Saturday 24th September – 11.30 a.m.
The stag do hadn’t got off to the best start, despite Sean’s wonderful kedgeree brunch.
Now, Rav looked out to the churning sea, trying to keep that brunch down while trying not to be in the crossfire of the glowers shooting between the brothers.
If Conor had some issue with Brandon, then Rav knew it would be for good reason. And he also knew Conor wouldn’t thank anyone for sticking their nose in. So he was doing his best to ignore the animosity crackling around him.
Presumably Conor hadn’t planned to spend today with Brandon. But the boat Sean had hired had some sort of engine problem and the local ferries were all booked up with the Gin Tour. In desperation, Sean had appealed to Brandon, begging him to take them to the island distillery on his fishing boat. Keeping his distance, Rav had watched the brothers arguing under a fluttering Gin Festival banner emblazoned with ‘Make Merry’.
Sean’s hopeful expression and Finn’s smooth talking had won Brandon over. But now you could cut the windswept atmosphere with a knife.
It seemed James felt the same, as he attempted to make conversation. ‘Did I spot one of your wildlife cameras up at the farm, Rav?’
‘Yeah, I’ve put up a couple of motion-detection cameras out. I’m trialling some ideas for Finchmere.’ Rav pulled his phone out, hoping there’d be more footage than that of the hare meeting its unfortunate demise. ‘Oh, good, I have a few clips from last night. Here’s the one near the cliffs.’
A haunting few minutes of low-lit footage showed ghostly grey-green hares darting across the field.
‘They look so eerie like that.’ James stared at the screen, fascinated. ‘That one’s very little.’ He pointed at the screen.
‘I think it may be a leveret,’ Rav said. ‘Hares mainly have their young in the spring and summer, but they can breed all year round, so it’s not impossible.’ It was just as well, since Rav knew that one wouldn’t make it. He stopped the footage and searched for the other file from the thermal camera, wiping sea spray from the screen.
‘Did you find my fox, Rav?’ Sean called over.
‘I’m just looking,’ Rav called back. At least the hare hadn’t died in vain if it meant the chickens had been left in peace.
The blazing thermal images started with everyone walking in after the party – and Brandon’s argument. Then the footage showed one figure out all night: Conor, steadily getting colder, hour by hour. Rav’s heart went out to him. He couldn’t have expected his celebrations to go like this.
As Rav watched, the thermal image of the glowing orange four-legged body slunk across to the chicken coop. ‘I’ve found your fox, Sean! He’s heading for the side nearest the farmhouse.’ But the fox stopped, nose raised as it caught Conor’s scent, then bounded away into the night – a few seconds before that searing scream.
‘The nerve of the thing!’ Sean looked astonished. ‘I thought that was the most secure section. I’ve been reinforcing every other side. Would you believe it!’
As Rav put his phone away, James was clearly intent on keeping the energy upbeat, despite looking a bit green around the gills as the boat lurched. He nodded at the churning grey sea reaching out to the distant craggy island. ‘Assuming we survive the journey, what else is over on Innisdoone?’
‘Just the distillery,’ Sean said. ‘They reckon there’s some cachet from being in the middle of the ocean. Some extra flavour, extra … mystique …’
‘Not the best idea, though, was it? Coming here?’ Conor’s gaze swung towards Sean.
Sean shifted, muttering, ‘Yeah, well. I’m sorry about the boat. But the rest … well, I thought we could put that all behind us, Con.’
‘Did you?’ Conor’s level tone had an iron undercurrent, his face stern.
‘Quite the local power couple, you and your wan, eh, Sean?’ Brandon grunted from the wheel. ‘With you getting our family farm, and Maeve getting all this.’ He jerked his head towards their destination.
Rav exchanged a look with James. Maeve’s the owner?
But Brandon was still talking. ‘Don’t go getting complacent, little brother. Things don’t always work out the way you expect. Especially when it comes to inheritance.’
‘Oh, come on, Brandon,’ Sean placated. ‘You never wanted the farm! Mammie and Da funded your boat when you decided that was what you wanted. They gave Finn money to get to the States. They didn’t have millions to go round, but they helped all of us. Except Conor. Always had to carve your own path, didn’t you? Leaving for the Forces the way you did.’
Conor turned to stare at the sea, his shoulders squared. Finn rested his arms on his knees, leaning forward, head lowered. But his eyes peered upwards, studying Brandon.
‘Is that why you’re back now, Con?’ Brandon needled. ‘After a couple of decades? Here to see what you can get out of your family?’
Rav inwardly winced at the accusation, but Conor didn’t flinch, didn’t move, didn’t respond in any way. It only inflamed Brandon. So he directed his ire towards Sean.
‘And you’re the biggest eejit of all. Always playing bloody peacemaker. And now your diplomatic relations have gone too far. You shouldn’t be getting tied up with a Delaney girl. Sure, nothing good’ll come of it.’
