The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [249]
“I fear, gentlemen,” he said eventually, “I shall not be good company for the next few hours, and so I will, with your permission, take a brisk walk and join you both for dinner at the Hamilton Arms around seven-thirty. I have booked a table for eight o’clock.” Without another word, Barker signaled that Henry should bring the car to a halt, and we watched as he climbed out and headed off down a country lane. Henry did not drive on until his friend was well out of sight.
My sympathies were entirely with Barker, although I remained puzzled by the whole affair. How could the president of the Wine Society make such basic mistakes? After all, I could read one page of Dickens and know it wasn’t Graham Greene.
Like Dr. Watson, I felt I required a fuller explanation.
Barker found us sitting round the fire in the private bar at the Hamilton Arms a little after seven-thirty that night. Following his exercise, he appeared in far better spirits. He chatted about nothing consequential and didn’t once mention what had taken place at lunchtime.
It must have been a few minutes later, when I turned to check the old clock above the door, that I saw Hamilton’s butler seated at the bar in earnest conversation with the innkeeper. I would have thought nothing of it had I not noticed the same terrified look that I had witnessed earlier in the afternoon as he pointed in our direction. The innkeeper appeared equally anxious, as if he had been found guilty of serving half measures by a customs and excise officer.
He picked up some menus and walked over to our table.
“We’ve no need for those,” said Barker. “Your reputation goes before you. We are in your hands. Whatever you suggest we will happily consume.”
“Thank you, sir,” he said and passed our host the wine list.
Barker studied the contents inside the leather-bound covers for some time before a large smile appeared on his face. “I think you had better select the wines as well,” he said, “as I have a feeling you know the sort of thing I would expect.”
“Of course, sir,” said the innkeeper, as Freddie passed back the wine list, leaving me totally mystified, remembering that this was Barker’s first visit to the inn.
The innkeeper left for the kitchens while we chatted away and didn’t reappear for some fifteen minutes.
“Your table is ready, gentlemen,” he said, and we followed him into an adjoining dining room. There were only a dozen tables, and since ours was the last to be filled there was no doubting the inn’s popularity.
The innkeeper had selected a light supper of consommé, followed by thin slices of duck, almost as if he had known that we would be unable to handle another heavy meal after our lunch at the Hall.
I was also surprised to find that all the wines he had chosen were served in decanters, and I assumed that the innkeeper must therefore have selected the house wines. As each was poured and consumed, I admit that, to my untutored palate, they seemed far superior to those I had drunk at Sefton Hall earlier that day. Barker certainly seemed to linger over every mouthful and on one occasion said appreciatively, “This is the real McCoy.”
At the end of the evening, when our table had been cleared, we sat back and enjoyed a magnificent port and smoked cigars.
It was at this point that Henry mentioned Hamilton for the first time.
“Are you going to let us into the mystery of what really happened at lunch today?” he asked.
“I’m still not altogether sure myself,” came back Barker’s reply, “but I am certain of one thing: Mr. Hamilton’s father was a man who knew his wines, while his son doesn’t.”
I would have pressed Barker further on the subject if the innkeeper had not arrived by his side at that moment.
“An excellent meal,” Barker declared. “And as for the wine—quite exceptional.”
“You are kind, sir,” said the innkeeper, as he handed him the bill.