“The fireplace is remotely operated,” Larson said, clicking a small black button on the bedside table and conjuring up a glowing gas fire in a matter of seconds. Not as atmospheric as the real thing, but since it could be done without abandoning the warmth of the matching queen-size duvets on the beds, I was sold. Larson pointed out a large bathroom with a heated black-and-white art deco tiled floor and a massive claw-foot tub as well as a modern rainfall shower.
“There’s a minibar here,” Larson continued, opening a wooden cabinet below the television, “and if you need anything else, Sophie is your personal assistant on this floor and Mrs. Easton is our head of housekeeping. Both are at your disposal at any time.”
From the look on Larson’s face, I expected that I could get a kangaroo in a top hat delivered in short order if I had the nerve to ask. It would be seductively easy to get used to the five-star-hotel life. My luggage had beat me to the room and was stowed in a closet big enough to throw a party in. Patrick’s suits were already neatly hung along one side. I noticed he’d left me the smaller side. He was in for a surprise.
Larson handed me a contemporary plastic key card before departing and leaving us to our own devices. I unpacked my new finery and hung everything in the closet to shed some of the travel wrinkles. The open bottle of whisky on the table was too tempting, and I poured myself a drink and put my feet up on the coffee table in front of the fire. This was the life. Liam took a running leap and settled himself in the middle of the expensive-looking feather duvet, sighing as if he’d finally been introduced to the life he’d always known he deserved. I could see that bringing his bed from home had been a wasted effort.
Soon Liam was snoring softly and my eyes were beginning to feel heavy, but any hopes of a decadent afternoon nap were dashed by Patrick’s boisterous arrival.
“Hi ya.” He planted a kiss on both cheeks and stood looking down at me with a grin on his boyish face. “It’s about time you showed up. Let’s get moving.”
“We just got here,” I groaned. “Where’re we going now?”
“The Whisky Journal’s sponsoring a falconry session for the judges and a few special guests. I signed you up so you can get a little quality face time with the judges.” The gold flecks in Patrick’s brown eyes sparkled in the light from the fire. “Come on. We’ll be late.”
I sighed. I was really enjoying reveling in the luxury of the room, feet up, whisky in hand. I wasn’t sure that birding with the Barley Boys was tops on my to-do list. I poked at Liam with my finger. “Come on, you. If I’m going, you’re going. Of the two of us, you’re the bigger bird fan.”
I decided it would be wise to rein Liam in, so I clipped a leash to his collar in spite of the dirty look I got. Since we’d left the city Liam was used to moving around unfettered, but birds had always been both a torment and a temptation for him. I needed to be sure he wouldn’t run amok. Patrick was wearing a Barbour jacket and a pair of meticulously maintained Dubarry boots. Neither looked as if they’d seen a sprinkle, let alone a full-on downpour. As always, Patrick looked picture-perfect, chiseled cheekbones and perfectly coifed hair looking like he just stepped out of the pages of Country Life.
As we emerged into the cold, damp air, I was even less thrilled to be leaving the warm cocoon of the hotel behind. But I hustled to keep up with Patrick as he led me around the back of the hotel and along a fine gravel path toward the falconry school. The leafless trees were outlined against the pale-gray sky and a few heavier clouds skittered along the hill line, whispering of the possibility of snow when the temperature dropped overnight. The manor house receded behind us and we walked along the manicured path to a two-story stone-and-timber structure set on a rise with a beautiful view across the links and down to the woods. So close to the city of Stirling and yet the resort felt isolated and removed from the outside world. The perfect escape from the stresses of the modern world.
We went up the stairs to the club-room level, stopping briefly to admire a map of the estate on the landing. The property was much larger than I’d realized. It abutted the local village on the far west side. To the east were two golf courses, and on the far edge of the greens was a smattering of houses. A large equestrian facility took up another corner of the property. The falconry school and several outbuildings were secluded behind a stand of trees on the north side of the property. The south-facing side of the hotel looked across a rolling expanse of trees to the woods, where the shooting grounds were outlined in red.
