Charlie and the sommelier bent over the list, exchanging knowledgeable murmurs while Max looked around the room-glossy women and prosperous-looking men, London ’s privileged class, all of them talking at the top of their voices. Max felt a sudden desire to be somewhere quiet, and then thought of his empty apartment. Not that quiet. He looked down at the letter again, and wondered how much the property would fetch if he decided to sell; certainly more than enough to get him out of the hole he was in. He raised his glass in a private toast to Uncle Henry.

“Excellent,” said Charlie. “That’s the one.”

The sommelier pursed his lips and nodded in silent approval before going off in search of the wine.

“There,” said Charlie, pointing to his choice on the list. “The ’82 Léoville Barton. Top bottle. Can’t do better than that.”

Max looked at where the pointing finger had stopped. “Are you serious? Three hundred and eighty pounds?”

“That’s nothing these days. Not long ago, half a dozen punters-young bankers, I think they were-had dinner at some place in St. James’s and went mad. They blew forty-four thousand quid on six bottles of wine. The chef was so tickled he gave them a free dinner. You must have read about it.”

The sommelier returned, and Charlie paused to watch him perform the opening ceremony. The bottle was presented for inspection, in the way a proud parent displays a particularly well-favored baby. The lead capsule was cut, the long, aristocratic cork withdrawn and sniffed, the dark ruby liquid poured with practiced care into a decanter, with a little more than a mouthful going into a glass.

Now it was time for Charlie’s performance.