At almost three o’clock, the bar of the Shiloh Inn was still hectic when he walked in. Log fire burning, people eating, drinking, talking loudly, laughing.
Conviviality unconfined. Happy days.
He made his way slowly to the bar, leaned on his cane, waiting, and when his turn came the woman behind the bar told him she’d bring his Balvenie malt over to the just-vacated table by the window.
Eleanor Tilden not recognizing him, and no reason why she should.
Several others he could name, he noted, taking his seat. Gwen Turner and Jill Barrow, her lover, tucking into quiche. William and Freya Osborn, seated at what Reaper supposed was the best table in the house, perhaps the proprietor’s table when he was dining; the boss himself not present, and maybe that was as well. Not that Tilden would be likely to recognize him either, yet still, it might have been one roll of the dice too many.
It felt strange. Being here, among these people, in this place.
His drink came, nicely served with a dish of pretzels, water on the side, and Reaper thanked Mrs Tilden, who smiled back down at him.
‘Will you be wanting to eat?’ she asked. ‘The kitchen’s about to close but we can still offer sandwiches and chowder.’
‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘But thank you. I won’t keep the table long. I know it’s a busy time.’
‘Don’t you worry about that,’ Eleanor Tilden told him. ‘Take your time.’
He thanked her again, picked up his drink, took a swallow and found it painful, making it hard, momentarily, to breathe. But he wanted the whisky and managed it, followed it with a little water to douse the discomfort.
He sat back for a moment, looking around.
Taking it in.
And then he put down enough cash to cover the check, and stood again.
Time to go.