“Your building is a survivor in the neighborhood,” Tennant said. “Seventeenth century?”
“You’ve got that right, guvnor. The Great Fire stopped fifty yards from that door.” The barman grinned. “They must have sold a pint or two that day.”
“The firefighters would’ve had a thirst on them something fierce,” O’Malley said.
“Speaking of … what can I get you gents?”
“Paddy?”
O’Malley smoothed his busy mustache. “’Tis a shade early, but a pint of Guinness wouldn’t come amiss. And a cheese-and-pickle sandwich if there’s one to be had.”
“Make that two,” Tennant said.
The publican drew two pints of stout, their creamy heads bulging above the rim. He set them on the bar and turned his attention to a carving board, slicing from a loaf of crusty bread. He layered on the cheddar, cracked open a new jar of chutney, spooned it on top, and delivered their plates.
“We’re looking for an old colleague of ours,” Tennant said. “Ted Watford.”
He looked Tennant up and down. “You’re coppers?”
“Detective Inspector Tennant. This is Sergeant O’Malley.”
The barkeep gave him a doubtful look. “Ted’s not in trouble, is he?”
“Not a bit of it,” O’Malley said. “Information is what we’re wanting.”
The publican looked at the wall clock. “Shouldn’t be long. Ted’s usually here by now. Maybe this peasouper is slowing him down.”
Tennant asked, “What does he usually drink?”
“Same as you.”
“Slice up another sandwich. And draw a Guinness when he comes in.”
The publican nodded. “He could use a meal that isn’t only liquid.”
Five minutes later, the door opened. “Morning, Ted,” the barman said to the new arrival. “Couple of gents here to talk to you.”
The inspector introduced himself and extended his hand. Warily, the man took it. Tennant noticed his tremor, bloodshot eyes, and cheeks covered in spidery veins. The barman placed a freshly poured pint and delivered a sandwich to the former copper.
Tennant said, “Join us, Mister Watford.”
The man licked his dry, cracked lips. He gripped the Guinness, closed his eyes, and sank a third of the glass.
After Watford put his glass down, Tennant said, “I have a few questions about your old army days.”
Ted Watford didn’t know Major FitzGerald or Captain Locock, but his slack face stiffened at Oliver Montgomery’s name. “That sod.”
O’Malley wiped foam from his mustache. “Now, why would you be calling the captain that?”
“He commanded a firing squad they forced me to serve on. A poor, pathetic private who had frozen at the order to charge. Dropped his rifle and ran.” Watford propped his elbows on the table and dropped his face in his hands. “Jesus.”
Tennant said, “I’m sorry, Mister Watford.”
“Cold as ice, he was. Montgomery. When it was over, he said to the burial party, ‘Take him away and clean him up.’ The poor blighter had crapped and pissed his trousers before we blew a hole in his chest.”
Watford couldn’t tell them anything else, but it had been enough. His shoulders sagged. He pulled his glass toward him, staring into the pint. Then he lifted his head and looked out through bleary eyes.
“Montgomery lied to us. Said they’d loaded most of our rifles with blanks, and we’d never know whose bullet … But I felt the kick against my shoulder. Feel it, still. Bastard.”
