‘I put it down as a Champagne Fine, 1835,’ he said. ‘It has not, perhaps, quite the superb caress of the true Napoleon – but a brave, yes, a brave brandy! The third best I have ever tasted in my life. And that, let me tell you, Mr Campion, is a very extraordinary thing.’
He paused, looking like some old white cockatoo standing at the end of the table.
‘I wonder if I might take you into my confidence?’ he ventured at last. ‘Ah – a great many people do take you into their confidence, I believe? Forgive me for putting it that way.’
Campion smiled. ‘I’m as secret as the grave,’ he said, ‘and if there’s anything I can do I shall be delighted.’
Mr Thistledown sighed with relief and became almost human.
‘This confounded bottle was sent to me some little time ago,’ he said. ‘With it was a letter from a man called Gervaise Papulous; I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of him, but he wrote a very fine monograph on brandies some years ago which was greatly appreciated by connoisseurs. I had an idea he lived a hermit’s life somewhere in Scotland, but that’s neither here nor there. The fact remains that when I had this note from an address in Half Moon Street I recognised the name immediately. It was a very civil letter, asking me if I’d mind, ‘as an expert, giving my opinion of the age and quality of the sample.’
He paused and smiled faintly.
‘I was a little flattered, perhaps,’ he said. ‘After all, the man is a well-known authority himself. Anyway, I made the usual tests, tasted it and compared it with the oldest and finest stuff we have in stock. We have a few bottles of 1848 and one or two of the 1835. I made the most careful comparisons and at last I decided that the sample was a ’35 brandy, but not the same blend as our own. I wrote him; I said I did not care to commit myself, but I gave him my opinion for what it was worth and I appended my reasons for forming it.’
Mr Thistledown’s precise voice ceased and his colour heightened.
‘By return I received a letter thanking me for mine and asking me whether I would care to consider an arrangement whereby I could buy the identical spirit in any quantity I cared to name at a hundred and twenty shillings a dozen, excluding duty – or, in other words, ten shillings per bottle.’
Mr Campion sat up. ‘Ten shillings?’ he said.
‘Ten shillings,’ repeated Mr Thistledown. ‘The price of a wireless licence,’ he added with contempt. ‘Well, as you can imagine, Mr Campion, I thought there must be some mistake. Our own ’35 is listed at sixty shillings a bottle and you cannot get finer value anywhere in London. The stuff is rare. In a year or two it will be priceless. I considered this sample again and reaffirmed my own first opinion. Then I re-read the letter and noticed the peculiar phrase – ‘an arrangement whereby you will be able to purchase’. I thought about it all day and finally I put on my hat and went down to see the man.’
He glanced at his visitor almost timidly. Campion was reassuring.
‘If it was genuine it was not a chance to be missed,’ he murmured.
‘Exactly.’ Mr Thistledown smiled. ‘Well, I saw him, a younger man than I had imagined but well informed, and I received quite a pleasant impression. I asked him frankly where he got the brandy and he came out with an extraordinary suggestion. He asked me first if I was satisfied with the sample, and I said I was or I should hardly have come to see him. Then he said the whole matter was a secret at the moment, but that he was asking certain well-informed persons to a private conference and something he called a scientific experiment. Finally he offered me an invitation. It is to take place next Monday evening in a little hotel on the Norfolk coast where Mr Papulous says the ideal conditions for his experiment exist.’
Mr Campion’s interest was thoroughly aroused.
‘I should go,’ he said.
Mr Thistledown spread out his hands.
‘I had thought of it,’ he admitted. ‘As I came out of the flat at Half Moon Street I passed a man I knew on the stairs. I won’t mention his name and I won’t say his firm is exactly a rival of ours, but – well, you know how it is. Two or three old firms get the reputation for supplying certain rare vintages. Their names are equally good and naturally there is a certain competition between them. If this fellow has happened on a whole cellar full of this brandy I should like to have as good a chance of buying it as the next man, especially at the price. But in my opinion and in my experience that is too much to hope for, and that is why I have ventured to mention the matter to you.’
