Holmes smiled. ‘Perhaps another adventurous parlour maid,’ he said, as we went back into the room and closed the door behind us.
I hoped so.
PART FIVE
THE DISTILLATION
‘Revenge the sweetest morsel to the mouth that ever was cooked in hell’
—Sir Walter Scott
CHAPTER 26
The Whisky Thief
ithin minutes of Calum’s departure, Mungo arrived with a short note from the laird. It read:
‘Mr Holmes, I must speak with you again. At 7 p.m. please ask to be directed to the maturation warehouse wherein we age the whisky. I need your findings to date on the case. You may ask me further questions at that time. This matter must be cleared by morning the day after tomorrow. The royal visit is that night and must not be tainted by an investigation.’
Holmes stood by the fire in his room, staring at the note with a frown. ‘Ah, Watson, the man grows impatient.’
‘Has the investigation been made public, do you think?’
‘Not officially. Nevertheless, everyone, including the Royal Family, will have heard of the murder by now.’
‘This meeting is in a remote area in the distillery. Might it be a trap of some sort?’
‘He would have specified I come alone. But do bring your pistol in any case, Watson.’
At the appointed hour, with a map drawn by Alistair, we made our way alone through increasing snow flurries down the hill to the large warehouse where the casks sat ageing.
We entered the stone building through a creaking wooden door and soon found ourselves on a landing looking down into an enormous warehouse. Stretching off into the distance were casks of whisky stacked three high on long wooden trestles, held in place with heavy wooden blocks. My nostrils were assailed by the ripe smells of maturing whisky, dusty wood, cool winter air, and the sweet echoes of the American bourbon, port, and Madeira which had filled these casks prior to their use here. It was a pleasant smell – old, soft and mellow.
There was a fine layer of what looked like ash on the floor between the casks. Lanterns at either end of the room cast slanted, low yellow beams which reflected dully off the casks closest to the ends, but tailed off into darkness towards the middle of the chamber.
The oblong room extended into a T shape at a distance from the entrance, and at the intersection of the two long chambers was a raised platform on which a long trestle table had been set up. Standing on the platform was the laird, silent and unmoving. He appeared to be in a kind of reverie, staring at five very large casks, set up in a row against a wall at the back of the platform. Brighter lights installed above this platform cast a sharp-edged pool of light on this one area, highlighting the figure of the man and the five casks as though on a theatre stage, and casting black shadows under the table and casks. A single lantern sat on the trestle table, which was covered by a thin layer of dust.
We descended into the room, approached and stood near the table. The man did not move. ‘Sir Robert?’ said Holmes.
The laird started from his trance-like state. He turned to us and forced a sudden joviality.
‘Ah, gentlemen. The reception will be held here. The tasting. The evening after next, representatives of the Royal Family will sit where you are standing. The Duke of Amberley. The Lord Chamberlain. And, if all goes well, a member of the Royal Family! It will all be decorated. Beautifully,’ His voice faltered. ‘As it was the night Donal left.’
‘Your party for Donal took place right here, then?’ said Holmes with sudden interest. ‘I would like to ask you a few more questions about Donal’s commission, and the night of his party.’
The laird’s face darkened. ‘What? Why? This cannot be related to Fiona’s death. I have asked you here, Mr Holmes, to report to me on your inquiries. Here, well away from the castle. You have had ample time to discover—’
‘Sir Robert, progress has indeed been made and I shall give you a report when I am ready to do so. But I ask that you remain patient just a short while longer. I would like to ask you about Donal’s departure, the party, his commission, indeed everything about your late son.’ Holmes altered his tone and became more gentle. ‘Let us begin with the eve of Donal’s departure for the army. Please tell me about that night.’
