The entrance to Jolly Jack’s was easy to spot. The door had been painted a bright, iridescent red and was like a beacon shining through the thick mist that had rolled in. They could hear music and laughter as they opened the door and went down the steps into the pub.
Isabel noticed a plaque on the wall stating that the pub opened in 1879. The old stone floors and the tall intricately arched ceiling confirmed the accuracy of the date. The bar took up the length of one long wall. Dark wood carvings on the front of it were works of art, and the varnished top had been rubbed smooth and shiny by the thousands of patrons over the years. Behind all the bottles sitting on glass shelves was a mirror that covered the back wall. No matter where you sat, if you looked in the mirror, you could see who was coming in. Several men were seated on stools drinking pints while they talked to one another, catching up on the day’s news.
Padded booths lined the opposite wall, and scattered around the middle were round tables and chairs. In the back room was an open hearth. Two gentlemen sat in front of the fire playing fiddles, and a couple of patrons tapped their feet to the jaunty tune.
The noise quieted down to a whisper when they entered the pub, but after a few seconds the sound picked up again. Michael spotted an empty booth near the back and led the way. Isabel slid into the booth first and Michael sat next to her. She was protected by the wall on one side and a big hunk of a man on the other. She couldn’t have felt safer.
Sinclair went to the bar to order drinks and came back with three menus. Since the pub’s specialty on Wednesdays was Cullen skink, Isabel decided to give it a try. The waitress brought her a steaming bowl, and after one spoonful, she declared it the most delicious chowder she’d ever tasted.
There wasn’t any heavy conversation while they ate, but as soon as the dishes were taken away, Sinclair checked his watch and said, “If he follows his routine, he should be here anytime now.”
“What if he won’t talk to us?” Isabel asked.
From the look on the inspector’s face she surmised she’d asked a foolish question. She’d seen that same expression on Michael’s face a time or two.
“He’ll talk to us,” Sinclair assured, just as the bartender caught his attention with a signal in the direction of the front door. “And there he is,” he said, tilting his head toward the mirror.
Turning to the bar’s mirror, they saw the reflection of a man entering the pub.
Fletcher was alone and he seemed nervous. He kept glancing to the left, then right, as though he expected someone to pounce on him.
Isabel thought he was rather odd-looking. He was of medium height and had a wiry frame, but with freakishly large biceps that didn’t seem to fit the rest of his body. He spotted friends at the bar and headed across the pub to join them.
“I’ll go get him,” Sinclair said.
“If he sees your uniform, he might panic. Let me go,” Michael offered.
Michael crossed the pub and tapped Fletcher on the shoulder. When he turned around, Michael shook his hand, acted as though they were old friends, and greeted him loudly enough for everyone to hear, then practically dragged him to the booth. Fletcher didn’t want to sit until Michael offered to buy him a pint or two.
When Fletcher turned and saw Sinclair sitting there, he flinched and took a step back. “Wha . . .
what’s this?” he stuttered. “I didn’t do anything . . .”
“You’re not in trouble,” Michael assured as he put his hand on Fletcher’s shoulder and pushed him into the booth, next to Sinclair.
The waitress placed a full pitcher of beer and a glass in front of Fletcher. As soon as Sinclair filled his glass, Fletcher grabbed it and took a big gulp. He wiped the foam from his face with the back of his hand and said, “I have a good memory, and I don’t remember meeting you.”
“We haven’t met,” Michael told him.
“But you shook my hand and said it was good to see me again,” Fletcher said, suddenly aware of a trap. “I don’t understand. Who are you? And who are these two?” he asked, motioning to Isabel and Sinclair.
Sinclair ignored the question. “You called Donal Gladstone and told him that you heard some people talking about Grace MacKenna.”
Fletcher looked shocked, but quickly recovered. “No, I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Donal Gladstone.”
Fletcher shook his head. “Never heard of him.”
“You called him to warn him—”
Fletcher interrupted. “I didn’t call him.”
“We have proof that you made the call.”
Fletcher was belligerent. He kept denying, as he finished one pint and began working on another.
Sinclair looked ready to grab him by the throat and shake him until he told the truth.
When it appeared he was ready to bolt, Isabel looked at Sinclair and asked, “May I say something?”
“You still haven’t told me who she is,” Fletcher declared with a suspicious glance in Isabel’s direction.
“My name is Grace Isabel MacKenna, and I want to thank you for calling Mr. Gladstone. Your concern for my safety overrode your fear. It was a heroic thing to do.”
Heroic? That was going a little far, Michael thought. It was the man’s responsibility to do the right thing and call Gladstone to warn him, and also to alert the authorities . . . which he had failed to do.
Heroic? Come on. Isabel’s notion of what was heroic was far different from his.
Fletcher’s eyes widened when she told him who she was. He slumped back against the booth and scanned the room to see if anyone was watching him. He looked ready to bolt again.
Isabel drew his attention. “Have you had the fish chowder?” she asked. “I just had a bowl, and it was delicious.”
Fletcher didn’t respond. He sat silent for a minute, looking around the bar, and then returned his wary gaze back to Isabel.
She wasn’t deterred. “Really, Mr. Fletcher, you should try it. I can’t remember what it’s called . . .”
“Cullen skink,” Fletcher mumbled.
“That’s it,” Isabel said cheerfully. “Have you tried this one?”
“It’s my favorite,” he admitted. “I worry they’ll run out before I order. The cook never makes enough, and it goes fast.”
“We would like to treat you, wouldn’t we?” she asked Michael. She had to elbow him in his side to get him to agree.
Sinclair motioned to the waitress and placed the order.
Fletcher was so nervous, his hands were shaking. He needed to calm down if they were ever going to get answers. Since he couldn’t seem to stop staring at her now, Isabel decided to try to put him at ease with more casual conversation.
“This is such a beautiful area.”
He nodded and continued to stare at her. After answering several more questions with a nod or a yes or a no, he finally began to loosen up.
“Do you live around here?”
“Yes, I do. It’s walking distance from my flat to this pub, and since I’m not driving, I don’t have to worry about how much I drink, though I have learned not to overdo because of the morning-after hangovers.”