“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?”