Brandon’s blistering gaze crackled at Finn for a moment, before his lip curled, and he stared out to sea.
James might have been glad to get his wobbly sea legs back onto solid ground, but he shared Rav’s unease as they approached the distillery’s double doors. A massive sign hung overhead, grey as the sea, with Delaney Distillery in a clean, emerald font, the crisp green outline of the island behind the letters.
Today, streamers zigzagged and flags flanked the open doorway, marking this as today’s venue for the Gin Tour.
A young woman who looked like she was in her early twenties approached, wearing a liveried green waistcoat and tie, flicking long raven hair back as she beamed. ‘Welcome in! I’m Nessa Byrne, mixologist at this fine place.’
Conor stared at the young woman. He shook her hand as she greeted the group in turn, and nudged Sean while she shook hands with Brandon and Finn. ‘Is … did Maeve have a daughter?’
Sean shook his head. ‘No. Spooky, though, isn’t it?’
‘So – who’s our stag?’ Nessa asked, green eyes twinkling.
‘Conor.’ As Sean pointed, Conor attempted a nod that didn’t look too reluctant.
‘Ah. Well, we have the full VIP experience for you today. Maeve has us under orders to push the boat out.’
The word ‘boat’ made James glance over his shoulder. Brandon lagged behind, staring at a section of the original, ramshackle barn, taped off and bearing a ‘For Demolition’ sign.
The timber A-frame shed they trooped into was a new build, designed with visitors in mind. The open doors let in the midday sun. Above them, pipes rose from a rotund copper still towards the mezzanine, reached by red fire-escape-style stairs, where James guessed the barley was dried.
The air was drenched with the tang of hot vinegar, strong enough to take your eyebrows off. James blinked. ‘What are you brewing? Or should I say, distilling?’
‘Ah, that’s one of our fine single malt whiskeys you can smell.’ Nessa grinned. ‘The fumes are free.’
The far side of the building showcased the distillery’s history with massive black-and-white photos on storyboards of key events, past signage and bottles showing the evolution of the brand. On this side were two cosy nooks set up as tasting rooms, which was where Nessa was leading them.
‘Hope we didn’t disrupt your part of the Gin Tour, Nessa.’ James thumbed at the flags in the doorway.
‘Not at all. Maeve had the bright idea of starting the people on the tour with a foraging outing. So they can get a sense of our unique ingredients. And work up a thirst. So we have plenty of time to get your celebrations started today.’
James tried to make his wince look like a smile. Celebration might be stretching it. ‘When did Maeve take on the distillery?’
‘Just last year. She’s making her mark with a rebrand.’ She gestured at the photos and the old logo of two Ds styled to look like an ear of barley next to the new, simple island outline. ‘We’re expanding, once we demolish the old barn. Which can’t happen fast enough – demand has been through the roof since she introduced our special batch gin. Our locally foraged floral infusion varies with the season.’ She beamed. ‘And I’m the lucky one who gets to develop the flavour profiles.’
With slick timing born of practice, Nessa reached the first tasting room, inviting the men to sit on the plush emerald bar stools tucked along the sleek copper bar. Immediately, waiting staff appeared offering canapés as she gestured at a squat, monochrome-labelled bottle, full shot glasses arranged around it, beside mixed drinks. ‘This is our latest small batch. If you’d like to try this, you’ll taste—’
‘Allow me,’ Finn interrupted with a sidelong smile. ‘This is my party piece.’ He took a long sniff of the neat gin, tilted his head. ‘Oh, that’s fragrant. Citrussy. There’s heather in there, for sure. I think there’s some bogbean. And a pinch of bog myrtle, maybe.’
‘Spot on!’ Nessa looked delighted. ‘We have an expert in our midst!’
‘I mixed my own blends about twenty or thirty years ago.’ Finn took another sip. ‘I’d a feeling it would be the next big thing. But Declan – he was the owner back then – wouldn’t take me seriously. I was just a kid, so.’ He shrugged. ‘Seems they’ve cottoned on now, eh?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Nessa confirmed. ‘We send out our special editions with mixology cards – matches for our batches. This spicy citrus one we recommend mixing with ginger ale and some zesty orange. To me, it’s autumn in a glass.’
James sniffed the gin, then sipped. The liquid zinged with citrus and warmth.
As Nessa invited them each to choose a gin to try next, she kept up a patter while she expertly mixed and garnished the various drinks. ‘We infuse our seasonal flora in our hot still for twelve hours. You may detect the deep flavour the peat gives our botanicals. It sets a great foundation for bold flavour profiles, or something more complex. So we can really experiment with our limited editions.’
James took his cocktail, a summer blend of rose damask adorned with raspberries and mint. Aware of the brothers watching him sip the blush-pink drink in the thirties-style coupe, he pretended to ignore them, then stuck his little finger out daintily, making Sean laugh.
More canapés were passed around and more drinks were offered. Seeing eyes straying towards the next tasting room, Nessa suggested, ‘Shall we move on to the whiskey? We’ve got some beautiful single malts, distinctive and rich, and three or four blends, which are smoothed to perfection.’
