Read Online Sweet Poison by David Roberts - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Roberts
Ads: Link
dismissed the butler and offered Larmore, the most knowledgeable wine-lover among his guests, a light-hearted challenge. ‘Larmore, I remember you telling me you were interested in port so I thought you might like to taste this,’ he began, with all the benevolence of one who knows he is going to give his guests a treat they probably don’t deserve.
The Duke passed him the decanter and Larmore filled his glass before passing it on. While the others were filling their glasses Larmore was going through an elaborate pantomime, examining the wine as he rolled it in his glass and making curious grunts as he mentally checked off its characteristics. He put the glass to his nose and a strange expression transformed his face. Concentrating fiercely, he drank from his glass. The effect was immediate. The lines of petulance around his rather small mouth vanished and his eyes, which had been narrow and anxious-looking during dinner, shone like those of a dog unexpectedly presented with a particularly juicy beef bone. His whole bearing indicated intense, almost sexual, pleasure. ‘By Jove, Duke,’ he said at last, ‘this is splendid. I don’t know I have ever tasted anything finer. Who is the shipper?’
The Duke assumed a look of low cunning. ‘If I tell you the shipper, can you tell me the vintage?’
‘Very well,’ said Larmore.
‘Taylor’s,’ said the Duke.
All eyes were turned on Larmore but he seemed not in the least disconcerted. ‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘I thought it was big enough to be the Taylor’s – splendidly rich and powerful.’ He smelled the port again and then held the glass up to the candlelight. ‘As for the vintage, I think it is too mature to be the ’12 which really leaves only the 1900 or the 1896. Hmm – the only port I have had which could begin to match this was with the Devonshires last Christmas and that was the ’86 Graham’s – a regal port but not as good as this – so I think I am going to go for ’96.’ He looked at the Duke inquiringly.
‘Very well done, Larmore. You have hit the nail on the head. Please, fill your glass.’
There was a murmur of approbation from the General and from Lord Weaver.
‘Certainly I couldn’t have done that, Larmore – identified the vintage, I mean,’ said Weaver admiringly, ‘but even I, Duke, can appreciate it’s of particular sweetness and strength – the wrong words, I know, but I have always found it difficult to describe the distinctive character of a fine wine, so you’ll have to forgive me. You have really done us proud, sir.’ Weaver raised his glass towards the Duke and the Duke bowed his head modestly. ‘The burgundy we had with the fish, that was Corton Charlemagne, was it not?’
‘1921, Louis Latour,’ confirmed the Duke.
‘And if I may be so vulgar as to inquire,’ Weaver continued, ‘the claret was . . . ?’
‘Château Haut-Brion, 1920,’ said the Duke, embarrassed but proud. He did not like to seem to brag but it was well that his guests – even philistines like the Bishop and von Friedberg – should understand the compliment he had paid them.
Once again everyone was silent. Larmore refilled his glass and admired the rich ruby colour which, when he held his glass up to the candle, seemed to flame and flicker. He then lowered his head reverentially as if, the Bishop thought, he was going to pray and inhaled the intoxicating scent of a wine which had been maturing for two generations. Still without speaking, he put his lips to the delicate glass and sipped. The lines of anxiety below his eyes were smoothed and his smile lit up his countenance so that, to the Bishop who was sitting opposite him, he suddenly seemed a much younger man.
General Craig said, ‘I don’t have your knowledge, Larmore, but even my untutored palate recognizes greatness.’ He raised his glass to his lips, his hand shaking so noticeably that the Duke wondered if he were ill. Instead of sipping the wine and savouring its
The Duke passed him the decanter and Larmore filled his glass before passing it on. While the others were filling their glasses Larmore was going through an elaborate pantomime, examining the wine as he rolled it in his glass and making curious grunts as he mentally checked off its characteristics. He put the glass to his nose and a strange expression transformed his face. Concentrating fiercely, he drank from his glass. The effect was immediate. The lines of petulance around his rather small mouth vanished and his eyes, which had been narrow and anxious-looking during dinner, shone like those of a dog unexpectedly presented with a particularly juicy beef bone. His whole bearing indicated intense, almost sexual, pleasure. ‘By Jove, Duke,’ he said at last, ‘this is splendid. I don’t know I have ever tasted anything finer. Who is the shipper?’
The Duke assumed a look of low cunning. ‘If I tell you the shipper, can you tell me the vintage?’
‘Very well,’ said Larmore.
‘Taylor’s,’ said the Duke.
All eyes were turned on Larmore but he seemed not in the least disconcerted. ‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘I thought it was big enough to be the Taylor’s – splendidly rich and powerful.’ He smelled the port again and then held the glass up to the candlelight. ‘As for the vintage, I think it is too mature to be the ’12 which really leaves only the 1900 or the 1896. Hmm – the only port I have had which could begin to match this was with the Devonshires last Christmas and that was the ’86 Graham’s – a regal port but not as good as this – so I think I am going to go for ’96.’ He looked at the Duke inquiringly.
‘Very well done, Larmore. You have hit the nail on the head. Please, fill your glass.’
There was a murmur of approbation from the General and from Lord Weaver.
‘Certainly I couldn’t have done that, Larmore – identified the vintage, I mean,’ said Weaver admiringly, ‘but even I, Duke, can appreciate it’s of particular sweetness and strength – the wrong words, I know, but I have always found it difficult to describe the distinctive character of a fine wine, so you’ll have to forgive me. You have really done us proud, sir.’ Weaver raised his glass towards the Duke and the Duke bowed his head modestly. ‘The burgundy we had with the fish, that was Corton Charlemagne, was it not?’
‘1921, Louis Latour,’ confirmed the Duke.
‘And if I may be so vulgar as to inquire,’ Weaver continued, ‘the claret was . . . ?’
‘Château Haut-Brion, 1920,’ said the Duke, embarrassed but proud. He did not like to seem to brag but it was well that his guests – even philistines like the Bishop and von Friedberg – should understand the compliment he had paid them.
Once again everyone was silent. Larmore refilled his glass and admired the rich ruby colour which, when he held his glass up to the candle, seemed to flame and flicker. He then lowered his head reverentially as if, the Bishop thought, he was going to pray and inhaled the intoxicating scent of a wine which had been maturing for two generations. Still without speaking, he put his lips to the delicate glass and sipped. The lines of anxiety below his eyes were smoothed and his smile lit up his countenance so that, to the Bishop who was sitting opposite him, he suddenly seemed a much younger man.
General Craig said, ‘I don’t have your knowledge, Larmore, but even my untutored palate recognizes greatness.’ He raised his glass to his lips, his hand shaking so noticeably that the Duke wondered if he were ill. Instead of sipping the wine and savouring its
Similar Books