The laird hesitated and I feared he would refuse, but to my surprise he let out a long sigh, and said, ‘I will humour you for the moment, Mr Holmes. But then you must humour me.’ He took a second deep breath as a wave of emotion swept across his face. ‘He stood right here,’ said Sir Robert, indicating a spot adjacent to the special row of casks. ‘My son, Donal. The table was here, just as it is now, but festooned with ribbons and flowers. June, it was. There was a fiddler, he stood there—’ And as the laird pointed to a small area to the side of the table, his face softened as he travelled back in time to the night of the party. ‘And the girls—’
‘What girls?’
‘Oh, the village girls. Three or four of them. They all wanted my son. He was much admired, a handsome boy.’
‘And set to inherit the business,’ said Holmes.
‘Aye. The whisky was flowing. Silver quaiches lined the table. It was a bittersweet celebration, Donal and his friend set to leave for the army. I was already regretting the arrangements I had made for the posting, and yet I saw no other way to keep my boy from trouble. I had bought him, at rather great expense and considerable trouble, an officer’s commission. But that night, the music …’ The laird’s voice faded as he remembered.
‘Go on,’ said Holmes, drawing closer to him.
‘The party went on to the small hours. My wife Elizabeth grew tired and eventually I saw her to bed, closed up some accounts in my study, but then, seeing the light still on at the foot of the hill, came back. Everyone had gone but Donal and his friend, and oh yes, Cameron Coupe, there to close down the room and have a wee deoch an dorus.’
‘One last drink, I see. You rode all the way down, it must have been the middle of the night, and it was only those three? What time was this?’
‘Aye, just the three of them. It was one or two in the morning. I suggested Donal turn in as he had an early start but he wished to linger and said he would see me in the morning to say his goodbyes. That was the last I ever saw of my boy.’
Holmes once more looked around the room as if reliving the party of that long ago evening. ‘Did he leave you a note explaining why he left early?’
‘A short one. He could not face his mother for another painful goodbye. But she did not believe the note.’
‘Why not?’
‘Some silliness. Donal left behind a gift she had given him. A Celtic knife, a special one.’
‘Describe the knife, please.’
The laird gave Holmes a sharp look. ‘If this matters! It had, as I recall, a horn handle with silver filigree, and a big, amber-coloured jewel. A rather long blade for a jackknife, serrated on part of it. She said this knife had magic in it, and would “protect him against evil” but only if he were virtuous, otherwise it could bring him harm.’
Holmes glanced at me. That knife was in my pocket as we spoke, and we both knew it. He turned back to the laird.
‘A knife with a kind of curse on it, then?’ said Holmes. There was no trace of sarcasm in his tone, although I knew he did not believe.
‘A blessing and a curse. She intended it, I suppose, to help keep Donal to his better nature. My wife, alas, was like that, ever since we lost Anne. Superstitious. Fearful.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘But she was sure he would never have left it.’
‘Was the handwriting in the note your son’s?’
‘Unmistakably.’
‘Do you still have it?’
The laird shook his head.
‘And where is this “magic” knife now?’ asked Holmes.
‘Gone. I could not bear the effect it had on Elizabeth and so I gave it to my valet and told Elizabeth it was lost. It was a strange thing, however. My man swore it brought him bad luck and
he sold it, I believe, in Aberdeen.’
Holmes mounted the raised platform and began to pace, his eyes raking over everything like searchlights. ‘Where were the young men standing when last you saw them?’
‘Right here.’ The laird stood at one end of the table, near the single row of casks. ‘I have not been in this room since Donal’s death in Khartoum nearly four years ago now. I have sent in others to sample, I could not bear it, the memory of his last night is so strong. But now I must break the curse and turn this place once more into a room of celebration. When the royal party are here the night after next, I will give them a drink the likes of which they have never tasted before!’ He tapped the nearest cask, inhaling deeply and seeming to take strength in the whisky-scented air.
Holmes paused at one end of the table. ‘Laird Robert, who was Donal’s friend?’
The laird turned sharply to him. ‘Just a friend from Camford. I did not like the boy. It is irrelevant. He is dead now.’
‘With respect, sir, it is not for you to decide what is relevant.’
‘I have hired you to find my daughter’s killer. Not to drill into the details of my late son and his friends.’