On the main level, paintings of ancient hunting parties decorated the walls, and guests were encouraged to make themselves comfortable on the heavy wood furnishings upholstered in a rich green tartan print. A glass case full of trophies, cups, salvers, and medals told the story of the club’s historic successes. We were running slightly late, my fault according to Patrick, and his party was already there and waiting for us.
I was rapidly given the names of a sea of middle-aged men, all dressed in matching wax jackets and holding leather gloves. It was hard enough to distinguish one from the other at the best of times, but in this setting, with matching gear, it would be nearly impossible.
The loudest and most exuberant of the bunch was Sir Richard Simpson. A robust gentleman with unruly gray hair and a pair of remarkably agile eyebrows. “Abi, Sir Richard,” Patrick said. “We’re incredibly lucky to have him as one of this year’s judges.”
The eyebrows shot skyward as he turned to greet me. “Ms. Logan.” His voice had a resonant and carrying quality about it. “You are a most welcome and decorative addition to this gathering.”
I was treated to a limp grasp from his clammy fingers, as if Sir Richard were concerned that the excessive pressure of a normal handshake might crush my delicate fingers. I didn’t remind him that we’d met several years before when I’d photographed him for a piece in the Gazette. He was the type who wouldn’t have given the woman behind the lens a second glance. He turned and introduced me to his friend Archie MacInnes. MacInnes was equally robust, although slightly more porcine in appearance. His eyes were small and close together and his hair was thinning on the top. The elaborate comb-over displayed a few lingering strands of red amidst the gray. He blinked at me myopically, but at least he shook hands with more vigor than his companion. According to Simpson, Archie was a dear friend, a former distillery owner, and a fellow judge.
Richard’s brother Trevor was in attendance as well, an old friend of Patrick’s. We’d met several times in London. A somewhat morose character, he wore a shabby tweed jacket and a pair of worn hunting brogues underneath the wax coat. He’d aged poorly since the last time I saw him. His blond hair was still on the long side, but I could see a few threads of silver making their way in. The face that looked back at me had a well-lived-in appearance, and the bags under his eyes suggested a chronic lack of sleep. A lot had been asked of his liver down the years, and I would guess the same was true of his brother.
A third judge, Hugh Ashworth-Jones, an athletic-looking man in his early sixties, had cornered Sir Richard and MacInnes and was busily trying to establish a sporting wager for the afternoon’s activities. I wasn’t sure that falconry was a scoring event, but that seemed to be an irrelevant detail as far as Ashworth-Jones was concerned. He seemed like the type that couldn’t enjoy anything unless there was some element of risk involved.
The party was rounded out by the final two judges, Mark Findley, the cellar master from the Malt Whisky Society, and Gordon Craig, the whisky and spirits correspondent for the Glasgow Times. Findley was as tall and skinny as Craig was short and round. Standing together they reminded me of Laurel and Hardy. Craig stuck out a bear-sized paw and shook hands. He was dressed in full kilt regalia and looked like a garden gnome that had sprung to life.
“Always nice to meet a fellow journalist,” he said with a smile. “Especially one who owns a first-rate distillery. Keep telling Patrick we need to do a piece on the Glen for
the paper.”
“We’d be delighted,” I said.
“Hold off for a bit,” Mark Findley interjected. “You’ll be an award winner yet. I guarantee.”
Findley’d always been a fan of the Glen and kept a nice collection in the Society vaults in Edinburgh.
“There’s no guarantees, lad,” Sir Richard corrected, joining the discussion, “but she does have a damn good shot at a prize. The Glen has some very special whiskies.”
“I’ll take publicity any way I can get it,” I responded, smiling at Craig. “A spread in the Times would be more than welcome.”
“Win an award and you’ll get all the publicity you could ever want,” Findley pointed out. “Not just from the Times, but every major trade publisher, liquor store, and restaurant. You might even luck into the jackpot of them all, a Royal Warrant.”