A light dawned upon his client.
‘You want me to attend the conference and make certain everything’s above-board?’
‘I hardly dared to suggest it,’ he said, ‘but since you are such an excellent judge, and since your reputation as an investigator – if I may be forgiven the term – is so great, I admit the thought did go through my mind.’
Campion picked up his glass and sniffed its fragrance.
‘My dear man, I’d jump at it,’ he said. ‘Do I pass myself off as a member of the firm?’
Mr Thistledown looked owlish.
‘In the circumstances I think we might connive at that little inexactitude,’ he murmured. ‘Don’t you?’
‘I think we’ll have to,’ said Mr Campion.
When he saw the ‘little hotel on the Norfolk coast’ at half-past six on the following Monday afternoon the thought came to him that it was extremely fortunate for the proprietor that it should be so suitable for Mr Papulous’s experiment, for it was certainly not designed to be of much interest to any ordinary winter visitor. It was a large country public-house, not old enough to be picturesque, standing by itself at the end of a lane some little distance from a cold and sleepy village. In the summer, no doubt, it provided a headquarters for a great many picnic parties, but in winter it was deserted.
Inside it was warm and comfortable enough, however, and Campion found a curious little company seated round the fire in the lounge. His host rose to greet him and he was aware at once of a considerable personality.
He saw a tall man with a shy ingratiating manner, whose clothes were elegant and whose face was remarkable. His deep-set eyes were dark and intelligent and his wide mouth could smile disarmingly, but the feature which was most distinctive was the way in which his iron-grey hair drew into a clean-cut peak in the centre of his high forehead, giving him an odd, Mephistophelean appearance.
‘Mr Fellowes?’ he said, using the alias Campion and Mr Thistledown had agreed upon. ‘I heard from your firm this morning. Of course I’m very sorry not to have Mr Thistledown here. He says in his note that I am to regard you as his second self. You handle the French side, I understand?’
‘Yes. It was only by chance that I was in England yesterday when Mr Thistledown asked me to come.’
‘I see.’ Mr Papulous seemed contented with the explanation. Campion looked a mild, inoffensive young man, even a little foolish.
He was introduced to the rest of the company round the fire and was interested to see that Mr Thistledown had been right in his guess. Half a dozen of the best-known smaller and older wine firms were represented, in most cases by their senior partners.
Conversation, however, was not as general as might have been expected among men of such similar interests. On the contrary, there was a distinct atmosphere of restraint, and it occurred to Mr Campion that they were all close rivals and each man had not expected to see the others.
Mr Papulous alone seemed happily unconscious of any discomfort. He stood behind his chair at the head of the group and glanced round him with satisfaction.
‘It’s really very kind of you all to have come,’ he said in his deep musical voice. ‘Very kind indeed. I felt we must have experts, the finest experts in the world, to test this thing, because it’s revolutionary – absolutely revolutionary.’
A large old gentleman with a hint of superciliousness in his manner glanced up.
‘When are we going to come to the horses, Mr Papulous?’
His host turned to him wi
th a deprecatory smile.
‘Not until after dinner, I’m afraid, Mr Jerome. I’m sorry to seem so secretive, but the whole nature of the discovery is so extraordinary that I want you to see the demonstration with your own eyes.’
Mr Jerome, whose name Campion recognised as belonging to the moving spirit of Bolitho Brothers, of St Mary Axe, seemed only partly mollified. He laughed.
‘Is it the salubrious air of this particular hotel that you need for your experiment, may I ask?’ he enquired.
‘Oh no, my dear sir. It’s the stillness.’ Mr Papulous appeared to be completely oblivious of any suggestion of a sneer. ‘It’s the utter quiet. At night, round about ten o’clock, there is a lack of vibration here, so complete that you can almost feel it, if I may use such a contradiction in terms. Now, Mr Fellowes, dinner’s at seven-thirty. Perhaps you’d care to see your room?’
