Lord Peter Views the Body (26 page)

    ‘That is scarcely a searching ordeal,’ said the other, with a smile. ‘I can say definitely that it is a very pleasant and well-matured Chablis Moutonne; and, since ten years is an excellent age for a Chablis – a real Chablis – I should vote for 1916, which was perhaps the best of the war vintages in that district.’

    ‘Have you anything to add to that opinion, monsieur?’ enquired the count, deferentially, of Peter II.

    ‘I wouldn’t like to be dogmatic to a year or so,’ said that gentleman critically, ‘but if I must commit myself, don’t you know, I should say  – decidely 1915.’

    The count bowed, and turned to Bredon.

    ‘Perhaps you, too, monsieur, would be interested to give an opinion,’ he suggested, with the exquisite courtesy always shown to the plain man in the society of experts.

    ‘I’d rather not set a standard which I might not be able to live up to,’ replied Bredon, a little maliciously. ‘I know that it is 1915, for I happened to see the label.’

    Peter II looked a little disconcerted.

    ‘We will arrange matters better in future,’ said the count. ‘Pardon me.’ He stepped apart for a few moments’ conference with the butler, who presently advanced to remove the oysters and bring in the soup.

    The next candidate for attention arrived swathed to the lip in damask.

    ‘It is your turn to speak first, monsieur,’ said the count to Peter II. ‘Permit me to offer you an olive to cleanse the palate. No haste, I beg. Even for the most excellent political ends, good wine must not be used with disrespect.’

    The rebuke was not unnecessary, for, after a preliminary sip, Peter II had taken a deep draught of the heady white richness. Under Peter I’s quizzical eye he wilted quite visibly.

    ‘It is – it is Sauterne,’ he began, and stopped. Then gathering encouragement from Bredon’s smile, he said, with more aplomb, ‘Château Yquem, 1911 – ah! the queen of white wines, sir, as what’s-his-name says.’ He drained his glass defiantly.

    The count’s face was a study as he slowly detached his fascinated gaze from Peter II to fix it on Peter I.

    ‘If I had to be impersonated by somebody,’ murmured the latter gently, ‘it would have been more flattering to have had it undertaken by a person to whom all white wine were
not
alike. Well, now, sir, this admirable vintage is, of course, a Montrachet of – let me see’ – he rolled the wine delicately upon his tongue – ‘of 1911. And a very attractive wine it is, though, with all due deference to yourself, monsieur le comte, I feel that it is perhaps slightly too sweet to occupy its present place in the menu. True, with this excellent
consommé marmite
, a sweetish wine is not altogether out of place, but, in my own humble opinion, it would have shown to better advantage with the
confitures
.’

    ‘There, now,’ said Bredon innocently, ‘it just shows how one may be misled. Had not I had the advantage of Lord Peter’s expert opinion – for certainly nobody who could mistake Montrachet for Sauterne has any claim to the name of Wimsey – I should have pronounced this to be, not the Montrachet-Aîné, but the Chevalier-Montrachet of the same year, which is a trifle sweeter. But no doubt; as your lordship says, drinking it with the soup has caused it to appear sweeter to me than it actually is.’

    The count looked sharply at him, but made no comment.

    ‘Have another olive,’ said Peter I kindly. ‘You can’t judge wine if your mind is on other flavours.’

    ‘Thanks frightfully,’ said Bredon. ‘And that reminds me—’ He launched into a rather pointless story about olives, which lasted out the soup and bridged the interval to the entrance of an exquisitely cooked sole.

    The count’s eye followed the pale amber wine rather thoughtfully as it trilled into the glasses. Bredon raised his in the approved manner to his nostrils, and his face flushed a little. With the first sip he turned excitedly to his host.

    ‘Good God, sir—’ he began.

    The lifted hand cautioned him to silence.

    Peter I sipped, inhaled, sipped again, and his brows clouded. Peter II had by this time apparently abandoned his pretensions. He drank thirstily, with a beaming smile and a lessening hold upon reality.

    ‘Eh bien, monsieur?’ enquired the count gently.

    ‘This,’ said Peter I, ‘is certainly hock, and the noblest hock I have ever tasted, but I must admit that for the moment I cannot precisely place it.’

