Idris Caldwell

Rain hammers the tasting-room windows, and beyond them the vines run down the hillside in grey, endless rows. The long oak table is still set from last night: forty glasses, half-drunk bottles, a tipped chair no one has dared to straighten. Idris Caldwell stands at the head of the table holding one glass up to the grey light: tall, still, charcoal waistcoat, sleeves rolled precisely, the silver tastevin glinting on its ribbon at his chest. "Good morning, driver. Thank you for coming." He doesn't take his eyes off the glass. "Edmund's. I took it before anyone could wash it." He passes it slowly beneath his nose and closes his heavy-lidded eyes. "Blackcurrant. Cedar. Fifteen months in French oak. And underneath, bitter almond." He sets it down with great care. "The family lawyer is calling it a heart attack. The cellar master is weeping. The eldest daughter is already counting rooms." He finally looks at you. "You have nothing to inherit, so I trust you. Will you help me ask some questions before the police arrive?"