‘Now you’re talking!’ Sean decided for the group.
Nessa led them through to the next tasting nook, walking backwards once she was through the door, her arm outstretched, her slim wrist clad with a hundred thin leather bands. ‘Here’s our famous taste test!’
This tasting room was a panelled library, with aged barrels stacked along one wall, on which their various bottles of whiskey and limited batches were displayed. Along the other wall was the original still – the squat pot and cap with the long arm stretching out to spiral down inside the condensing barrel.
James eased himself onto a leather bar stool next to the carved oak bar, following Nessa’s gesture. In front of each seat, five numbered shots, a glass of water, plate and a card of descriptions had been set out.
‘Your challenge,’ Nessa gave them all a wide smile as they made themselves comfortable, ‘should you choose to accept it, is to see how many of your shots you can match to the descriptions. You can take your time, we’ve got some local cheeses which pair beautifully, and some warm figs drizzled with honey, to keep your taste buds on their toes.’
‘Well, you could have made this harder.’ Finn smiled confidently at Nessa as she passed him the cheeseboard. He eyed her up and down. ‘I do like a challenge.’
James watched warily but Nessa whirled out of Finn’s reach, saying, ‘Thanks for the warning,’ as she offered the cheese and fruit to Sean.
He took a honeyed fig with thanks, then glared at his brother. ‘Don’t be so sure of yourself, Finn.’
The sense James had, that Sean was cautioning Finn about his unwanted overtures, only increased when Sean added lightly, ‘I’ve a good nose myself,’ as he savoured his first whiskey.
As James sipped, he scanned the large black-and-white photo boards lining the walls, and Nessa smiled.
‘For those of you who’ve noticed our storyboards, you’ll see that Ronan Delaney started producing whiskey two generations ago before passing the still on to his son, Declan, in the early nineties.’
Brandon, James noticed, was not listening. He downed all five shots, scribbled numbers on the card, then slammed it on the table like a folding poker player. He looked around. ‘What yous all waiting for, eh? Crack on! We’re not hanging around here all day!’
‘Alright, bud,’ Conor said. ‘It’s not a race.’
‘Seriously? You want to take your sweet time here? Of all the bloody places we could be today?’ Brandon jerked his stool back, letting it clatter to the ground as he stood and strode to the photos, jamming his hands in his pockets.
James noted the waitress who righted the stool, her nervous glances, the tension strained between the brothers, Conor’s level observation belying his curled fists – and Nessa’s quiet watchfulness. She took a tray of alcohol-absorbing cheese and crackers from a waiter and went over to Brandon.
‘You might like to try some of—’
But Brandon flung his hand up, sending the platter flying and crashing to the ground, splatting Stilton and Brie on the wooden floorboards.
James couldn’t tell if it was an accident, or if Brandon had been enraged enough to deliberately throw the platter over. As a waiter hurried to clear up, Brandon stomped off, until catching sight of a photo on the far wall made him stop dead.
Nessa’s deep breath suggested she was about to try again, and that maybe this time she’d throw Brandon out.
So James intervened, joining Brandon to look at the photo of Maeve being handed a ceremonial key, engraved with something James couldn’t decipher, and a small drawstring bag. Maeve was smiling in the picture but, as James peered at the image, something felt off. He realised the smile didn’t reach her eyes. She was faking it. James frowned. Had she not wanted to take the distillery on?
‘These photos tell quite the story, don’t they?’ James hazarded. ‘I imagine handing over your business must be rather bittersweet. You said you knew Declan. Is that him? Did you know the family long?’
Brandon grunted and walked away. But Sean joined them, and answered James. ‘Yes. Our families were always close. But they didn’t have much of a shindig when Declan passed the distillery on to … to Maeve.’
‘Oh, so not like when Declan took it on, then?’ Finn joined them, pointing at a photo of Declan being handed the same ceremonial key and bag, and smiling at the man presenting the items – an older, thinner version of Declan. Their free arms were around each other, heads close. ‘Ronan built this place from the ground up.’
James noticed the larger gathering. ‘Yes, this does indeed look like quite the shindig.’
‘D’you remember it?’ Finn asked Sean. ‘Ronan made handover day a party. Invited the locals, made a killing.’ He squinted at the photo, and pointed at a row of kids being kept quiet with ice lollies. ‘There we are.’
James recognised the four Kennedy brothers, scrawny with scraped knees, Finn thrusting forward, elbowing Sean and Brandon, with Conor standing off to one side.
‘Are the other children from the local villages?’ James asked.
‘Yeah, some of them.’ Sean smiled as he gestured. That’s Maeve. And that’s …’ He swallowed. His arm dropped from pointing at the taller girl beside Maeve, to his side.
‘Don’t start something you can’t finish, little brother,’ Conor said. He turned to James. ‘That’s Siobhan.’