“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.”
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.