The Consequences of Fear by Jacqueline Winspear (speed reading book txt) 📕

glass. He uncorked a bottle of cream sherry and poured the reddish brown liquid into the glass until it was almost at the brim, then placed the drink on a mat in front of Maisie. “Now then, are you two going to tell me how you know my name, and yet you’ve never even set foot in here before?” said Sharpe. “Are you from the authorities or something? I’m telling you—I pour according to regulations in here, and I keep my hours tidy. Everything’s above board.”

“Not to worry, Mr. Sharpe, I know you do—and we’re not from the ministry.” Maisie took out a card identifying her as an associateof Scotland Yard, a leftover from a previous case when she had worked for MacFarlane. She handed it to Sharpe, who raisedan eyebrow and returned it to her.

“Follow me—there’s no one in the snug, so we can have a private conversation in there.” He turned toward a young woman servingmen in overalls and flat caps in the public bar. “Rosie, hold the fort at both ends for a bit, love.”

“All right, boss. I’ve got everyone here sorted out.”

There was laughter and joshing among the men as Sharpe lifted a flap on the bar and came through, leading the way to a secludedarea at the end of the bar, set off by a wooden partition with a sign identifying it as “The Snug.” They each took a seatat the round table tucked away in the corner.

“You’d better tell me what this is all about,” said Sharpe.

“First of all, my apologies if my approach seemed a bit cryptic. However, I think you have some information that would beof use to us. We’re investigating a murder, and we believe the victim was a man who was something of a regular here.”

“Name?”

“We think he went by the name Charles d’Anjou—he was French Canadian, so his accent would have been quite distinctive. HisEnglish might have been very stilted too.”

“There’s one bloke, not been in for a while. He sounded French. Could drink a lot, but I don’t think his name was Charles. Something like ‘Clod.’ And when I say he could drink a lot, I had to keep an eye on him. I sometimes wondered if he’d had a few at home and then came in for the company, or to pick a fight with someone.” He nodded toward the public bar. “But our lot are working men, they don’t want trouble—mind you, if trouble finds them, I wouldn’t want to mess around with any of them. Strong lads. Know how to take care of themselves.”

“I was born and bred in Lambeth. I understand.” Maisie took a sip from her glass. “Did he ever meet anyone here, as far asyou can remember? Or did he strike up a conversation with another man?”

The publican looked thoughtful, rubbing his chin. He turned around and called out to the barmaid. “Oi, Rosie—Rosie, just aminute, love. Over here.”

“Yes, boss?” The barmaid was wiping her hands on a cloth as she entered the snug.

“Remember that bloke who used to come in a fair bit; a French fella? Tall, mustache. Dark hair. Name of Clod.”

“Knocked back brandy and was always asking if we had Armagnac. Him?”

The publican nodded. “That’s right. Ever see him with anyone?”

“I reckon I saw him with a bloke once or twice,” said the barmaid. “That fella from over the water, the one who always managesto get someone else to stand him a drink.”

“Did you ever see him with anyone else?” inquired Maisie

Rosie frowned. “There was one. Tall, dark, had deep lines on his face, and when he smiled it was a funny old smile. You know, sort of put on. He spoke really good English, but I didn’t think he was from here. Well, he came in once on his own—” She paused, looking at her hands as she wound the cloth around them. “In fact, it was just a few days before the last time I saw the other Frenchman, the drinker. You were off that night, boss. It wasn’t that busy, so I remember—that fella who was always broke was having a word with him. Then I saw the bloke with no money again outside, the last time I ever saw that Clod.” She frowned. “Funny, that, because he was drinking an awful lot that night and the man who never put his hand in his pocket was with him. At first I thought he seemed as if he’d had a few himself, though I’d not poured anything for him.” She shrugged. “P’raps they were drinking somewhere else beforehand, but I remember thinking I should keep an eye on them—you’ve always said to draw the line if I think someone’s had enough, and those two had definitely had enough.”

Sharpe nodded. “Thanks, Rosie. You’d better get back in there, that lot are just leaving and another couple are just comingin.”

“On my way, boss.” Rosie the barmaid cast a smile and nodded toward Maisie and Billy before hurrying back to the public bar.

“What can you tell us about the man who managed to get everyone else to buy a drink for him?” asked Maisie. “I believe hisname is Hackett.”

“Can’t tell you much at all—except he’s the sort you have to keep an eye on, like Rosie said.” He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Nothing comes as a surprise in this job, even two bods with identification from Scotland Yard that may or may not be genuine.” He waited for a comment from either Maisie or Billy; neither said a word. Sharpe leaned forward. “It works like this—a bloke with not a penny to his name comes in and eyes up the fella who looks like he’s drinking not to feel lonely. The next thing you know, the only one putting his hand in his pocket is Mr. Lonely. But the next morning he finds that his wallet is either gone or it’s lighter by a few quid. Probably the latter—because the first fella knows