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‘Thank you,’ Liz said, a little stiffly. She opened her laptop. ‘Let’s get down to it, then, shall we? Let’s talk about what we should say in the presentation.’
‘You’re the boss.’ Ben sighed, and looked down at his notepad.
* * *
‘Now, ladies and gentlemen. If you’d like to follow me, we’ll head into the Loch Cameron Distillery Archive.’ Grenville tipped his hat – a grey fedora – to Liz as she walked into the main distilling shed and found herself at the back of a group of tourists. Liz gave him a little wave and mouthedcarry onto the shopkeeper, who was evidently enjoying his new role as distillery tour guide very much.
‘However, before we do so, I’d like to point out that we have the distillery’s very own Sales Director with us, Liz Parsons! Say hello, Liz,’ Grenville called out in his jolly baritone. Liz gave the group a shy wave.
‘Hi, everyone! Hope you’re enjoying the tour?’ she asked. There was a happy murmur of assent, and more than a few smiles and nods.
‘Miss Parsons. Did you want me, or did we just impede your no doubt busy and productive day?’ Grenville trilled.
‘I just wanted a quick word, Grenville.’ Liz caught up with him and walked along as Grenville shepherded the group through the door and out into the courtyard, which was in full bloom.
‘Of course,’ he murmured. ‘Seems to be going well, by the way. Second tour this week, and both have been fully booked.’
‘That’s so great.’ Liz grinned. ‘Word’s going to get out, and people are going to be lining up to listen to you. I knew you’d be fantastic.’
‘Ach, flattery will get you everywhere, my dear one.’ Grenville chuckled. ‘And how are you? I hoped I’d see you at the shop again, but I expect you’ve been far too busy whipping this place into shape.’
‘Yes. It’s been a little frantic, what with the launch party, rolling out the new range, and having meetings with stockists,’ Liz admitted, not wanting to add that she felt like her life had been blown apart again recently. ‘Did you enjoy the party, by the way?’
She’d spoken to Grenville a little at the launch, but the unpleasantness with Paul had ended up with her leaving early.
‘Oh, yes. It was marvellous.’ Grenville opened the door to the archive and led her through, ushering the group in and warning them to be careful on the stairs. ‘Still, I missed you. You left before I could ask you to dance.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry,’ she replied, evasively. ‘Anyway, I just wanted to check in and see how the tour was going. Are you talking up the Old Maids range? And you’re taking their email addresses, right? So we can let them know when it’s available to buy?’
‘Yes, dear. All on my little clipboard.’ Grenville tapped his pen on the board he held in his hand. ‘I have, of course, mentioned my shop, too. If that’s all right.’
‘Of course. We want them to invest in the village as much as possible.’
‘Oh, good. Now, that reminds me, dear. I did want to say something to you, as a matter of fact. About Evelyn McCallister, one of your Old Maids. Just wait a minute. I’ve got to do my thing.’ Grenville held up a finger to Liz and marched to the front of the group of tourists.
‘Now, then. Here we are in the Loch Cameron Distillery Archive, the largest whisky archive in Scotland,’ he began, his sonorous voice filling the cavernous space. Grenville had flicked all the lights on, but the way that they were arranged down in the cellar was that they faced upwards, lighting up the vaulted ceiling and casting the rest of the space into shadows. Liz liked the spooky feeling she got down there: it was old, and it felt authentic. Itwasauthentic, she reminded herself.
‘Rumour has it that the archive is haunted by the ghost of the distillery’s first ever owner, Iain Raymond Douglas. He started the business, selling whisky locally in 1785, and began importing whisky to England a few years later. Thirsty Englishmen wanted Loch Cameron whisky, because it was among the best in the world! In fact, the whisky gained a Royal Warrant from King Edward VII in the early 1900s.’ He winked at Liz, who nodded.
The Royal Warrant would be a huge feather in her cap if she could get it back. She’d looked at the old records, and it seemed that Ben Douglas’ father, Jim, had had a good relationship with the Royal Household Warrants Committee for many years. The Warrant had consistently been in place from 1908 to 1995, meaning that King Edward VII, King George V, King Edward VIII, King George VI and then Queen Elizabeth II had all actively supported the brand. However, Liz wasn’t sure what had happened in the 90s. It seemed that the Royal Warrant had ended, and all she could find was a brief official letter from the Committee citing “operational difficulties” as the reason.
Liz had also discovered that it took at least five years of supplying goods to the royal family before a company was eligible to have its application considered for recommendation. That meant that regaining the Royal Warrant was a long game and not something that could be achieved quickly. She was absolutely going to do her best to contact the palace and see if they would take bottles of the Old Maids range when they were ready, to try and see if they liked it. She was confident that anyone would, but she also knew that she was up against some stiff competition from all the other whisky brands on the market that were either already supplying the royals, or had plans to.
Still, at least Loch Cameron Whisky had a history with the Royal Warrant. She had that on her side, though she was currently out of ideas about how to make a new relationship with a member of the Royal Family. Liz had researched it, and even if you could get your product to be used by the palace for five years, then the Warrant grantor – the king, or possibly one of the dukes – had to personally sign off on the Warrant when they received the recommendation from the Warrant Committee.
The grantor was empowered to reverse the committee’s decision, and therefore the final decision to accept or withhold a grant was a very personal one. They had to like it, personally. And the king or one of the dukes had to approve wholeheartedly of your company, the product itself and have faith that you really were the best in the business.
All in all, Liz wondered how in the world Jim Douglas had ever managed to get a Royal Warrant in the first place.
‘It’s said that old Iain Raymond Douglas can be heard at night, at the time of the full moon, rattling the bottles down in the archive. He’s looking for the lost vintage: a whisky he only ever made ten bottles of, and which, legend says, were lost when the cellar flooded in 1806. Wait! What was that noise?’
Grenville turned his head, his eyes wide, as the faint noise of tinkling glass could be heard in the background. Liz suppressed a laugh: she could see that Grenville had a cloth bag in his hand, and was shaking it behind his back. It was, no doubt, full of broken glass, but it certainly added an atmosphere to his tall tale.
Liz could see that the tourists were loving this piece of outrageous theatre from Grenville; there were delighted squeals and murmurs as they stood there, listening raptly to him. Liz, again, congratulated herself on having the idea of putting Grenville on show in the first place. He clearly loved the spotlight.
She waited a few more minutes until Grenville had finished talking about the archive, and began walking the group around the different tunnels that made it up.
‘So. What did you think, Miss Parsons?’ He reappeared at her side, grinning.
