‘Clumsy oaf,’ barked Hamilton.
‘I do apologize, sir,’ said Adams. He removed the spilled drop from the wooden table with a napkin. As he did so he stared at Barker with a desperate look that I felt sure had nothing to do with the spilling of the wine. However, he remained mute as he continued to circle the table.
Once again Barker went through his ritual, the swirling, the sniffing and finally the tasting. This time he took even longer. Hamilton became impatient and drummed the great Jacobean table with his podgy fingers.
‘It’s a Sauternes,’ began Barker.
‘Any halfwit could tell you that,’ said Hamilton. ‘I want to know the year and the vintage.’
His guest hesitated.
‘Château Guiraud 1976,’ he said flatly.
‘At least you are consistent,’ said Hamilton. ‘You’re always wrong.’
Barker flicked over the card.
‘Château d’Yquem 1980,’ he said in disbelief. It was a vintage that I had only seen at the bottom of wine lists in expensive restaurants and had never had the privilege of tasting. It puzzled me greatly that Barker could have been wrong about the Mona Lisa of wines.
Barker quickly turned toward Hamilton to protest and must have seen Adams standing behind his master, all six foot three of the man trembling, at exactly the same time I did. I wanted Hamilton to leave the room so I could ask Adams what was making him so fearful, but the owner of Sefton Hall was now in full cry.
Meanwhile Barker gazed at the butler for a moment more and, sensing his discomfort, lowered his eyes and contributed nothing else to the conversation until the port was poured some twenty minutes later.
‘Your last chance to avoid complete humiliation,’ said Hamilton.
A cheese board, displaying several varieties, was brought round and each guest selected his choice — I stuck to a Cheddar that I could have told Hamilton had not been produced in Somerset. Meanwhile the port was poured by the butler, who was now as white as a sheet. I began to wonder if he was going to faint, but somehow he managed to fill all four glasses before returning to stand a pace behind his master’s chair. Hamilton noticed nothing untoward.
Barker drank the port, not bothering with any of his previous preliminaries.
‘Taylor’s,’ he began.
‘Agreed,’ said Hamilton. ‘But as there are only three decent suppliers of port in the world, the year can be all that matters — as you, in your exalted position, must be well aware, Mr. Barker.’
Freddie nodded his agreement. ‘Nineteen seventy-five,’ he said firmly, then quickly flicked the card over.
‘Taylor’s, 1927,’ I read upside-down.
Once again Barker turned sharply toward his host, who was rocking with laughter. The butler stared back at his master’s guest with haunted eyes. Barker hesitated only for a moment before removing a checkbook from his inside pocket. He filled in the name ‘Sefton Hamilton’ and the figure of £200. He signed it and wordlessly passed the check along the table to his host.
‘That was only half the bargain,’ said Hamilton, enjoying every moment of his triumph.
Barker rose, paused and said, ‘I am a humbug.’
‘You are indeed, sir,’ said Hamilton.
After spending three of the most unpleasant hours of my life, I managed to escape with Henry and Freddie Barker a little after four o’clock. As Henry drove away from Sefton Hall neither of us uttered a word. Perhaps we both felt that Barker should be allowed the first comment.
‘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 the 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 he 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 but as 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 which 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.
My curiosity got the better of me, I’m sorry to admit, and I glanced at the bottom of the slim strip of paper. I couldn’t believe my eyes — the bill came to two hundred pounds.
To my surprise, Barker only commented, ‘Very reasonable, considering.’ He wrote out a check and passed it over to the innkeeper. ‘I have only tasted Château d’Yquem 1980 once before today,’ he added, ‘and Taylor’s 1927 never.’