And it’s soaked up music, too, the haunting screel of the bagpipes and the reedy piping of a tin flute, from glen to glen and o’er the mountainside. Toss in the lilt of an old ballad heard in a public house and stir in the murmur of a lullaby sung to a child. It’s all there, all absorbed by osmosis into the very warp and woof of the tweed.
Now you take that jacket and transmute it by some subtle alchemy involving a copper kettle and a copper coil. You distill the very essence of that jacket into a cask of liquid, and you age that liquid in a charred oaken barrel for longer than the lifetimes of the Old and Young Pretenders combined.
Then you pour it into a glass, and what you’ve got is Glen Drumnadrochit.
“Glen Drumnadrochit,” Carolyn said, echoing our host, Nigel Eglantine, who’d pronounced its name even as he poured it. “What do you think, Bernie?”
“Not bad,” I said.
“You want to make a ceremony of it,” Nigel said, “in order to get the full experience.” He picked up his own glass, a small brandy snifter like the ones he’d filled for us, and held it to the light. “First the color,” he said, and we copied his actions, holding our glasses to the light and dutifully noting the color. It was, I should report, generally Scotch-colored, though definitely on the dark side of the Scotch spectrum.
“Next is bouquet,” he announced, and held the glass so that it was cupped in his palm, moving his hand in a little circle and roiling the strong waters within the glass. Then he breathed in its aroma, and soon we were doing the same.
“And now taste. While holding a sip in the mouth, draw in breath through the nose. It strengthens and deepens the flavor.” Indeed it did. “And, finally, aftertaste,” he said, and tipped up his glass, and drank deep of the precious nectar. Ever a quick study, I copied his every action.
“I might have a little more of this one,” I said, setting down an empty glass. “Color, bouquet, taste, and aftertaste. I want to make sure I’ve got the drill down pat.”
He beamed. “Rather special, wouldn’t you say? The Drumnadrochit.”
“It’s remarkable,” I said, and topped up my glass.
We’d found him in the bar, where his role was more that of host than bartender. The bar at Cuttleford House ran on the honor system; you poured your own drink and made a note of it in the leather-bound ledger kept for that purpose. There seemed to me to be an inherent danger in the system; as the evening wore on, wouldn’t one become increasingly apt to forget to make an entry?
“Shocking weather,” he said, as I nursed the second wee snifter of Glen Drumnadrochit. “It’s still snowing, you know.”
“I was watching out the window,” Carolyn said. “It’s really beautiful.”
“Quite so. If all one has to do is look at it, it’s rather an admirable display of nature’s majesty and all that.” Color, bouquet, and flavor-and down the hatch, even as he reached for the bottle to top up his glass. He was putting it away at a good clip, was Nigel Eglantine, for all the ritual he made of appreciating it. There is, I suppose, a thin line between the connoisseur and the common drunk, even as there is a similarly fine distinction to be drawn between the gourmet and the glutton. Nigel wasn’t slurring his words or tripping over his shoelaces, nor was he telling the same story over and over. He seemed perfectly fine to me.
Still, the night was young.
“I couldn’t say how many times Orris has been out already,” he said. “Clearing the path with the snowblower, then shoveling snow from the footbridge and plowing the drive clear out to the road. I told him not to bother again until morning. No point.” He looked up. “Ah, good evening, Colonel.”
“Evening,” said Colonel Blount-Buller, who had just joined us. He made himself a drink and noted the act in the leather-bound ledger, a ritual he went through daily for half the year. “A long winter, eh? Snow’s got some depth to it, Eglantine. Good job you’ve got Orris. Had another couple due, didn’t you? Did they ever get here?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Littlefield.” Color, bouquet, flavor. “I rather doubt we’ll be seeing them, Colonel. I just hope they’re not stuck in a snowbank somewhere. Much better if they’ve had the good sense to turn around and go home.” He turned to me. “They’re New Yorkers as well, Mr. Rhodenbarr. Don’t suppose you know them?”
“It’s a big city,” I said.
“Too big for my taste,” the colonel said. “Bad as London. That the bell, Eglantine?”
“I don’t think…there, I heard it just then.” He set his glass on the bar and hurried off to answer the doorbell.
“Good chap,” the colonel said. “They run a tight ship, Eglantine and his wife. Not an easy thing, making a go of a place like this.”
“It must be a lot of work,” Carolyn said.
“You’re working all the time,” Colonel Blount-Buller said. “Man thinks he’s done for the day, relaxes with a drink, and the bloody doorbell rings. Far cry from a soldier’s life, where you’re either fighting off wogs or fighting off boredom. Hard to say which is worse, yet when you add it all up there’s no better life for a man.”
Carolyn asked a question that drew him out a little bit, and he waxed eloquent in his reply. Then Eglantine returned with two new people, still wrapped in their overcoats and alternately rubbing their hands together and stamping their boots to get the last of the snow off.
“Mr. and Mrs. Dakin Littlefield,” Nigel announced. “Of whom we’d quite despaired, and in whose safe arrival we rejoice. And these are the Rhodenbarrs, Mr. and Mrs. Rhodenbarr, and this is Colonel Blount-Buller. And before anything else I’m going to insist that you both have a drink. That’s our first order of business, getting the chill out of your bones.”
While he was at it, Nigel set about filling everyone else’s glass as well. He was pouring yet another unblended malt whisky, and he announced its name and pedigree, but I didn’t pay close attention, nor did I let him add any to my glass. I still had a little of the Drumnadrochit left, and felt it might as well stay unblended. Anyway, I’d had enough to drink, so I reached out a hand and covered my glass.
“Mrs. Rhodenbarr?”
“Well…”
“You know what they say,” Dakin Littlefield put in. “A bird can’t fly on one wing.”
Mrs. Rhodenbarr indeed. One wing indeed. I thought of alternative analogies that might better fit the circumstances. A dog can’t walk on three legs, or an ant on five, or a spider on seven. But I kept my mouth shut and took a good look at the Littlefields as they got out of their heavy coats and into the spirit of things.
She was a honey blonde, medium height, with a pretty face and a pleasing figure, and in the ordinary course of things I would have done most of my looking at her, but instead he got the lion’s share of my attention. He was tall, with wavy dark hair worn long; he looked as though he might at any moment sit down at the piano and play something mournful. Prominent brows shaded his dark eyes. He had a hawk nose and an aggressive chin, and he had a cruel mouth. I’d seen that phrase in books and always wondered what a cruel mouth looked like, and now I knew. His narrow lips seemed poised somewhere between a pout and a sneer. You took one look at his mouth and you wanted to give him a smack in it, because you somehow knew you were dealing with a real son of a bitch.
“Past my bedtime,” I said abruptly, just as the colonel had paused for dramatic effect in a reminiscence of the old days in Peshawar. “Carolyn?”
She took a moment to knock back the rest of her drink, then said good night all around. We found the staircase and climbed it, and at the top she paused for breath, then asked if I remembered the way to Aunt Agatha’s Room. “Aunt Augusta,” I said.
“What did I say, Bern?”
“Agatha.”
“I did? I meant Augusta. Though it’s not hard to figure out where I got Agatha from, is it?”