Lord Leakham took his whisky doubtfully.
“I really shouldn’t at this time of the day,” he said. “Peptic ulcer you know. Still, it’s been a tiring morning. Who was that ghastly woman in the front row who kept interrupting?”
“I think I’ll have prawns to start with,” said Sir Giles hurriedly.
“Reminded me of the assizes in Newbury in ’28,” Lord Leakham continued. “Had a lot of trouble with a woman there. Kept getting up in the dock and shouting. Now what was her name?” He scratched his head with a mottled hand.
“Lady Maud is rather outspoken,” Sir Giles agreed. “She has something of a reputation in this part of the world.”
“I can well believe it,” said the Judge.
“She’s a Handyman, you know.”
“Really?” said Lord Leakham indifferently. “I should have thought she could have afforded to employ one.”
“The Handyman family have always been very influential,” Sir Giles explained. “They own the brewery and a number of licensed premises. This is a Handyman House, as a matter of fact.”
“Elsie Watson,” said Lord Leakham abruptly. “That’s the name.” Sir Giles looked doubtful.
“Poisoned her husband. Kept shouting abuse from the dock. Didn’t make the slightest difference. Hanged her just the same.” He smiled at the recollection. Sir Giles studied the menu wistfully and tried to think what to recommend for someone with a peptic ulcer. Oxtail a la Handyman or consommé? On the other hand, he was delighted at the way things had gone at the Enquiry. Maud’s display had clinched the matter. Finally he ordered Tournedos Handyman for himself, and Lord Leakham ordered fish.
“Fish is off,” said the head waiter.
“Off?” said Sir Giles irritably.
“Not on, sir,” the man explained.
“What on earth is Bal de Boeuf Handyman?” asked the judge.
“Faggot.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Meatball.”
“And Brandade de Handyman?” Lord Leakham enquired.
“Cod balls.”
“Cod? That sounds all right. Yes I think I’ll have that.”
“Cod’s off,” said the waiter.
Lord Leakham looked desperately at the menu. “Is anything on?”
“I can recommend the Poule au Pot Edward the Fourth,” said Sir Giles.
“Very appropriate,” said Lord Leakham grimly. “Oh well I suppose I’d better have it.”
“And a bottle of Chambertin,” Sir Giles said indistinctly. He wasn’t very happy with his French.
“Extraordinary way to run an hotel,” said Lord Leakham. Sir Giles ordered two more whiskies to hide his irritation.
In the kitchen the chef took their order. “You can forget the chicken,” he said. “He can have Lancashire hotpot or faggots à la me.”
“But it’s Lord Leakham and he ordered chicken,” the waiter protested. “Can’t you do something?”
The chef took a bottle of chilli powder off the shelf. “I’ll fix something,” he said.
The wine waiter meanwhile was having difficulty finding a Chambertin. In the end he took the oldest bottle he could find. “Are you sure you want me to serve him this?” he asked the manager, holding up a bottle filled with a purple cloudy fluid that looked like a post-mortem specimen.
“That’s what her ladyship instructed,” said the manager. “Just change the label.”
“It seems a bloody peculiar thing to do.”
The manager sighed. “Don’t blame me,” he muttered. “If she wants to poison the old bugger that’s her affair. I’m just paid to do what she tells me. What is it anyway?”
The wine waiter wiped the bottle. “It says it’s crusted port,” he said doubtfully.
“Crusted’s about the word,” said the manager and went back to the kitchen, where the chef was crumbling some leftover faggots on to half a fried chicken. “For God’s sake don’t let anyone else have a taste of that stuff,” he told the chef.
“Serve him right for poking his nose into our affairs,” said the chef, and poured sauce from the Lancashire hotpot on to the dish. The manager went upstairs and signalled to the head waiter. Sir Giles and Lord Leakham finished their whiskies and went through into the dining-room.
At the Handyman Arms Lady Maud finished her lunch and ordered coffee. “One can place too much reliance on the law,” she said. “My family didn’t get where they did by appealing to the courts.”
“My dear Lady Maud,” said Mr Turnbull, “I implore you not to do anything foolish. The situation is already fraught with difficulty and quite frankly your interruptions this morning didn’t help. I’m afraid Lord Leakham may have been prejudiced against us.”
Lady Maud snorted. “If he isn’t he soon will be,” she said. “You don’t seriously suppose that I intend to accept his judgment? The man is a buffoon.”
“He is also a retired judge of considerable reputation,” said Mr Turnbull doubtfully.
“His reputation is only just beginning,” Lady Maud replied. “It has been perfectly obvious from the beginning that he was going to decide to recommend that the motorway be put through the Gorge. The Ottertown route is not an alternative. It’s a red herring. Well, I for one am not going to put up with that.”
“I don’t really see what you can do.”
“That, Henry Turnbull, is because you are a lawyer and hold the law in high regard. I don’t. And since the law is an ass I intend to see that everyone is aware of the fact.”
“I wish I could see some way out of the situation,” said Mr Turnbull sadly.
Lady Maud stood up. “You will, Henry, you will,” she said. “There are more ways of killing a cat than choking it with cream.” And leaving Mr Turnbull to meditate on the implications of this remark she stalked out of the dining-room.
At the Four Feathers Lord Leakham would have understood at once, though given the choice he would have chosen cream every time. The prawn cocktail which he had not ordered but which had been thrust on him by the head waiter appeared to have been marinated in tabasco, but it was as nothing to the Poule au Pot Edward the Fourth. His first mouthful left him speechless and with the absolute conviction that he had swallowed some appalling corrosive substance like caustic soda.
“That chicken looks good,” said Sir Giles as the judge struggled to get his breath. “It’s a speciality of the maison, you know.”
Lord Leakham didn’t know. With starting eyes he reached for his glass of wine and took a large swig. For a moment he cherished the illusion that the wine would help. His hope was short-lived. His palate, in spite of being cauterized by the Poule au Pot, was still sufficiently sensitive to recognize that whatever it was he was in the process of swallowing it most certainly wasn’t Chambertin ’64. For one thing it appeared to be filled with some sort of gravel which put him in mind of ground glass and for another what he could taste of the muck seemed to be nauseatingly sweet. Stifling the impulse to vomit he held the glass up to the light and stared into its opaque depths.
“Anything the matter?” asked Sir Giles.
“What did you say this was?” asked the Judge.
Sir Giles looked at the label on the bottle. “Chambertin ’64.” he muttered. “Is it corked or something?”
“It’s certainly something,” said Lord Leakham who wished the stuff had never been bottled, let alone corked.
“I’ll get another bottle,” said Sir Giles and signalled to the wine waiter.
“Not on my account I beg you.”
But it was too late. As the wine waiter hurried away Lord Leakham, distracted by the strange residue under his upper dentures, absent-mindedly took another mouthful of Poule au Pot.
“I thought it looked a bit dark myself,” said Sir Giles ignoring the desperate look in Lord Leakham’s bloodshot eyes. “Mind you I have to admit I’m not a connoisseur of wines.”
Still gasping for air, Lord Leakham pushed his plate away. For a moment he resisted the temptation to quench the flames with crusted port but the certain knowledge that unless he did something he would never speak again swept aside all considerations of taste. Lord Leakham drained his glass.