‘It may well be relevant. I must know who your enemies are, Sir Robert. It is possible there is one lurking in history. Again, who was Donal’s friend?’
‘Ach, I wish he had never met the fellow. A troublemaker he was. I am convinced he set my boy wrong, inciting him into pub fights and the like, but Donal championed him to me, saying he would not go away unless I helped his friend too. I had to. Prison awaited my son if he did not go into the army.’
‘Prison! What had they done?’ I asked.
‘Foolishness. Some time after University, 1876 it was, they were travelling in France and got into a brawl with another young man. A broken nose and some broken pride. Unfortunately the nose belonged to a Duke’s eldest son.’
‘I see,’ said I, trying to sound sympathetic.
‘When I arranged for Donal, I presumed the other boy’s family – they were very wealthy – would do the same. They declined, apparently having had enough of his troublemaking. I obliged and so you see, there would be no enemy there. Donal was to enter as a Guards officer, and he would ne’er see a day of fighting, was what I had planned for him.’
‘And the other boy?’ enquired Holmes, impatiently.
‘The artillery, I believe, but – ah, you frown, Dr Watson. Dangerous, yes, but at least the post was as a junior officer. As it was he died not long after in El Obeid.’
‘What was this boy’s name?’ asked Holmes in frustration.
But the laird seemed once more caught in his reverie. ‘I remember the night was quite warm—’ He turned to Holmes. ‘August—’
‘I thought you said this happened in June.’
‘No, the name. August. August Bell Clarion.’
Holmes had his back to me. His body went suddenly rigid, his head tilted slightly to one side. There was something in that posture that alarmed me. A critical fact had just been revealed, though I could not discern what it was. I expected a sharp question to follow, but it did not come.
There was a long pause. With a sharp intake of breath, Holmes looked around him, taking in the entire room and its contents again, as if he had just walked in and never seen it before. Whoever ‘August Bell Clarion’ was, he seemed to be known to my friend.
He turned back to the laird. ‘Was this Clarion gone in the morning as well?’
The laird nodded.
Holmes frowned. ‘What has been changed in the room since that night?’
‘Nothing in this area. A new edition has been brought in over there,’ He gestured down one of the aisles. ‘But most of the casks in this building have been maturing in place for many years.’
‘What are these barrels here, this row set out from the rest?’ asked Holmes, indicating the five casks near the table where we now stood.
‘They are casks, not barrels. How can this help us, Mr Holmes?’
‘Nevertheless!’
‘This row contains the tasting casks of our special edition, McLaren Garnet, taken at different times in the run, that is filled at different times during the distillation. Here our visitors are given a taste. This edition is matured in casks, port butts they are called, due to their size and because they previously contained port. It gives them a rich, nutty, sweet flavour, hard to describe but so easy to taste. It will be our crowning achievement.’ He tapped the nearest one. ‘They are all good. These five, filled at different times, are our tasters. 51 is my personal favourite. I shall serve from these tomorrow night. One will be opened to demonstrate the inside finish of the cask, one of our secrets.’
‘Each cask tastes a little different?’ I asked.
‘Only to the educated taste,’ said the laird. ‘Later they will be combined in a single vat to unify the flavours before bottling.’
‘So we have been told,’ said Holmes. ‘Was this special row set out in exactly this position, that night?’ Holmes was eying the row, moving down along it with his sharp eyes taking in every detail.
‘Yes, at my request. We have sampled them regularly, before and since. This whisky will be the making of McLaren Distilleries. One taste of McLaren Garnet and we will have our Royal Warrant.’
‘When you sample them, who has drawn the liquid if not yourself?’
‘Various people. Coupe of course, both my sons, and myself. Why?’
Holmes was at the row of casks now, walking down past them and staring at each with that eagle look of concentration. ‘What are these … circles? Here, and here. Small round wooden plugs.’
