Proof - By Dick Francis Page 0,3

in a huff.’

Jimmy made a pained noise and drank some scotch. ‘I mentioned this to Jack. He said I must be mistaken. But I’m not, you know. I’m pretty sure I’m not.’

I considered him.

‘Why does it bother you so much?’ I asked.

‘What?’ He was surprised. ‘Well, I say, a fraud’s a fraud, isn’t it? It annoys one.’

‘Yes.’ I sighed. ‘What were these drinks supposed to be?’

‘I thought the wine wasn’t much, considering its label, but you know how it is, you don’t suspect anything… but there was the Laphroaig.’

I frowned. ‘The malt from Islay?’

‘That’s right,’ Jimmy said. ‘Heavy malt whisky. My grandfather liked it. He used to give me sips when I was small, much to my mother’s fury. Funny how you never forget tastes you learn as a child… and of course I’ve had it since… so there it was, on the trolley of drinks they rolled round with the coffee, and I thought I would have some… Nostalgia, and all that.’

‘And it wasn’t Laphroaig?’

‘No.’

‘What was it?’

He looked uncertain. ‘I thought that you, actually, might know. If you drank some, I mean.’

I shook my head. ‘You’d need a proper expert.’

He looked unhappy. ‘I thought myself, you see, that it was just an ordinary blend, just ordinary, not even pure malt.’

‘You’d better tell Mr Trent,’ I said. ‘Let him deal with it himself.’

He said doubtfully, ‘He’ll be here this morning.’

‘Easy,’ I said.

‘I don’t suppose… er… that you yourself… er… could have a word with him?’

‘No, I certainly couldn’t,’ I said positively. ‘From you it could be a friendly warning, from me it would be a deadly insult. Sorry, Jimmy, but honestly, no.’

With resignation he said, ‘I thought you wouldn’t. But worth a try.’ He poured himself more scotch and again put ice into it, and I thought in passing that true whisky aficionados thought ice an abomination, and wondered about the trustworthiness of his perception of Laphroaig.

Flora, rotund and happy in cherry red wool, came in her light-stepped way into the tent, looking around and nodding in satisfaction.

‘Looks quite bright, doesn’t it, Tony dear?’

‘Splendid,’ I said.

‘When it’s filled with guests…’

‘Yes,’ I agreed.

She was conventional, well-intentioned and cosy, mother of three children (not Jack’s) who telephoned her regularly. She liked to talk about them on her occasional visits to my shop and tended to place larger orders when the news of them was good. Jack was her second husband, mellowing still under her wing but reportedly jealous of her offspring. Amazing the things people told their wine merchants. I knew a great deal about a lot of people’s lives.

Flora peered into the tubs. ‘Four cases on ice?’

I nodded. ‘More in the van, if you need it.’

‘Lets hope not.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘But my dear, I wouldn’t bet on it. Jimmy love, you don’t need to drink whisky. Open some champagne. I’d like a quick glass before everyone swamps us.’

Jimmy obliged with languid grace, easing out the cork without explosion, containing the force in his hand. Flora smilingly watched the plume of released gas float from the bottle and tilted a glass forward to catch the first bubbles. At her insistence both Jimmy and I drank also, but from Jimmy’s expression it didn’t go well with his scotch.

‘Lovely!’ Flora said appreciatively, sipping; and I thought the wine as usual a bit too thin and fizzy, but sensible enough for those quantities. I sold a great deal of it for weddings.

Flora took her glass and wandered down the marquee to the entrance through which the guests would come, the entrance which faced away from the house, towards the field where the cars would be parked. Jack Hawthorn’s house and stableyard were built in a hollow high on the eastern end of the Berkshire Downs, in a place surrounded by hills, invisible until one was close. Most people would arrive by the main road over the hill which faced the rear of the house, parking in the field, and continuing the downward journey on foot through a gate in the low-growing rose hedge, and onto the lawn. After several such parties, Flora had brought crowd control to a fine art: and besides, this way, no one upset the horses.

Flora suddenly exclaimed loudly and came hurrying back.

‘It’s really too bad of him. The Sheik is here already. His car’s coming over the hill. Jimmy, run and meet him. Jack’s still changing. Take the Sheik round the yard. Anything. Really, it’s too bad. Tell Jack he’s here.’

Jimmy nodded, put down his glass without haste and ambled