Archibald Monks and the Case of Claret

By J. J. Shearlock

He's the celebrity wine pundit they labelled a cheat, and now someone has fitted him up for murder. Welcome to the world of Archibald Monks, master of wine and renowned ladies man. Can Archie emerge from his inebriate haze and use the tools of his trade - a tip-top palate and a Dalmatian called Rufus - to nose out his enemy? Can this ever-dapper and all-seeing blind taster look beyond the slender blonde that is dangled in his path? Does the cause of his disgrace provide the key to his survival? When Archie's world is turned upside down, he soon realises that the tannin levels of a Château Latour really are a matter of life and death......

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 22, 2015
• ISBN: 9781329009929

Book preview

Archibald Monks and the Case of Claret

Archibald Monks and the Case of Claret

J. J. Shearlock

Copyright © 2014, J. J. Shearlock

Copyright © 2014 J. J. Shearlock

New Zealand

Lulu Publishing

ISBN: 978-1-329-00992-9

Chapter 1

Sir Arthur Reeves-Weaving sipped his wine. Little did he know it was his penultimate sip.

In fact, there was much about his wine that he didn’t quite get. He didn’t notice the high acids that piqued the sides of his tongue, nor the silky tannins that polished his teeth as the wine traversed his palate like a surging wave of garnet ambrosia. He also missed just how well the crunchy cassis flavours stood up to the bold army of tertiary flavours that had invaded the wine during its twenty-five years of maturation. Confronted with the wine’s angular minerality, the bedrock on which it had been laid, he somehow missed that too. Nevertheless, he knew what he was drinking, where it was from, and what was expected of it; it was, after all, his wine, and so he remarked, Great minerality … don’t you think? and then spat the wine into a plastic spittoon, the final insult in a strange game of subterfuge.

His drinking companion seemed unimpressed. Unimpressed that he had spat the wine so absolutely (had he swallowed any?) and so urged him on, saying, There’s something else you haven’t spotted?

Intrigued, yet slightly worried that any second he would be found out, Sir Arthur took another sip. He racked his brain for those adjectives that were supposed to work and swallowed in the hope that ingestion would provide inspiration, but secretly worried this too might be frowned upon (don’t professionals always spit?). As his Adam’s apple bobbed and then dropped, the corner of his companion’s mouth curled to form a devious smile.

I’ve got it – a hint of liquorice! Sir Arthur said excitedly.

And then his companion’s smile was gone. No, I am afraid you’re well off the mark. It was arsenic I was looking for. Well, in your glass at any rate, and not just a hint, but a rather large dose.

It took only a matter of seconds for Sir Arthur Reeves-Weaving to realise that proceedings had taken a sudden twist, and only moments longer for the arsenic to catch up on its role in the situation. As his oesophagus contracted he flailed at his murderer, who daintily sidestepped, leaving a now-dead man to crash heavily onto the lavish dining table at which the two had happily been tasting. His fight against gravity over, his dead weight dragged him to the floor, pulling at the tablecloth and knocking over the bottle of wine, staining the tablecloth with the crimson calling card of murder.

Removing a tasting glass and retrieving the desired item, the murderer left.

Chapter 2

Archibald Monks lay in bed, naked, cruciform, eyes shut and listening to the rain outside (why did it always rain in this godforsaken city? Or was it just in Hampstead?). Seeing his lifeless body, one would have been forgiven for thinking this too was the scene of a heinous crime, but rather it was the scene of a deathly hangover.

The parquet floor of his oxymoronically large studio flat was littered with the cadavers of Bordeaux’s finest. Bottles that had only hours ago been worth a fortune were now no more than urine passing through his digestive tract, to eventually be excreted and returned to whence they had come.

Recollections of the night before were fleeting. Spouting fluent inebriate from a well-oiled jaw at one of the pretty bar staff in The Grapes of Wrath, returning home with someone, or someones perhaps, an argument? Possibly. Likely. He couldn’t fully remember and didn’t care either way.

The phone rang, and continued ringing. Eyes still shut, as if the dark, heavy bags prevented them from opening, he pulled the phone from his bedside table and listened.

Is this Archibald Monks M.W.?

Yes.

The world-famous sommelier?

Archie sighed. Er, well, I’m afraid I’m no longer—

Good, this is Inspector T of the serious crime squad, and we’d like you to help us in an investigation.

Look, I’m really not sure—

Mr Monks, I would be most grateful of your help.

Silence.

The inspector jumped back in. Great. Are you free today?.

Well, I guess I could—

Fantastic. Five St James’s Square at 3.00 p.m. I look forward to seeing you then. Goodbye.

With that the inspector hung up, and Archie was left with the faintly comforting purr of the receiver, which quickly flatlined. The address was familiar, but he paid it no more thought. He clawed his eyes open and languidly checked the time, having forgotten to take his Bell & Ross chronograph wristwatch off before retiring (or passing out, if he were honest).

Ten to twelve. I see the hour of civilised drinking will be upon us soon. Time to get something breathing, he said, and pulled himself out of bed heaving himself to his feet, a zombie rising from the dead.

His naked physique belied his middle age – still toned, even muscular – whilst the floppy black hair, bags, and stubble hid what would be revealed by a shave and a shower to be a handsome, dashing, even chiselled visage. The large soup-straining moustache was the only giveaway to an eccentric nature, his inability to quite belong to the era in which he found himself. If he were honest, he knew this, and besides, he liked how it worked with the pinstripes, bowler and umbrella. British, quintessentially so.

He strolled into the lounge section of his large small apartment (as it had been described to him by the agent, more moron than oxymoron), and saw Rufus, his Dalmatian, lazily eyeing him from the chesterfield.

"What are we thinking, Rufus old boy? A spot