raymond and Anne walked around the exterior of the castle, admiring the moat surrounding it. They paused to watch two swans gliding gracefully on the water with their four baby cygnets. The seagulls had taken control of the castle grounds, all perched on the grassland, eyeing those babies.

An American tourist, perturbed by the gull threat, came by and asked Raymond if the young swans would be okay. Raymond said. “Of course, madam. The young ones are quite large now, too big for the seagulls – besides, seagulls are too lazy to deal with the adult swans, and everyone feeds them.”

He had no idea if what he said was true, really. He did know that seagulls were a menace and if they weren’t living in a ‘politically correct world,’ something would have been done about the nuisance birds. You can’t have a bird swooping down on your hotdog in broad daylight. The fearless gulls seemed out of control in Great Britain.

“Right. I have friends to see before I pack and catch the ferry,” Anne said.

“I can’t believe you are leaving so soon,” Raymond said with a flirtatious smile.

Anne fished out a card from her handbag and gave it to Raymond. “Please keep in touch. My email address is on the card.” She turned to leave, paused, turned back slowly and quickly gave him a hug.

He wanted to hold on to her, and kiss her hard. He had not felt like this in years. But, he knew it would be foolish to try.

“I will keep in touch,” he said, to her back as she walked away. He wished she lived close by, that they could talk again. Raymond had enjoyed their time together.

The next morning, Raymond and Gordon both ordered the Famous Seven, Scottish Breakfast: bacon, sausage, eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms, baked beans, and blood pudding. Not a meal for the faint of heart. The Victoria Hotel was renowned for serving hearty meals.

He felt unsettled, kind of empty in a way he couldn’t describe. Raymond had said good-bye after her tour the day before, and though they’d spent little time together, he already missed her company. He’d spent the rest of the day relaxing and retired early to his room, not his usual style at all.

Gordon finished his breakfast first and announced. “Hurry up man, we are off on an excursion.”

“Why was your message last night so cryptic? And please tell me where we are going.” Raymond was itching to know what Gordon had planned for the day. But Gordon was determined not to tell him.

“Not a chance. It’s a surprise, since you have come all the way up here to see me. Mind you, after today I won’t be much company. I have a lot going on,” he said, staring vacantly around the room instead of meeting Raymond’s gaze.

“Is everything all right, Gordon? You seem a tad preoccupied lately.”

“Nothing in particular. Just the work at the distillery is picking up since we went global. Fancy that. A complaint against success.” He chuckled.

“Have Louisa and James stepped up? Will they be more involved?”

“James is still in the USA, working with our USA distributors, and Louisa, as always, is busy in the lab perfecting our latest whisky expressions.”

“That’s all good, isn’t it? Okay, at least give me a clue where we are going?”

“Suppose so… Highlands.”

“Very funny.”

The official whisky regions had remained intact for centuries – the Highland designation included almost all the distilleries in Scotland, including Speyside, so saying Highlands could mean anywhere in the region.

One could argue that Speyside was a sub-region, that the coastal distilleries on the west coast should have the designation of the Western Highlands. Still, at the end of the day, they were all under Highlands on an official whisky map. Raymond thought about the debate. Some of his favorite whisky writers voiced their opinion on this situation. This preoccupation with regions needed to change – and a modern version created to indicate the islands were separate.

Some of these writers had gone further – stating their opinion that regionalism meant nothing in the whisky industry and that it was all about each distillery’s identity – as if each had its own unique DNA. He had to admit this all made more sense after listening to Willy the previous day.

Logically, a true whisky taste was the sum of all parts: people, water, stills, equipment, casks used to store the aging single malt as well as the method of distillation and finally the location of their warehouses. Each influenced a single malt toward its own unique taste profile.

Look at Auchentoshan Three Wood, classed as Lowland. What a lovely, soft single malt – the result of the perfect blending of whisky maturing in three casks and then married together in one to create a taste like no other.

Gordon and Raymond took the next ferry to the mainland and drove for hours through the Scottish countryside. Gordon turned off the motorway and continued on a much narrower rural road. Ten minutes later he turned onto an isolated country lane. When they finally came to a halt, Gordon gestured to Raymond.

