The Burglar in the Library - By Lawrence Block Page 0,26
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.