LITMIR.BIZ

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from among the olive and cypress trees.

      The lobby was gleaming marble, with velvet benches and liveried porters swarming around the richly attired guests. Everything and everyone conveyed a look of polished ease. The concierge waved a hand and a page ushered us down a long hallway past magnificent views of the ocean to gilded doors leading to a private dining room.

      Seated there was our party, already assembled. There were five people: three gentlemen and two ladies, one with her back to the door. Expensive tailoring, tartan details in the waistcoats of the gentlemen, glittering gowns on the ladies, and an overall impression of immense wealth worn with casual ease made up my immediate impression.

      At the head of the table, a large man in his fifties rose to greet us. ‘Welcome Mr Sherlock Holmes, and Dr John Watson,’ he boomed in a deep voice, with a strong Scots brogue. A mane of dark, greying curls surrounded a handsome face, now creased with a warm smile. ‘You are guests of the Clan McLaren, and I am Sir Robert McLaren, Laird of Braedern.’

      Holmes nodded his head in acknowledgement.

      ‘Sir, we thank you,’ I said.

      ‘My sons, Charles and Alistair,’ said the laird, indicating the two younger men with a sweep of his hand.

      The two arose and nodded a greeting. Both were tall and robust, wide-shouldered and dark-haired. The elder had bushy eyebrows which gave him an angry demeanour. The younger had a high forehead and a permanent look of arch incredulity.

      ‘My daughter-in-law, Catherine, wife of Charles.’ A blonde lady in a glittering pale blue gown looked up demurely at us over a glass of champagne. She nodded a wan greeting.

      ‘And my younger daughter-in-law—’

      ‘Mrs Isla McLaren,’ said Holmes in a flat voice. ‘Wife of Alistair.’

      Something passed over the laird’s face but he recovered in an instant. ‘You have met, then?’

      Before Holmes could answer, Isla McLaren interjected. ‘As I said, Father, I chanced upon Dr Watson in Nice, and recognized him from a newspaper photograph. I failed to mention that we spoke briefly. I am sure he told Mr Holmes about it. Did you not, Dr Watson?’

      I nodded. I was not accustomed to prevarication on short notice. I could feel Holmes’s eyes upon me.

      Isla McLaren smiled warmly at us both. She was radiant in a deep purple beaded evening dress, and even with her small gold spectacles, stood out from the group as an early blooming iris might in a spring green garden. She coughed softly, while very subtly putting a finger to her lips. She wished us to be silent about our previous meeting.

      Holmes exhaled.

      ‘Do come and sit down, gentlemen,’ said the laird. ‘It is our winter holiday and we are celebrating, as we do every year, this time at the Grand Hôtel du Cap. Your reputation is known, Mr Holmes. It was Isla who prevailed upon me to invite you tonight.’

      He winked at her and I suddenly guessed that this canny gentleman might very well be aware of his daughter-in-law’s previous visit to us in Baker Street.

      ‘In any case, she suggested we would enjoy meeting you,’ said the laird.

      He then indicated two empty seats at the table, next to one another at the far end, facing him and the rest of the group. I moved to my chair, but Holmes remained just inside the door.

      I could sense my friend evaluating this and weighing his choices. ‘Is this a social occasion then?’ he asked. ‘I understood there was something you wished to discuss.’

      The laird smiled. ‘In time. The first order of business is to join us in this wonderful place for dinner. The cuisine here is worth its fine reputation.’ His tone changed. ‘Do be seated.’ It was almost a command.

      I was surprised to see Holmes acquiesce. Thirty minutes later we were well into a vast dinner with multiple courses of unusual fish, chicken, and beef dishes, seasoned with the bright flavours of the South, solicitous French waiters hovering at our elbows. Holmes said little but I conversed slightly with each person in turn and as the meal progressed, I took to examining them furtively, wondering what Holmes would deduce from each.

      To the laird’s left, his elder daughter-in-law, Catherine, was an elegant woman of erect posture and initially rigid bearing, blonde-haired and beautiful, if slightly vacant. She struck me as a person who was holding something back, and I noted that as the dinner progressed, she ate but little, yet consumed glass after glass of wine. Every so often a tiny grimace passed over her, as if she were in pain. As the evening wore on, she grew ever more limp and unfocused.

      Between Catherine and myself sat the younger son, Alistair, husband of our would-be client. I would not have put this man as Isla McLaren’s husband. Alistair resembled his father and brother physically, tall and muscular, but his sharp features and sarcastic wit, tinged with a combative tone, made me uneasy. Holmes sat beside me, the two of us opposite the laird.

      Next to Holmes sat the largest man in the room, elder son Charles, red of cheek and athletic but with beetle brows overhanging strangely watery eyes and a nervous habit of glancing furtively around the table when he felt no one was looking. He was immense, and I could picture him hurtling cabers at a Scottish festival. He and his brother Alistair never addressed nor looked at each other. Their mutual dislike was clear.

      Between Charles and the laird sat the intriguing Isla McLaren. A serene presence, she was careful not to regard Holmes or myself with anything resembling familiarity. Intelligence radiated from her, not in words, which were few, but in her subtly amused reactions to the conversation around her, which ranged in topics from the Universal Exposition in Paris, which the family had visited earlier, to the opening of the Moulin Rouge, and Nelly Bly’s attempt to duplicate Jules Verne’s round the world trip in eighty days.

      Just prior to dessert, more champagne was brought in and placed in iced silver urns at intervals around the table. The laird held his hand over his flute, however, as he evidently had a different idea and whispered something to the server. In a moment a cart was wheeled in containing several hand-labelled bottles. The laird had brought with him several choice examples of McLaren whisky, of varying vintages and finishes.

      He passed small glasses around, leaving the expensive champagne untouched. With each sample he held forth on the warm smokiness of one, and the toffee and chocolate notes of another.

      I tried each, and rolling the amber liquid around my tongue, was able to discern something of what he described. They were stronger than my usual Black and White, and yet delicious in an aggressive, though very seductive fashion. I felt warmed and strangely relaxed.

      I could well understand the developing preference for whisky. And I was surprised to learn that it was as nuanced and different as the much-vaunted French brandies.

      Holmes did not partake, despite the laird’s urging. This might have been taken as an insult, I decided, and gave him an encouraging look. He remained inscrutable, but did ask one or two questions about the production and sales. Charles, the eldest son, answered with considerable pride.

      A final sample was poured, darker, with a reddish tone. It had been retained for last. It had a strange, musky taste but was rich and complex. Not smoky, the laird explained, although some whiskies tasted of the peat burned in their making. But this was different. Whether it was the Highland waters, the particular old oak casks in which the spirit had been matured, or simply a bit of magic, this ‘edition’ was clearly the whisky on which the family would base their fortune. The laird and his sons savoured the few drops as if it were liquid gold. Not only was this the ‘Special Edition’ but it was from the laird’s favourite cask, number 59.

      ‘Each whisky has its own personality,’ said the laird. ‘This special is the one that will put Braedern permanently on the map. None can surpass it.’

      ‘We will aim for a very select market,’ said Charles.

      ‘An exclusive one,’ said the laird. ‘But business later, Charles. And now are we ready, ladies and gentlemen, for the evening

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