‘Serena Balcon, the movie star, is having her birthday meal here,’ explained Monty. ‘We do get a lot of high-profile names to the private cellar.’ He smiled, looking at Erin’s bewildered face. ‘There’s no better place to eat, drink and be very, very merry. And, of course, none of those dreadful paparazzi.’
Monty handed Erin a glass, poured a ruby-coloured liquid into it and motioned to her to drink it. It felt warm and fragrant, like a ribbon of ripe summer fruit, as it slipped down her throat.
‘What can you taste?’ asked Monty, pouring himself a measure and tipping his head back to drink it.
‘It’s kind of fruity and floral.’
Monty had his eyes closed, his nostrils flaring slightly. ‘Let yourself go, my dear. Concentrate on each sensation, every flavour on your tongue.’
Erin shut her own eyes and let the flavours swill around her mouth. ‘It’s very full and fruity. Maybe blackcurrants and cherry. And it has a woody, leathery taste afterwards. It kind of tastes like autumn. I like it!’
‘Ah, within the bottle’s depths, the wine’s soul sang, as our friend Baudelaire would have it. Very well done, my dear,’ said Monty warmly, ‘I’m glad you appreciated such a good wine.’
Erin beamed across at Chris and he smiled back. ‘Actually, that’s what we wanted to talk to you about, Monty,’ said Chris. ‘A very good wine.’
‘Oh, do tell,’ smiled Monty, leading them back up the stone stairwell. ‘Let’s adjourn to the office, shall we?’
They made their way back upstairs and then up to a spacious wood-panelled office above the shop. It was a like a gentleman’s study, full of leather-jacketed books and pictures of men drinking wine. Monty took his seat behind a bottle-green leather-topped desk and Erin and Chris sat in front of him.
‘I wanted to pick your brains on the Château Henri Jacques forty-seven,’ said Chris, leaning forward.
Monty’s eyebrows rose almost comically. ‘My word, now there’s a beauty. Is it for a feature you’re writing?’
Erin noticed that his eyes were shining with passion and interest.
‘Sort of an investigative piece,’ Chris said in a low voice. ‘Tell me what you know.’
Monty took a cigar from out of his top drawer and clipped its end.
‘One of the rarest wines in the world,’ said Monty, raising the cigar to Erin as if asking her permission to smoke it. ‘Hardly ever seen commercially. There were very few bottles of it in the first place, in fact. The vineyard was exceptional but very small, and the owners liked to keep most of it for their own consumption, which I can fully understand. I’ve never tried it,’ he continued, looking almost apologetic. ‘But my father had. Apparently it was quite the most perfectly balanced wine he had ever tasted.’
‘How many bottles are in existence? Do you know?’ asked Chris, feeling a surge of professional interest.
Monty shrugged. ‘Impossible to quantify. There will be several in private cellars. However, a bottle of it did surface almost a year ago at a Christie’s auction in New York. It was part of a collection belonging to a recently deceased Swiss count that had apparently been in his cellars for thirty years. The family wanted to get rid of the whole collection,’ he sighed. ‘It nearly made me weep.’
Chris sensed that Monty knew something vital. ‘Was the collection broken down into individual lots at auction?’
The older man nodded. ‘The entire cellar was worth millions, but it would still have found a buyer. However, yes, it was broken down. I probably still have the catalogue somewhere, as I attended the auction myself.’
‘And did you bid for the Henri Jacques, by any chance?’
‘Of course,’ laughed Monty. ‘However, bidding went through the roof. There was serious money in the room that day. As you know, my friend, wine is the new art.’
‘So who bought the Henri Jacques, can you remember?’ asked Erin. She could almost hear her heart hammering out of her chest.
‘It was done on the phone,’ said Monty, finally lighting the cigar and letting the nutty smell spiral around the room. ‘But I always like to find out, keep a note of major or interesting acquisitions, as I often broker sales between private clients. Anyway, an American wine merchant friend of mine identified the buyer – a New York prope
rty tycoon called Adam Gold. You’ll probably know the name, he’s been all over the news the last few days. His fiancée has been murdered.’
All night, Erin tossed and turned under her duvet. She was exhausted, but her mind was far too active for sleep, plagued with doubt and anxiety. She knew she should have phoned Inspector Wright with the information they had learnt at Cruickshanks, and Chris was threatening to do it for her, but something was holding her back. Was it fear? She felt a creeping uneasiness and wished that Chris was with her. Armed with information that incriminated a rich and powerful man made her feel inexplicably vulnerable. She looked at her clock. One a.m. Too late to phone him?
She reached for her mobile, which was glowing a dull green in the darkness, and dialled Chris’s number.
‘I don’t know why, but I’m scared,’ she whispered.
‘I’ll be right there.’
Chris stayed with her till morning, sleeping on the sofa under a duvet he had transported across the hallway. When her alarm trilled at 6.30 and she staggered into the lounge, she saw Chris was already awake and frying bacon. He moved a pile of papers and magazines from the kitchen table to make a space for her, spilling a few onto the floor. Picking them up, he found a large sheet of waxy paper.