Tristram’s job was as East Anglia development manager for the family firm of Colville. He was to seek out possible areas of expansion for the company. So far Tristram had enjoyed only limited success. He had persuaded Fakenham Racecourse to make Colvilles their chief supplier of wines and spirits. Recommending the change to the Committee the Secretary told them that Tristram had lost so much money gambling at the racecourse that losing his custom would cause an outcry if not a revolt among the bookmaking fraternity. He had similar success with the Norfolk Club, a rather stuffy establishment in Upper King Street, Norwich where gentlemen were encouraged to play cards for money on Fridays and Saturdays. Once again the size of his losses was instrumental in obtaining the commission.
Now it was time to go. Tristram finished his cigar and strolled down the road to Emily’s cottage. He was glad to see she had bothered to light a fire.
‘Tristram,’ she said, looking at him carefully, ‘you’re so late. I thought you weren’t coming. I thought you’d forgotten.’
‘How could I forget you?’ said Tristram, taking her in his arms. ‘That simply wouldn’t be possible.’
‘I haven’t seen you since before my wedding, Tristram. You didn’t come. Why was that?’
‘I thought I might spoil it for you,’ said Tristram, who had, in fact, spent Emily’s wedding day in the arms of a rich widow in Cromer.
Emily thought of saying that he had spoiled her wedding already but she desisted. It wouldn’t do to upset Tristram, he could turn very moody. ‘How long have you got here today? How is business?’
Tristram propelled her gently up the stairs. ‘I’ve got plenty of time today, Emily, and in a minute I’m going to tell you the latest news on the problems of the Colville family. After all, you’re part of us now.’
Early the same afternoon Powerscourt presented himself at the offices of Piccadilly Wine once more. He thought a villainous-looking tramp winked at him from across the street but he couldn’t be sure. Vicary Dodds was still pursuing the firm’s numbers through his account books and Septimus Parry was making notes about recent vintages in Bordeaux. ‘Lord Powerscourt,’ said Septimus, ‘how good to see you again. Now then, somewhere here is a list of the pre-phylloxera wines we propose to marry up with your own list for your elderly relative’s celebration. He’s still well, I take it? Not succumbing to the flu or anything like that? Brain still working normally? Able to stand up unaided?’
Powerscourt knew from this inquiry that Septimus believed the aged relation in the depths of Somerset was an invention, a Bunbury. He produced a sheet of paper with his requests. ‘Now then,’ Septimus said, ‘let’s see, you’d like some Bordeaux. We don’t offer much choice on these occasions. We do have Chateau Figeac, a grand cru from Bordeaux with a delightful fragrance and gentleness of texture, and Chateau Gazin, a Pomerol from Bordeaux, grown next to the legendary Chateau Petrus. From Burgundy you would like the old gentleman’s favourite Nuits St Georges and Aloxe Corton from the village of that name at the northern end of the Cote de Beaune, we can supply both of those. White burgundy you would like, well, we have some Meursault from one of the bigger villages in the Cote d’Or and Puligny Montrachet, two of the most famous wine names in the world, and we can throw in a Sancerre and a Pouilly Fume from the Loire Valley, if you like. If those seem agreeable to you we need to know the quantities for each bottle and we shall send you the bill after the wines have been enjoyed, not before.’
Powerscourt marked a number next to each type of bottle asking for two of everything on offer except for four of the Nuits St Georges and four of the Puligny Montrachet.
Septimus handed him another sheet with details of the normal offerings of Piccadilly Wine for him to take home. ‘The pre-phylloxera ones should be ready tomorrow. We’ll send them round to your house,’ he said. ‘But in the meantime, let us present you with a sample.’ Parry bent down behind his desk and came up with a couple of bottles. ‘We thought these might whet you appetite, Lord Powerscourt, pre-phylloxera Nuits St Georges and pre-phylloxera Pouilly Fume. I hope you enjoy them.’
Septimus Parry watched Powerscourt walk to the end of the street and turn left towards Chelsea.
‘I wonder what he wants,’ he said, ‘the man who calls himself Lord Powerscourt. Do you think that’s his real name, Vicary?’
‘I don’t think that’s his real name for a moment,’ said Vicary. ‘If you were a Lord Powerscourt, even an Irish peer Lord Powerscourt, what on earth are you doing grubbing around in the world of pre-phylloxera wine? The man must be an impostor. We’d better watch our step, Septimus.’
‘Even the Customs wouldn’t investigate a suspicious business with a man pretending to be a peer,’ said Septimus. ‘But he’s going to get a shock when he opens the bottles, our fraudulent friend. I took the labels off and put some of ours on instead. But what he thinks is going to be fake pre-phylloxera wine isn’t going to be anything of the kind. They may not be pre-phylloxera, but they’re the oldest bottles of those two wines from one of London’s oldest wine merchants. When Lord Powerscourt and his friends get the corkscrew working they’ll find they’re drinking Justerini amp; Brooks’ finest. That should confuse them just a bit.’
A few moments after Powerscourt’s departure Septimus Parry stepped out briskly into the London streets to deliver the order. His mind was too busy to notice the stooped figure of the tramp with the dirty hair who followed him fifty yards behind. As Septimus boarded a Bakerloo line train going south at Piccadilly Circus the tramp was two carriages away, looking closely at the exits when the train pulled in at a station. At Embankment Septimus changed on to the District and Circle line, again pursued by the faithful tramp. Johnny thought he knew the general area they were going to now. It seemed unlikely to him that wine forgers would be operating in the heart of the City of London. Their terrain would be further east, somewhere in the sprawling docks. They passed Tower Hill. The tramp almost missed Septimus alighting rapidly from his train at Shadwell but he caught sight of him half a minute later striding up one side of Shadwell Basin, and disappearing into an enormous warehouse on Newlands Quay.
The inevitable seagulls were performing their ritual pavane around the shipping in the basin. Men could be seen loading and unloading different-sized vessels. The enormous warehouse betrayed no sign of ownership. It was six storeys high and had small barred windows at regular intervals. Johnny Fitzgerald crouched down by the door and strained to hear any conversation between Septimus and the Necromancer, for he was sure the Necromancer was the man Septimus had come to see. However hard he tried he could hear nothing. The door looked solid. Suddenly it was flung open and he was dragged inside the warehouse and pulled unceremoniously into a small section in the corner. Johnny saw that there were rows and rows of shelves lined with bottles of every size known to the wine trade. The two men tied him roughly to a chair.
‘This is the fellow I told you about,’ said Septimus, ‘the one who followed me from the office down here.’
‘You must be Mr Septimus Parry,’ said Johnny, staring intently at the muzzle of a gun in his companion’s hand, pointing directly toward his stomach. ‘And you, sir, you with the gun,’ Johnny turned his gaze up from the gun to the face, ‘must be the Necromancer.’
The mention of the word necromancer seemed to cause fury. ‘I am not known as the Necromancer!’ he snarled. ‘They are mere conjurers, penny magicians on minor feast days, fortune tellers by the hedgerows, soothsayers of the future for simple minds. I am known as the Alchemist. Alchemists were famed for transmuting base metals into gold as I do with crude wines being converted into noble vintages with great names. And you,’ he began waving the gun about in what Johnny thought was a rather dangerous fashion, ‘who the hell are you?’