The proprietor rubbed a hand across his jaw. “We’ve lost weekend custom,” he admitted, “but we’re not paupers yet. However tight things get, men always seem to have spare pennies to buy whisky or porter.” He nodded to a regular customer. “My beer isn’t watered, my porter is the best quality, and my whisky has all paid the excise dues. I run a quality public, Sergeant Watters, and nobody will die from drinking in the Railway.”
“I’m glad to hear it, sir,” Watters said. “Does John Wallace ever trouble you?”
The publican started and looked away. “I can’t say I know the fellow’s name,” he said.
“Thank you, sir,” Watters said and moved on to the Camperdown Inn, where a row of gas jets gleamed behind a screen of coloured glass. He asked the same questions and got similar responses.
“John Wall