Campion was puzzled. As he changed for the meal – a gesture which seemed to be expected of him – he surveyed the situation with growing curiosity. Papulous was no ordinary customer. He managed to convey an air of conspiracy and mystery while appearing himself as open and simple as the day. Whatever he was up to, he was certainly a good salesman.
The dinner was simple and well cooked and was served by Papulous’s own man. There was no alcohol and the dishes were not highly seasoned, out of deference, their host explained, to the test that was to be put to their palates later on.
When it was over and the mahogany had been cleared of dessert, a glass of clear water was set before each guest and from the head of the table Mr Papulous addressed his guests. He made a very distinguished figure, leaning forward across the polished wood, the candle-light flickering on his deeply lined face and high heart-shaped forehead.
‘First of all let me recapitulate,’ he said. ‘You all know my name and you have all been kind enough to say that you have read my little book. I mention this because I want you to realise that by asking you down here to witness a most extraordinary demonstration I am taking my reputation in my hands. Having made that point, let me remind you that you have, each of you, with the single exception of Mr Fellowes, been kind enough to give me your considered views on a sample of brandy which I sent you. In every case, I need hardly mention, opinion was the same – a Champagne Fine of 1835.’
A murmur of satisfaction not untinged with relief ran round the table and Mr Papulous smiled.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘frankly that would have been my own opinion had I not known – mark you, I say “known” – that the brandy I sent you was a raw cognac of nearly a hundred years later – to be exact, of 1932.’
There was a moment of bewilderment, followed by an explosion from Mr Jerome.
‘I hope you’re not trying to make fools of us, sir,’ he said severely. ‘I’m not going to sit here, and –’
‘One moment, one moment.’ Papulous spoke soothingly. ‘You really must forgive me. I know you all too well by repute to dare to make such a statement without following it immediately by the explanation to which you are entitled. As you’re all aware, the doctoring of brandy is an old game. Such dreadful additions as vanilla and burnt sugar have all been used in their time and will, no doubt, be used again, but such crude deceptions are instantly detected by the cultured palate. This is something different.’
Mr Jerome began to seethe.
‘Are you trying to interest us in a fake, sir?’ he demanded. ‘Because, if so, let me tell you I, for one, am not interested.’
There was a chorus of hasty assent in which Mr Campion virtuously joined.
Gervaise Papulous smiled faintly.
‘But of course not,’ he said. ‘We are all experts. The true expert knows that no fake can be successful, even should we so far forget ourselves as to countenance its existence. I am bringing you a discovery – not a trick, not a clever fraud, but a genuine discovery which may revolutionise the whole market. As you know, time is the principal factor in the maturing of spirits. Until now time has been the one factor which could not be artificially replaced. An old brandy, therefore, is quite a different thing from a new one.’
Mr Campion blinked. A light was beginning to dawn upon him.
Mr Papulous continued. There seemed to be no stopping him. At the risk of boring his audience he displayed a great knowledge of technical detail and went through the life history of an old liqueur brandy from the time it was an unripe grapeskin on a vine outside Cognac.
When he had finished he paused dramatically, adding softly:
‘What I hope to introduce to you tonight, gentlemen, is the latest discovery of science, a method of speeding up this long and wearisome process so that the whole business of maturing the spirit takes place in a few minutes instead of a hundred years. You have all examined the first-fruits of this method already and have been interested enough to come down here. Shall we go on?’
The effect of his announcement was naturally considerable. Everybody began to talk at once save Mr Campion, who sat silent and thoughtful. It occurred to him that his temporary colleagues were not only interested in making a great deal of money but very much alarmed at the prospect of losing a considerable quantity also.
‘If it’s true it’ll upset the whole damned trade,’ murmured his next-door neighbour, a little thin man with wispy straw-coloured hair.
Papulous rose. ‘In the next room the inventor, M. Philippe Jessant, is waiting to demonstrate,’ he said. ‘He began work on the idea during the period of prohibition in America and his researches were assisted there by one of the richest men in the world, but when the country was restored to sanity his patron lost interest in the work and he was left to perfect it unassisted. You will find him a simple, uneducated, unbusiness-like man, like many inventors. He came to me for help because he had read my little book and I am doing what I can for him by introducing him to you. Conditions are now ideal. The house is perfectly still. Will you come with me?’