“We are here.”

“Sorry, lost in thought.”

“What, some wee lassie…?”

“No, a wee dram or two. Now lead the way.” Actually, he had been thinking about Anne, yet again.

“So, feels like we are in the middle of nowhere. Where exactly are we?”

“A dear friend in the industry gave me permission to have a look at a distillery. He also gave me a sample to try once we get there,” Gordon said, squeezing the knapsack he had taken out of the back seat. “Only a short walk through the pasture, and watch your step.”

The pastoral landscape seemed to stretch to eternity. There was an unearthly quiet all around them. The only sounds were of birds’ wings overhead and sheep tearing grass and chewing. In the distance Raymond could see snow-capped mountains.

After two days of wonderful sunshine, this morning’s air held a sharp chill. Raymond rubbed his hands together for warmth and thought Gordon was pulling a prank. In his younger days, Gordon had a wicked sense of humor and Raymond had endured or fallen victim to it more than once.

They opened the gate, walked up the steep hill, and jumped over a few fences. Raymond felt in his element and reminisced about the old days, making him think this excursion was much like a spy mission, full of mystery and promise. Only he had no clue what the assignment entailed.

They arrived on a plateau where a brook trickled into a shallow pool.

“This is it,” announced Gordon. Take some pictures of all you can see, including the lovely farmhouse behind you. You will be a star back at the society after you show them this distillery.”

“What distillery?” He wondered if Gordon losing it.

Raymond got out the camera and began to snap shots, suddenly realizing what this was all about.

“This was a distillery once upon a time? Which one?”

“Auchnagie,” Gordon said with a wide smile.

“Who?”

“How about Tullymet?”

“I am not any wiser,” Raymond admitted.

“Closed down since 1911. Just a bit before your time.” Gordon was now on his feet, a smile on his face.

They walked to survey the area – to get a feel for how the distillery would have looked in its heyday. A whole lot different than today.

“Let’s sit here on the rocks and I will tell you the story,” Gordon suggested. “I have a feeling your club will like to hear this one.

Gordon took out a whisky flask and poured two large drams into whisky glasses he’d placed on a flat rock. “Try this,” he said and handed one to Raymond.

While Raymond nosed the glass he felt a contented smile appear on his face.

“Bananas for sure, with a touch of a second soft fruit… Apricots?”

“Possibly, but more like peaches,” Gordon clarified.

“Yes, peaches.” Fruit aromas were hard to detect correctly in whisky, so Raymond had been buying fresh fruit to become more aware of particular scents. Whisky nosing was far more difficult than training the palate.

“Well, well, so far so good.” Raymond took a sip, his smile becoming wider. “Damn, this is one of the best drams I have ever tasted. The sweet orange on the finish is reminding me of a sauternes finish.”

“Good detection. It’s Barsac, which is the same family.” Gordon patted him on the shoulder enthusiastically.

“So let me have the story while we enjoy this. But first, let me ask you a quick question: Why Barsac casks?”

“One hundred years ago, the distilleries almost always matured their whisky in wine casks. Rather than using regular table wine casks they used dessert wine casks. The sweeter wines seemed to be the best marriage. This distillery went on to maturing their whisky in sherry casks.”

“How do you know?”

“A company that I have a small interest in, is buying up the intellectual rights to old, forgotten distilleries that closed down many moons ago. Our team conducts extensive research, using the local library archives. They came across an ad in a newspaper, dated December 1896 from a whisky company looking for fine sherry casks. They then sourced the purchase logs from that company and after a quick study of the material it revealed they did, indeed, purchase sherry casks.”

“Bloody fascinating. Okay, no more questions. Start from the beginning.”

“Through the archives, our company was able to locate the water source, still shapes, type of barley, casks, and all the bits and pieces that the distillery used for production, up until they closed. The researchers took all the facts and put them together – so they know what elements worked to produce the distillery’s own personal identity. With all the facts, the production team creates a malt they feel would have been the old distillery’s expression today, one hundred years or more later.