Isabel smiled. “I’m familiar with those. They can be brutal, can’t they?”
He chuckled. With her encouragement he started talking about his life in Dunross and how he never wanted to live anywhere else. By the time he finished two large bowls of chowder and four slices of bread, she knew quite a bit about him. She also knew that no one had taught him to chew with his mouth closed and to speak only in between bites. His manners were deplorable, but he certainly had enjoyed his meal. Quite a bit of the chowder was on his chin and on the front of his shirt. She placed a clean napkin in front of him. When he didn’t take the hint, she added another one.
As soon as the dishes were removed, Isabel said, “Mr. Fletcher, won’t you please answer some questions for Inspector Sinclair? It’s very important.”
“You can call me Archie if you want. You sure are a stunner.”
Before she could respond—and frankly she didn’t know what to say to get him on topic—Fletcher leaned forward and blurted, “They hate you.”
Sinclair had been sitting back against the booth, but he leaned forward at that statement. “Who hates her?”
“Lower your voice,” Fletcher pleaded. “It’s bad enough that I’m sitting here with an officer of the law wearing his uniform so everyone knows it, and now you’re yelling at me.”
“Who hates her?” Sinclair repeated, though he lowered his voice. “Who are they and what did they say?”
Michael had been sitting quietly, but his patience had run out. “You are going to tell us,” he said.
“And if I don’t?” Fletcher blustered.
“You will.”
Fletcher looked from Michael to Isabel and back to Michael. “Who is she to you? Is she . . .”
“She’s with me,” he snapped. “Now answer the question.”
Michael was getting testy, and Isabel feared his temper would cause Fletcher to stop talking. She reached under the table and put her hand on his thigh. She was either going to pat him or pinch him.
Before she could make up her mind, his hand was on top of hers, and he wasn’t letting go.
Fletcher kept his attention on Isabel when he answered. “Harcus and his crew. They don’t want her coming in here and ruining things. They have big plans. Clive Harcus says he’s the real heir and she’s trying to take the land away from him.”
“Does he have proof?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Clive says that, from the day he was born, his mother, Freya, has told him that MacKenna was his father. Maybe her word is all the proof he needs. From what I hear, it’s probably true.”
“Do others living around here believe Clive’s the rightful heir?”
“They aren’t going to admit it if they don’t. Clive tells everyone who will listen that he owns Glen MacKenna, and no one dares argue with him.”
“Are you afraid of him?”
Fletcher’s voice dropped. “Anyone with half a brain would be afraid.”
Sinclair continued to question Fletcher while Isabel and Michael quietly listened.
“Were you in here when you heard people talking about Grace?”
“Yes. I was sitting in the last booth nursing my drink. I wasn’t ready to walk home just yet, but my friends had already left, so I was relaxing by myself, hunched over my drink.”
“Could they see you in the mirror?”
“I don’t think so. I was tucked in the corner with my back to them.”
“Can you identify who you heard?”
“Walter MacCarthy was one of them. He was sitting right behind me. They must have seen my friends leave. They go out the front door, but I always leave by the back because it’s closer to my flat.”
“How many were in the booth with MacCarthy?”
“There were two others,” he said. “One of them was Graeme Gibson. He has a real nasally, whiny voice. I’d know it anywhere. He has made a lot of money doing absolutely nothing as groundskeeper. Sometimes when Clive gets into trouble with the law, Graeme is his alibi.”
“Graeme Gibson and MacCarthy,” Sinclair said. “Who was the third man?”
“I don’t know who he was. I didn’t recognize his voice. MacCarthy did most of the talking. He’d been drinking for a while, and Graeme had to tell him to be quiet. I wasn’t paying much attention until I heard him say that Grace MacKenna wasn’t going to cause any trouble. He said he’d made sure she’d be taken care of and wouldn’t be coming to the Highlands. I guess he was wrong about that since she’s sitting right here.”
“Did he explain how he had made sure? “
“No, and they didn’t ask. Graeme wanted to know what would happen if the plan failed. Then the stranger asked MacCarthy if he had a contingency plan.”
“And?” Sinclair prodded when Fletcher didn’t go on.
“I’m getting parched. Any chance you could order another pitcher?”
Michael motioned to the waitress, and a couple of minutes later Fletcher was gulping another pint. He seemed to be in a hurry to get drunk.
“Did MacCarthy have a contingency plan?” Sinclair asked impatiently.
“Yes. He said the land couldn’t go to Grace until she read some kind of letter, and she wouldn’t be able to do that. Graeme asked him why, and MacCarthy laughed while he admitted he took the letter. He said it would slow things down and give him time to make other arrangements to get rid of the problem.”
“The problem being Grace?” Sinclair asked.
“I think so. Then the stranger said they’d be able to move forward with their development plan.
He sounded real happy.”
Isabel and Michael said his name at the same time. “James Reid.”
Michael still didn’t have the answers he wanted. He assumed that Clive Harcus had written the kill order, but he wanted confirmation. MacCarthy hadn’t been doing this on his own.
“Was Clive Harcus aware of MacCarthy’s plans? Did he hire him?”
“I don’t know about that,” he said. “Clive was one of MacCarthy’s clients. He’d gotten him out of several messes in the past. Of course, it was easy work for MacCarthy because witnesses wouldn’t dare testify against Clive.”
“Were the arrests for fighting?” Isabel asked.
Sinclair had looked at Clive’s record and answered. “Most were. Harcus can’t or won’t control his temper.”
“If he kills someone, he’ll probably get away with it,” Fletcher said. He downed the rest of his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Isabel couldn’t stop herself from pushing another napkin toward him. There were now three in front of him and he hadn’t touched any of them.
“He’ll have to find another corrupt solicitor when he starts another fight and breaks someone’s jaw,” Sinclair said.
Michael looked at the bar and then turned to Sinclair. “I think the bartender is trying to get your attention.”
Sinclair immediately got up and crossed the room, zigzagging his way around the tables. The bartender stopped wiping the counter with his cloth while he spoke to Sinclair. Whatever he said surprised the inspector, who turned to look at Michael and Isabel and nod.