‘Surely you know, Mr Holmes and toy with me now. They are called “bung holes” and it is where we insert the valinch, or some call it the “whisky thief”, and draw out a sample. You did not know? I will show you.’
He opened the plug on the nearest cask, and inserted a lengthy, slender pipe-like instrument of aged brass. Putting his mouth over one end, with a brief draw through the pipe, for that is what it was, he brought some liquid up. He took up a small glass, placed nearby for this purpose and deposited a half-inch of reddish amber liquid.
‘Taste,’ he directed my friend.
Holmes waved it away ‘Thank you, no’ he said crisply.
Before the laird could respond, I stepped forward to cover this awkward moment. ‘I would be delighted,’ I said, receiving the glass. I took a sip. I am no expert but the flavour was extraordinary. ‘Very nice. Very nice, indeed!’ I took another taste. Rich, flavourful. Warming.
‘Aye, it is always best straight from the cask,’ said the laird.
I turned to Holmes who had been standing to one side, but he was nowhere to be seen.
The laird saw my confused look and turned to see the faint glow of the lantern, just visible through the supports, in the shadows underneath the row of the five tasting casks. And there, in the very narrow space between the row of five casks and the wall, Holmes was on his hands and knees behind them, his magnifying glass out, searching the floor and the wall behind the casks. Bending down to see what he was doing, I noticed he had withdrawn a small pocketknife and was digging into a crevice in the floorboards.
‘What are you doing?’ cried the laird. ‘Come out from there!’
There was no reply. He lunged forward but the area between the casks and the wall was too narrow for his broad and bulky frame and he could not follow where Holmes, whippet thin and limber, had gone. I could not have fitted back there, myself.
‘Mr Holmes!’ the laird said. ‘You try my patience exceedingly. What has this to do with Fiona?’
Holmes rose with difficulty from behind the casks and edged out from behind them towards me, pocketing his magnifying glass. His coat was streaked with dirt, his face a mask of concentration. In his right hand he held the small pocketknife, blade extended. He took a clean handkerchief, wiped his knife carefully upon it, examined the residue, folded both with deliberation and put them in his pocket. On
ly then did he look up at the laird. ‘Sir, I can honestly say I do not yet know. But you must allow me to take the path I require.’
‘Well let me inform you of my own “path”, Mr Holmes. I have employed you to solve the murder of Fiona Paisley. I have seen little result. The night after next is the most important in the history of this distillery. I will not have it ruined by your presence.’
‘I can assure you of complete discretion,’ said Holmes smoothly. ‘No one need know.’
I retrieved the laird’s lantern from underneath the row of casks and replaced it on the table.
‘I have been unable to keep the whole story from the public, Mr Holmes. The only possible way to defuse this scandal is to solve it before the royal visit.’ His voice rose in pitch and volume as sweat began to pour from his brow. ‘If the most renowned private detective in London cannot manage—’
‘I am a consulting detective, sir. And you have yet to bring in the police.’
The laird’s voice rose to a shout. ‘Mr Holmes! Solve this case by noon the day after tomorrow. Otherwise, believe me, sir, there will be serious repercussions. I need not remind you that I am well connected in London. I can have you ruined and rotting in gaol. You look doubtful? Do not doubt it. Even your brother will be powerless to help you. You will have delivered your results and be gone before the royal visitors arrive. Is that understood?’
Holmes was about to make a stinging reply, and I put a hand to his arm, but we were interrupted by the sharp sound of a door banging open at the back of the room. Cameron Coupe was standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the bright gaslit courtyard immediately outside.
‘Sir, I heard voices. Can I be of assistance?’ he asked. Behind him loomed two distillery employees, including two burly men we had seen before, one with the ruined face. Their posture was distinctly threatening.
I wondered whether he had been listening behind that door.
‘Thank you, no,’ said the laird, altering his tone. ‘But come with me to Building C for a moment, Mr Coupe. I need to understand the problem you are having with the temperature in the new mash tun.’
Unquiet Spirits: Whisky, Ghosts, Murder Page 22