The sceptical but excited little company filed into the large ‘commercial’ room on the other side of the passage. The place had been stripped of furniture save for a half-circle of chairs and a large deal table. On the table was a curious contraption, vaguely resembling two or three of those complicated coffee percolators which seemed to be designed solely for the wedding-present trade.
An excitable little man in a long brown overall was standing behind the table. If not an impressive figure, he was certainly an odd one, with his longish hair and gold-rimmed pince-nez.
‘Quiet, please. I must beg of you quiet,’ he commanded, holding up his hand as they appeared. ‘We must have no vibration, no vibration at all, if I am to succeed.’
He had a harsh voice and a curious foreign accent, which Campion could not instantly trace, but his manner was authoritative and the experts tiptoed gently to their seats.
‘Now,’ said M. Jessant, his small eyes flashing, ‘I leave all explanations to my friend here. For me, I am only interested in the demonstration. You understand?’
He glared at them and Papulous hastened to explain.
‘M. Jessant does not mean the human voice, of course,’ he murmured. ‘It is vibration, sudden movement, of which he is afraid.’
‘Quiet,’ cut in the inventor impatiently. ‘When a spirit matures in the ordinary way what does it have? – quiet, darkness, peace. These conditions are essential. Now we will begin, if you please.’
It was a simple business. A clear-glass decanter of brandy was produced and duly smelt and sampled by each guest. Papulous himself handed round the glasses and poured the liquid. By unanimous consent it was voted a raw spirit. The years 1932 and 1934 were both mentioned.
Then the same decanter was emptied into the contraption on the table and its progress watched through a system of glass tubes and a filter into a large retort-shaped vessel at the foot of the apparatus.
M. Jessant looked up.
‘Now,’ he said softly. ‘You will come, one at a time, please, and examine my invention. Walk softly.’
&nb
sp; The inspection was made and the man in the brown overall covered the retort with a hood composed of something that looked like black rubber. For a while he busied himself with thermometers and a little electric battery.
‘It is going on now,’ he explained, suppressed excitement in his voice. ‘Every second roughly corresponds to a year – a long, dark, dismal year. Now – we shall see.’
The hood was removed, fresh glasses were brought, and the retort itself carefully detached from the rest of the apparatus.
Mr Jerome was the first to examine the liquid it contained and his expression was ludicrous in its astonishment.
‘It’s incredible!’ he said at last. ‘Incredible! I can’t believe it … There are certain tests I should like to make, of course, but I could swear this is an 1835 brandy.’
The others were of the same opinion and even Mr Campion was impressed. The inventor was persuaded to do his experiment again. To do him justice he complied willingly.
‘It is the only disadvantage,’ he said. ‘So little can be treated at the one time. I tell my friend I should like to make my invention foolproof and sell the machines and the instructions to the public, but he tells me no.’
‘No indeed!’ ejaculated Mr Campion’s neighbour. ‘Good heavens! it would knock the bottom out of half my trade …’
When at last the gathering broke up in excitement it was after midnight. Mr Papulous addressed his guests.
‘It is late,’ he said. ‘Let us go to bed now and consider the whole matter in the morning when M. Jessant can explain the theory of his process. Meanwhile, I am sure you will agree with me that we all have something to think about.’
A somewhat subdued company trooped off upstairs. There was little conversation. A man does not discuss a revolutionary discovery with his nearest rival.
Campion came down in the morning to find Mr Jerome already up. He was pacing the lounge and turned on the young man almost angrily.
‘I like to get up at six,’ he said without preamble, ‘but there were no servants in the place. A woman, her husband and a maid came along at seven. It seems Papulous made them sleep out. Afraid of vibration, I suppose. Well, it’s an extraordinary discovery, isn’t it? If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I should never have believed it. I suppose one’s got to be prepared for progress, but I can’t say I like it. Never did.’
Mr Campion & Others Page 2
