“Even though Jacob and the others had dressed down, they still stuck out as “quality” in this salt-of-the-earth haunt. Unlike the proprietor of the King’s Arms, the ale-keep behind the bar of Merlin’s Cave showed no sign of fawning on them in hopes of drawing in more custom from among their class. The same sort of earthenware mugs the other patrons quaffed from were plopped down before each of them, along with a basket of crusty bread, a dish of clotted cream and bowls of thick stew, featuring m...ostly potatoes, leeks and rutabaga with very little meat. Jacob eyed each stringy bit of what was supposed to be beef with a healthy dollop of suspicion. Nothing else seemed to be on the menu. When the serving girl returned with a fresh round of ale for all, Quinn demanded, “What’s a man have to do to get whisky here?” “Ask,” she said simply. “Good,” Quinn said, slapping a sovereign on the table. “Bring your oldest bottle. And four glasses. Clean ones, for choice.” Jacob watched the girl disappear through a door in the back of the common room that seemed to lead to a descending staircase.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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