Inside, a turf fire in a large open hearth warmed against the chill. The whiskey bottles behind the bar gleamed in the glow of brass-hooded lamps; the walls were covered in football flags, vintage signs, and old photographs. The stone floor, Duncan learned as he sat at the bar watching Patrick Brennan pull a row of pints for a group of senior citizens who’d gotten off a Lady sightseeing tour bus, went back to 1650. “You’re very good at that.” He’d always believed in giving credit where credit was due, and the publican not only brewed the best beer Duncan had ever tasted, he had an artist’s hand when it came to creating a perfect pint. “I’ve had enough practice,” Patrick said. “And it’s important to respect the ale.” “I imagine that’s even more the case given that you’re the brewer,” Duncan said as his phone chirped. When Diane’s photo appeared on the screen, Duncan pressed the button.
