prostitutes of London by night, but he did one thing they’ve never forgotten. Somewhere in the 1860s, I think, when he was Chancellor of the Exchequer and taking five hours to deliver his Budget, he cut the duty on French wine. He wanted to encourage trade with the French, you see. That was the making of the Colvilles. Unlike the rest of the industry they cut their prices by almost the same as thecut in duty and prospered mightily. The other wine merchants hung on to most of the cut for themselves.’
‘Did I hear you right, Johnny?’ Powerscourt was refilling the glasses. ‘Did you say they have their own label production? Does that mean you can make up any number of phoney vineyards with posh names and stick the label on the bottles? Or indeed real vineyards with posh names and stick them on the bottle, whatever might be inside?’
‘It does, my friend,’ Johnny replied, swirling the fresh wine around in his glass, ‘and there’s worse. Much worse. If you could find the right artist and the right expert in typefaces, you could make, in your Colville labelling manufactory, a label like this one here for Château Latour. You don’t, of course, put Château Latour in the bottles. You find some good claret from a good year and then, if you’re really clever, you say it’s a Latour from a bad year. That way expectations wouldn’t be so high. But your good Bordeaux in a good year would still cost about half what a Latour would cost you in a bad one. You could make a fortune.’
Powerscourt realized that the possibilities for fraud in the wine industry were virtually limitless, far wider than he had suspected at the beginning of his investigation. But he was still as far away as ever from solving the murder. ‘So tell us, Johnny, what did you learn from these workers by hand down in the docks?’
‘Precious little so far. They’re all East Enders, most of these Colville men, Lady Lucy, and they stick together like the planks of wood on their wine cases. The younger ones were so suspicious they hardly told me anything at all. I think they thought I was an agent from the Customs and Excise, come to learn their secrets. They don’t like Customs and Excise much in those parts. Some of the older ones, nearing retirement, were slightly more forthcoming but usually more about the past than the present. There are a couple of old boys who’ve worked for Colvilles, man and boy since about 1860. For them those early days were like a golden age. Old Walter Colvilleand his brother Nathaniel were the driving forces back then. They were young, everything was a great adventure and they were happy to take risks that the firm wouldn’t take today.’
A high-pitched scream rose from the bottom of the stairs, followed by the noise of small feet charging up them. The twins were on the warpath once again. The parents smiled to each other.
‘And they were good to their workers back then,’ Johnny went on, ‘far fewer of them then, of course, than there are now. I was told heart-warming tales of all employees being presented with half a dozen bottles every Christmas, and, in one memorable year, a goose for every worker. Now they fear the only present they will get on Christmas Day is the sack. Spirits are very low. I couldn’t work out why. I don’t think it was the murder and the arrest of Cosmo. People are always grumbling about their work, not what it was, new-fangled systems and new-fangled people coming in to replace the old ways, but these warehouse people are just miserable.’
‘And what about the other lot, the clerks and the junior accountants, Johnny. Were they any more forthcoming?’
‘The workers by brain? Well, they were and they weren’t, Francis. They’re all holed up at the back of Oxford Street with a detachment of auxiliaries at Hammersmith to make sure the gin isn’t watered down or whatever you’d do to gin. The ones I managed to pour drink down were all quite junior. Once they reach a certain
‘Did I hear you right, Johnny?’ Powerscourt was refilling the glasses. ‘Did you say they have their own label production? Does that mean you can make up any number of phoney vineyards with posh names and stick the label on the bottles? Or indeed real vineyards with posh names and stick them on the bottle, whatever might be inside?’
‘It does, my friend,’ Johnny replied, swirling the fresh wine around in his glass, ‘and there’s worse. Much worse. If you could find the right artist and the right expert in typefaces, you could make, in your Colville labelling manufactory, a label like this one here for Château Latour. You don’t, of course, put Château Latour in the bottles. You find some good claret from a good year and then, if you’re really clever, you say it’s a Latour from a bad year. That way expectations wouldn’t be so high. But your good Bordeaux in a good year would still cost about half what a Latour would cost you in a bad one. You could make a fortune.’
Powerscourt realized that the possibilities for fraud in the wine industry were virtually limitless, far wider than he had suspected at the beginning of his investigation. But he was still as far away as ever from solving the murder. ‘So tell us, Johnny, what did you learn from these workers by hand down in the docks?’
‘Precious little so far. They’re all East Enders, most of these Colville men, Lady Lucy, and they stick together like the planks of wood on their wine cases. The younger ones were so suspicious they hardly told me anything at all. I think they thought I was an agent from the Customs and Excise, come to learn their secrets. They don’t like Customs and Excise much in those parts. Some of the older ones, nearing retirement, were slightly more forthcoming but usually more about the past than the present. There are a couple of old boys who’ve worked for Colvilles, man and boy since about 1860. For them those early days were like a golden age. Old Walter Colvilleand his brother Nathaniel were the driving forces back then. They were young, everything was a great adventure and they were happy to take risks that the firm wouldn’t take today.’
A high-pitched scream rose from the bottom of the stairs, followed by the noise of small feet charging up them. The twins were on the warpath once again. The parents smiled to each other.
‘And they were good to their workers back then,’ Johnny went on, ‘far fewer of them then, of course, than there are now. I was told heart-warming tales of all employees being presented with half a dozen bottles every Christmas, and, in one memorable year, a goose for every worker. Now they fear the only present they will get on Christmas Day is the sack. Spirits are very low. I couldn’t work out why. I don’t think it was the murder and the arrest of Cosmo. People are always grumbling about their work, not what it was, new-fangled systems and new-fangled people coming in to replace the old ways, but these warehouse people are just miserable.’
‘And what about the other lot, the clerks and the junior accountants, Johnny. Were they any more forthcoming?’
‘The workers by brain? Well, they were and they weren’t, Francis. They’re all holed up at the back of Oxford Street with a detachment of auxiliaries at Hammersmith to make sure the gin isn’t watered down or whatever you’d do to gin. The ones I managed to pour drink down were all quite junior. Once they reach a certain
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