Read Online Monsieur Pamplemousse on the Spot by Michael Bond - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Bond
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cloth the wine was amber-gold,tinged with yellow at the rim. It augured well. There was no sign of maderisation.
‘ Monsieur .’ The sommelier handed him one of the glasses. Taking it by the base, Monsieur Pamplemousse held it up to the light, then down against the cloth, regarding it for a while, tilting it through forty-five degrees so that he could watch the ‘legs’ form on the inside. Satisfied at long last, he held the glass to his nose and savoured the rich, unmistakable, honeyed smell, powerful and concentrated.
The sweetness hit the tip of his tongue first. The flavour lingered long after the first mouthful, producing an aftertaste full of finesse and breeding.
‘It is how gold should taste.’
‘It will improve, Monsieur. A soupçon more of coldness.’
‘I have only tasted it once before and that was in company. Never have I had a whole bottle to myself, let alone two. It is too good to drink alone.’
They stood in silence for a while, then the sommelier put down his empty glass with a sigh of regret.
‘It is too good, Monsieur, for many people to drink at all. Unfortunately, in my profession one comes to realise that the best wine does not always go to those who appreciate it most.’
Pausing by the door, the man looked him straight in the eye. ‘Thank you again, Monsieur , and … bonne chance .’
Monsieur Pamplemousse pondered the remark over a biscuit. Perhaps he was being over-sensitive, but in the circumstances and considering what time it was, bonne nuit might have been more appropriate.
Pouring himself another glass of wine, he made his way into the bathroom. There was nothing more conducive to thought than a lingering hot bath and the notion of one enhanced by a bottle of Château d’Yquem was positively sybaritic.
But the bath produced little or no result other than an uneasy feeling that his presence at the hotel was a matter of some comment; that others knew far more than he did. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time. Most of his life he’d had to battle against such things. He would get there in the end.
As he lay luxuriating in the foam from a sachet of liquid bath oil, he turned over in his mind all that had happened that evening. Memories of his strange encounter in the wood came flooding back and multiplied, aided and abetted by the warm water, Badedas and Sauternes. He began to feel strangely disturbed. Perhaps a cold shower would have done him far more good.
The towels were of the finest cotton, satisfyingly large and absorbent; there was a voluminous dressing-gown monogrammed with the hotel’s initials to match.
Topping up his glass for the final time, Monsieur Pamplemousse placed the empty bottle on top of the refrigerator, consigned its companion to the compartment on the inside of the door, adjusted the temperature so that it wouldn’t become over-chilled, and retired at long last to his bed. With the alarm set for eight o’clock, he fluffed up the pillows and picked up his book. Opening it at the point where he’d left off in the restaurant, he returned to The Hound of the Baskervilles. But reading it did not come easily. He found himself going over the same paragraph again and again; Holmes was explaining to Watson a theory he had formed about some knotty problem.
Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself wondering sleepily what the famous detective would have made of his present situation, especially the encounter in the wood. Encounters of an amorous nature didn’t figure largely in Holmes’ adventures. He would have taken a coldly analytical approach to the whole thing, listing all the possibilities, trying them out on the Doctor for effect.
He glanced down. His own Watson was still fast asleep, twitching every so often in his dreams. He would get no help there for the time being.
Twisting open his Cross pen, he picked up a pad of paper and began to write. For some while he wrote and scratched out and amended and cut and edited and then rewrote again, filling
‘ Monsieur .’ The sommelier handed him one of the glasses. Taking it by the base, Monsieur Pamplemousse held it up to the light, then down against the cloth, regarding it for a while, tilting it through forty-five degrees so that he could watch the ‘legs’ form on the inside. Satisfied at long last, he held the glass to his nose and savoured the rich, unmistakable, honeyed smell, powerful and concentrated.
The sweetness hit the tip of his tongue first. The flavour lingered long after the first mouthful, producing an aftertaste full of finesse and breeding.
‘It is how gold should taste.’
‘It will improve, Monsieur. A soupçon more of coldness.’
‘I have only tasted it once before and that was in company. Never have I had a whole bottle to myself, let alone two. It is too good to drink alone.’
They stood in silence for a while, then the sommelier put down his empty glass with a sigh of regret.
‘It is too good, Monsieur, for many people to drink at all. Unfortunately, in my profession one comes to realise that the best wine does not always go to those who appreciate it most.’
Pausing by the door, the man looked him straight in the eye. ‘Thank you again, Monsieur , and … bonne chance .’
Monsieur Pamplemousse pondered the remark over a biscuit. Perhaps he was being over-sensitive, but in the circumstances and considering what time it was, bonne nuit might have been more appropriate.
Pouring himself another glass of wine, he made his way into the bathroom. There was nothing more conducive to thought than a lingering hot bath and the notion of one enhanced by a bottle of Château d’Yquem was positively sybaritic.
But the bath produced little or no result other than an uneasy feeling that his presence at the hotel was a matter of some comment; that others knew far more than he did. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time. Most of his life he’d had to battle against such things. He would get there in the end.
As he lay luxuriating in the foam from a sachet of liquid bath oil, he turned over in his mind all that had happened that evening. Memories of his strange encounter in the wood came flooding back and multiplied, aided and abetted by the warm water, Badedas and Sauternes. He began to feel strangely disturbed. Perhaps a cold shower would have done him far more good.
The towels were of the finest cotton, satisfyingly large and absorbent; there was a voluminous dressing-gown monogrammed with the hotel’s initials to match.
Topping up his glass for the final time, Monsieur Pamplemousse placed the empty bottle on top of the refrigerator, consigned its companion to the compartment on the inside of the door, adjusted the temperature so that it wouldn’t become over-chilled, and retired at long last to his bed. With the alarm set for eight o’clock, he fluffed up the pillows and picked up his book. Opening it at the point where he’d left off in the restaurant, he returned to The Hound of the Baskervilles. But reading it did not come easily. He found himself going over the same paragraph again and again; Holmes was explaining to Watson a theory he had formed about some knotty problem.
Monsieur Pamplemousse found himself wondering sleepily what the famous detective would have made of his present situation, especially the encounter in the wood. Encounters of an amorous nature didn’t figure largely in Holmes’ adventures. He would have taken a coldly analytical approach to the whole thing, listing all the possibilities, trying them out on the Doctor for effect.
He glanced down. His own Watson was still fast asleep, twitching every so often in his dreams. He would get no help there for the time being.
Twisting open his Cross pen, he picked up a pad of paper and began to write. For some while he wrote and scratched out and amended and cut and edited and then rewrote again, filling
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