    ‘No?’ said Bredon. His voice was like bean-honey now, sweet and harsh together. ‘Nor the other gentleman? And yet I fancy I could place it within a couple of miles, though it is a wine I had hardly looked to find in a French cellar at this time. It is hock, as your lordship says, and at that it is Johannisberger. Not the plebian cousin, but the
echter
Schloss Johannisberger from the castle vineyard itself. Your lordship must have missed it (to your great loss) during the war years. My father laid some down the year before he died, but it appears that the ducal cellars at Denver were less well furnished.’

    ‘I must set about remedying the omission,’ said the remaining Peter, with determination.

    The
poulet
was served to the accompaniment of an argument over the Lafitte, his lordship placing it at 1878, Bredon maintaining it to be a relic of the glorious ’seventy-fives, slightly over-matured, but both agreeing as to its great age and noble pedigree.

    As to the Clos-Vougeôt, on the other hand, there was complete agreement; after a tentative suggestion of 1915, it was pronounced finally by Peter I to belong to the equally admirable though slightly lighter 1911 crop. The
pré-salé
was removed amid general applause and the dessert was brought in.

    ‘Is it necessary,’ asked Peter I, with a slight smile in the direction of Peter II – now happily murmuring, ‘Damn good wine, damn good dinner, damn good show’ – ‘is it necessary to prolong this farce any further?’

    ‘Your lordship will not, surely, refuse to proceed with the discussion?’ cried the count.

    ‘The point is sufficiently made, I fancy.’

    ‘But no one will surely ever refuse to discuss wine,’ said Bredon, ‘least of all your lordship, who is so great an authority.’

    ‘Not on this,’ said the other. ‘Frankly, it is a wine I do not care about. It is sweet and coarse, qualities that would damn any wine in the eyes – the mouth, rather – of a connoisseur. Did your excellent father have this laid down also, Mr Bredon?’

    Bredon shook his head.

    ‘No,’ he said, ‘no. Genuine Imperial Tokay is beyond the opportunities of Grub Street, I fear. Though I agree with you that it is horribly overrated – with all due deference to yourself, monsieur le comte.’

    ‘In that case,’ said the count, ‘we will pass at once to the liqueur. I admit that I had thought of puzzling these gentlemen with the local product, but, since one competitor seems to have scratched, it shall be brandy – the only fitting close to a good wine-list.’

    In a slightly embarrassing silence the huge, round-bellied balloon glasses were set upon the table, and the few precious drops poured gently into each and set lightly swinging to release the bouquet.

    ‘This,’ said Peter I, charmed again into amiability, ‘is, indeed a woman’s old French brandy. Half a century old, I suppose.’

    ‘Your lordship’s praise lacks warmth,’ replied Bredon. ‘This is
the
brandy – the brandy of brandies – the superb – the incomparable – the true Napoleon. It should be honoured like the emperor it is.’

    He rose to his feet, his napkin in his hand.

    ‘Sir,’ said the count, turning to him, ‘I have on my right a most admirable judge of wine, but you are unique.’ He motioned to Pierre, who solemnly brought forward the empty bottles, unswathed now, from the humble Chablis to the stately Napoleon, with the imperial seal blown in the glass. ‘Every time you have been correct as to growth and year. There cannot be six men in the world with such a palate as yours, and I thought that but one of them was an Englishman. Will you not favour us, this time, with your real name?’

    ‘It doesn’t matter what his name is,’ said Peter I. He rose. ‘Put up your hands, all of you. Count, the formula!’

    Bredon’s hands came up with a jerk, still clutching the napkin. The white folds spurted flame as his shot struck the other’s revolver cleanly between trigger and barrel, exploding the charge, to the extreme detriment of the glass chandelier. Peter I stood shaking his paralysed hand and cursing.

    Bredon kept him covered while he cocked a wary eye at Peter II, who, his rosy visions scattered by the report, seemed struggling back to aggressiveness.

    ‘Since the entertainment appears to be taking a lively turn,’ observed Bredon, ‘perhaps you would be so good, count, as to search these gentlemen for further firearms. Thank you. Now, why should we not all sit down again and pass the bottle round?’

    ‘You –
you
are—’ growled Peter I.