I was starting to feel a bit foolish. “I guess I wasn’t aware that the Quaiches were such a big deal.”
“The biggest,” Sir Richard said with pride. “This is where the best of the best is crowned. Blind tastings, complete anonymity. Winning an award this weekend will mean hundreds of thousands of pounds in exposure, publicity, and revenue for the whiskies that prevail. Business has been tough lately. For some contenders this can be a make-or-break. The difference between going dark and flourishing.”
I could feel the bottom drop out of my stomach. I’d mistakenly dismissed these awards as a mere friendly local rivalry, but this was critical marketing leverage. In layman’s terms, a really big deal. I wished Grant had been clearer about what this could mean for the Glen. Not that there was anything I could do about it now, except to make nice with the judges and the press. Suddenly Patrick’s insistence that I attend made sense. Sir Richard excused himself, and I turned my attention to Craig and began chatting about his column and his favorite whiskies.
“I’m an Islay man myself,” he admitted. “Love the big peaty whiskies, but doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the softer, smoother whiskies as well.”
“Liam’s an Islay fan,” I said, patting the head leaning against my knee. “Loves those big peaty malts. I have to watch him or he’ll down anything left at nose level. Just the Islay’s mind.”
Craig looked down at Liam with new respect. “Lad has highly refined tastes. What about you?”
“I’m rather partial to my own brand,” I said honestly.
“Doesn’t get much better than your pure malt,” he agreed. “Lot of folks messin’ around with flavors and the like, but I’m a purist. Good clean, clear Scottish water, barley from our own soil, and the skill of a local craftsman steeped in tradition. It’s a symphony like no other.”
Once again, I was struck by the way whisky brought out the poet in otherwise dour men. The fact that this whole crew had probably swung by the tasting room before coming out to the falconry couldn’t have hurt either.
By now Hugh, Archie, Sir Richard, and Trevor were over by the window laying odds on who’d have the fastest bird and the largest bird. They were like boys on a school outing, but at least they seemed to be having a good time.
While we waited for our guide, Patrick and I were given protective leather gauntlets and matching jackets before being led down to the lower level of the clubhouse. A dozen falcons and Harris hawks were lined up in cages along the walls. Each cage was tagged with the name of the occupant and the age of the bird. The oldest was twenty-two.
Liam, who usually barked at birds with gusto, moved away from the cages and slunk over to the opposite wall, intimidated by the majestic creatures. The glossy brown and gold feathers of the hawks were exquisitely cared for, and as we moved along the row twenty-four silent watchful eyes frowned down at us. Expert hunters, powerful and keen-eyed, they would be merely humoring us if they deigned to perform for this group of dabblers.
When our guide arrived, he selected Patrick and me to help move the birds outside. I handed Liam’s leash to Trevor and went to get my bird, a fourteen-year-old male falcon, much the same size as the hawks, but with gray and white feathers. His sharply clawed yellow feet dug into the scuffed leather of my gauntlet and he eyed me sideways with fierce black eyes as if sizing me up. Liam was clearly in a quandary. Anxious to protect but equally keen to stay as far from my new friend as possible.
Patrick was given a Harris hawk. Glossy brown head and back feathers with an auburn wingspan. He looked at us both with his brown eyes, taking in every detail of his surroundings. I could see why it was called the sport of kings. These birds were every inch royal raptors.
We moved out into the yard and Trevor dropped Liam’s leash, allowing him to move to the periphery of the lawn. He sat there shooting disgusted looks in my general direction. The distance seemed to have revived his spirit, if not his nerve.
I was glad to find that the afternoon’s entertainment was less about actual hunting and more about experiencing the beauty of the birds of prey and the extent of their training. Small pieces of fresh rodent flesh had been hidden around the parkland and we were all given the opportunity to cast the birds off and watch them fly to the food source and return. It was amazing to watch the raptors catch an updraft and circle around in the clearing, swooping and floating in a midair ballet until they returned on command to the forearm of their keeper.
