Proof - By Dick Francis Page 0,78

I’m a wine merchant.’

‘A wine…?’ She considered it. ‘What’s your name?’

I told her, also the name of my shop.

‘Never heard of you,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Would you know this scotch if you tasted it?’

‘That’s the general idea. Yes.’

‘Then good luck to you.’ She gave me an amused and shining glance and turned away to another customer, and I carried my glass across to Ridger expecting the Laphroaig to be Laphroaig and nothing else.

‘She’s disgraceful,’ Ridger said. ‘I should arrest her.’

‘On what charge?’

‘Discharging a firearm in a public place.’

‘The inside of a chimney is hardly a public place.’

‘It’s no laughing matter,’ he said severely.

‘The smoke’s clearing,’ I said. ‘The shot worked.’

‘I would have thought you’d had enough shooting for one lifetime.’

‘Well, yes.’

I drank the Laphroaig: smoky, peaty, oak-aged historic Laphroaig, the genuine thing.

Ridger bit on his disappointment, complained about the price and fidgeted unhelpfully while I read the wine list, which was handwritten and extensive. All the familiar Silver Moondance names were there along with dozens of others, but when I pointed this out to him he said stiffly that his brief was for whisky only.

I took the wine list thoughtfully back to the bar and asked Mrs Alexis for a bottle of St Estèphe.

She smiled. ‘By all means. Do you want it decanted?’

‘Not yet.’ I went through the rest of the list with her, picking out St Emilion, Mâcon, Valpolicella, Volnay and Nuits St Georges.

‘Sure,’ she said easily. ‘Do you want all of them?’

‘Yes, please.’

She disappeared briefly and came back with a partitioned basket containing the six asked for wines. I picked each bottle up in turn to read the labels: all the right names but none from the right year.

‘We’ve sold all we had of 1979,’ she explained patiently when I pointed it out. ‘We constantly update the wine list, which is why we don’t have it printed. We’re writing another at the moment. These present wines are better. Do you want them, then, or not?’

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Not.’

She put the basket of bottles without comment on the floor near her feet and smiled at me blandly.

‘Do you know the Silver Moondance?’ I asked.

‘Heard of it. Who hasn’t, round here? Never been there. Not my style. I’m told it’s a tube job, anyway.’

‘A tube…?’

‘Down the tubes,’ she said patiently. ‘The bank’s foreclosing on the mortgage. As of this morning the staff have been sacked. I had one of the chefs telephoning to ask for a job.’ She spoke with amusement as if the closure were comic, but she’d worn the same expression all the time we’d been there, her cheek muscles seeming to be permanently set in tolerant mockery.

‘At the Silver Moondance,’ I said mildly, ‘they were selling one single wine under six different labels.’

Her expression didn’t change but she glanced down at her feet.

‘Yes, those,’ I said. ‘Or rather, not those.’

‘Are you insulting me?’

‘No, just telling you.’

The brilliant eyes watched me steadily. ‘And you’re looking for that wine as well as the scotch?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sorry I can’t help you.’

‘Perhaps it’s as well,’ I said.

‘Why?’

‘Well… I don’t think its too utterly safe to know much about that wine. The head waiter of the Silver Moondance undoubtedly knew what he was selling… and he’s dead.’

Nothing altered in her face. ‘I’m in no danger,’ she said. ‘I can promise you that. Do you want anything else?’

I shook my head. ‘We’ll be on our way.’

Her gaze slid past me to rest on Ridger and still without any change of expression she said, ‘Give me a man who’ll swing from a chandelier. Give me a goddamn man.’ Her glance came back to my face, the mockery bold and strong. ‘The world’s a bloody bore.’

Her abundant hair was a dark reddish brown gleaming with good health and hair dye, and her nails were hard and long like talons. A woman of vibrating appetite who reminded me forcibly of all the species where the female crunched her husband for breakfast.

Wilfred (currently on the menu?) was still on his knees to the fire god when Ridger and I eventually made our way to the door. As Ridger went out ahead of me there was a sort of soft thudding flump from the direction of the chimney and a cloud of dislodged shot-up soot descended in a sticky billowing mass onto logs, flames and man beneath.

Transfixed, the armchair audience watched Wilfred rise balefully to his feet like a fuzzily inefficient demon king, scattering black rain and blinking great eyes slowly like a surprised owl on a dark night.

‘I’ll sue