    ‘Oh, my name is Bredon all right,’ said the young man cheerfully. ‘I loathe aliases. Like another fellow’s clothes, you know – never seem quite to fit. Peter Death Bredon Wimsey – a bit lengthy and all that, but handy when taken in instalments. I’ve got a passport and all those things, too, but I didn’t offer them, as their reputation here seems a little blown upon, so to speak. As regards the formula, I think I’d better give you my personal cheque for it – all sorts of people seem able to go about flourishing Bank of England notes. Personally, I think all this secret diplomacy work is a mistake, but that’s the War Office’s pigeon. I suppose we all brought similar credentials. Yes, I thought so. Some bright person seems to have sold himself very successfully in two places at once. But you two must have been having a lively time, each thinking the other was me.’

    ‘My lord,’ said the count heavily, ‘these two men are, or were, Englishmen, I suppose. I do not care to know what Governments have purchased their treachery. But where they stand, I, alas! stand too. To our venal and corrupt Republic I, as a Royalist, acknowledge no allegiance. But it is in my heart that I have agreed to sell my country to England because of my poverty. Go back to your War Office and say I will not give you the formula. If war should come between our countries – which may God avert! – I will be found on the side of France. That, my lord, is my last word.’

    Wimsey bowed.

    ‘Sir,’ said he, ‘it appears that my mission has, after all, failed. I am glad of it. This trafficking in destruction is a dirty kind of business after all. Let us shut the door upon these two, who are neither flesh nor fowl, and finish the brandy in the library.’

THE LEARNED ADVENTURE OF THE DRAGON'S HEAD

‘Uncle Peter!’

    ‘Half a jiff, Gherkins. No, I don’t think I’ll take the Catullus, Mr Ffolliott. After all, thirteen guineas is a bit steep without either the title or the last folio, what? But you might send me round the Vitruvius and the Satyricon when they come in; I’d like to have a look at them, anyhow. Well, old man, what is it?’

    ‘Do come and look at these pictures, Uncle Peter. I’m sure it’s an awfully old book.’

    Lord Peter Wimsey sighed as he picked his way out of Mr Ffolliott’s dark back shop, strewn with the flotsam and jetsam of many libraries. An unexpected outbreak of measles at Mr Bultridge’s excellent preparatory school, coinciding with the absence of the Duke and Duchess of Denver on the Continent, had saddled his lordship with his ten-year-old nephew, Viscount St George, more commonly known as Young Jerry, Jerrykins, or Pickled Gherkins. Lord Peter was not one of those born uncles who delight old nurses by their fascinating ‘way with’ children. He succeeded, however, in earning tolerance on honorable terms by treating the young with the same scrupulous politeness which he extended to their elders. He therefore prepared to receive Gherkins’s discovery with respect, though a child’s taste was not to be trusted, and the book might quite well be some horror of woolly mezzotints or an inferior modern reprint adorned with leprous electros. Nothing much better was really to be expected from the ‘cheap shelf’ exposed to the dust of the street.

    ‘Uncle! there’s such a funny man here, with a great long nose and ears and a tail and dogs’ heads all over his body.
Monstrum hoc Cracoviæ
– that’s a monster, isn’t it? I should jolly well think it was. What’s
Cracoviæ
, Uncle Peter?’

    ‘Oh,’ said Lord Peter, greatly relieved, ‘the Cracow monster?’ A portrait of that distressing infant certainly argued a respectable antiquity. ‘Let’s have a look. Quite right, it’s a very old book – Munster’s
Cosmographia Universalis
. I’m glad you know good stuff when you see it, Gherkins. What’s the
Cosmographia
doing out here, Mr Ffolliott, at five bob?”

    ‘Well, my lord,’ said the bookseller, who had followed his customers to the door, ‘it’s in a very bad state, you see; covers loose and nearly all the double-page maps missing. It came in a few weeks ago – dumped in with a collection we bought from a gentleman in Norfolk – you’ll find his name in it – Dr Conyers of Yelsall Manor. Of course, we might keep it and try to make up a complete copy when we get another example. But it’s rather out of our line, as you know, classical authors being our speciality. So we just put it out to go for what it would fetch in the
status quo
, as you might say.’