For the final demonstration, a live rabbit was going to be released from a cage to run across the lawn and be swept up in the massive claws of the hawk, a graphic display of the strength and skills of the bird. Patrick’s guests were excited and things were going relatively well—for everyone but the rabbit, that is. Our group had been moved to the edge of the field; most were poised to view this National Geographic moment through the lens of their cellphone camera. Patrick and I stood to the side still holding a bird each, fervently hoping that the hoods they were wearing now would prevent them from joining the pursuit. Although I had to say, if my bird wanted to go, I wasn’t keen to try to stop him. Those talons looked lethal.
The cage door was opened. The rabbit hesitated momentarily, then made a break for it across the field. The idea was to give the rabbit some degree of head start before releasing the raptor, but Liam, who’d been watching grumpily from the sideline, had finally seen something that he could take on and have some hope of besting.
The rabbit was making good time across the wide lawn, but its head start was nullified by the immediate pursuit of a blur of cream and brown fur. Once the hawk was released the scene devolved into a bit of a standoff. Liam managed to grab the rabbit by the scruff of the neck. The hawk was making a screeching noise as it circled the two before landing and attempting to separate Liam from his prize. Liam, to his credit, was determined to retain the upper paw now that he had it. In the end the trainer had to intervene, luring the hawk away with a dead mouse and hooding it to remove it from the field.
Liam returned triumphantly with the rabbit and dropped the terrified animal at my feet. It lay there frozen in fear until I swept it up and returned it to the relative safety of its cage. Liam’s antics had bought the bunny an extra day but hadn’t won him any friends at the falconry school. He was politely asked not to return.
I led him away in disgrace as Patrick and his pals relived the moment on video. I suspected Liam was about to find a significant YouTube following. At least the judges would remember me, though I wasn’t sure it would be favorably.
* * *
—
Back in the room, I retrieved my whisky and slipped into a hot bath to begin preparing for tonight’s dinner. I gave a silent thank-you to Katherine for intervening on the clothing front. My appearance and ability to fit in were going to be much more important than I’d thought.
“I see his lordship has made himself at home,” Patrick said as he came through the door. “That’s my bed, you know.”
“Sorry,” I offered, pulling the plug out with my toe and watching the water start to swirl awa
y down the drain. I dried off and slid into one of the hotel’s plush white robes, tying my damp hair up in a towel.
“Where did you get to?” I asked, settling in front of the vanity mirror.
“Trev and I stopped by Richard’s room for a quick drink.”
I grunted while attempting to apply mascara to my lower lashes without looking like a raccoon. I wasn’t bad at the makeup thing, I just wasn’t great, and it always took me forever. “You didn’t tell me Trev’s brother was one of the judges.”
“Didn’t I? They released the list about a month ago. I figured you might have seen.” Patrick grabbed my drink and moved it off the vanity and over to the coffee table. “You can catch up in a minute, but for now you need a steady hand.”
I threw my towel across the room and nailed him in the head.
“Really, I’m glad to see you’re making a bit of an effort. You need to look your best.”
“Implying that I usually don’t?” I growled. “I figured out how much this means listening to your buddies today. This could be a godsend for Abbey Glen publicity-wise and I don’t intend to let the team down.”
Patrick’s reply was cut short by a knock at the door. I stood up and opened it, peering around the heavy wooden frame to see a young woman in an old-fashioned maid’s uniform of pearl gray with a white lace collar. Her blond hair was secured in a tight bun and her face was unadorned with makeup. The name embroidered on the right pocket was Sophie. “Sorry to disturb you,” she said, “but I thought I’d stop by and see if wee man wanted to be taken out for a walk.”
I opened the door wider and turned to Patrick. “This nice young woman would like to take you for a walk. Any interest?”
I heard a smothered giggle from behind me and decided I liked Sophie already. Liam had barely moved and was now lying sprawled on his back in the middle of the duvet, snoring softly. I hoped the hotel didn’t mind dogs on their beds, but if they let them stay they had to expect it. Dogs are nothing if not creatures of comfort.
Deadly Dram Page 3
