be a trap. A means of isolating them so that they could rob them of all of their money, not merely the promised gold sovereigns.
“And why not?” she asked.
“Because,” the barman said, “the old codger is blind.”
St. Clare cursed himself for agreeing to bring Maggie to this godforsaken place, and doubly so for permitting her to accompany the barman up the narrow wooden staircase. The whole of it went against his every instinct. Against every bit of his better judgment.
And yet, here they were.
He followed close behind her, the stairs creaking with every booted footstep. They were ascending into darkness, met by an odor fouler than the stink of sour ale and perspiration that permeated the taproom. It smelled of stale urine, rotten meat, and unwashed male bodies.
The barman stopped in front of a door at the end of the corridor. “He’s in here.”
St. Clare drew Maggie back to his side. He was ready for anything, but when the door opened, there was no one lying in wait. No one in the room at all, save a small man in a chair who turned his clouded eyes blindly toward the door. His wrinkled face was lit by the light of the full moon shining through a grease-streaked window.
“Who’s there?” he croaked.
“It’s me, Pa,” the barman said. “These folks want to ask you about someone from the old days.”
“What folks?”
“A fine lady and her gentleman. Paid a sovereign, they did. And they’ll cough up another when they’ve finished talking to you.”
The old man perked up. “Two sovereigns!”
“This is me father, Ed Mullens,” the barman said by way of introduction. “He’s owned the Crossed Daggers since…1780, wasn’t it, Pa?”
“Aye. Somewhere thereabouts. Come in, come in.” Mullens beckoned to them. “Don’t get many visitors.”
St. Clare and Maggie entered the room. The barman withdrew, shutting the door after him.
“Have you a candle?” Maggie asked.
“On yon table,” Mullens said. “Not much need for it in my condition.”
St. Clare found it, along with a tinderbox, and managed to strike a spark to light the wick. The candle flame flickered.
Maggie pushed back the hood of her cloak. There was a spindly chair near the unmade bed. She sat down upon it carefully, getting straight to the point. “Mr. Mullens, do you recall a man by the name of Father Tuck, or possibly, Friar Tuck? He may have come here sometime thirty years ago.”
“’Course I recall him.” Mullens gave a jagged, phlegmy cough. “What’s he to you, missus?”
“We’re asking the questions,” St. Clare said.
Another hacking cough. “Don’t like to see old Tuck in trouble.”
“We don’t want to cause trouble,” Maggie assured him. “We merely want to learn a little more about the man.”
“He was a churchman.” Mullens laughed hoarsely, which only provoked another cough.
St. Clare went to the window. It looked down over the yard of the tavern. Enzo was still there, alone at his post. He was young and small, but he was capable enough. Like St. Clare, he was well armed. Not only did Enzo carry two horse pistols on his person, there was a rifle in the boot underneath his seat.
“You there,” Mullens gasped, still coughing. “Pour me some wine.”
There was a dusty bottle on a table by the bed. St. Clare uncorked it and poured the contents into the dirty glass at its side. He put the glass into the old man’s hand.
Mullens drank deeply.
St. Clare moved to stand behind Maggie’s chair.
“A former churchman, yes,” she said. “He was expelled from his order, I believe.”
“No former about it. Went back, he did. Gave up the drink.” Mullens drained his glass. “Pious fool.”
St. Clare looked at him. “Went back where?”
“To his church, I reckon. Somewhere in Devonshire. Damned if I know.”
“Devonshire?” Maggie’s expression turned hopeful. “Do you know the name of the church?”
“Why would I?” Mullens was quiet a moment, his wiry brows beetling. “He did come back once, now I recall it. Thumping his Bible at us. Said as how we was to repent. Tossed him out on his arse, the boys did. Never saw him again after. Might be dead for all I know.”
Maggie was undeterred. “He was friends with one of your barmaids, wasn’t he?”
Mullens snorted. “Who says so?”
“Wasn’t he?” she pressed. “I thought he might have been acquainted with Jenny Seaton.”
Mullens cackled. “Jolly Jenny? There’s a name I’ve not heard in years.”
“You remember her working here?”
“Nothing wrong with my memory, missus. Hired the wench meself, didn’t I? She were only sixteen—straight off the farm—but comely as a dove. Didn’t know nothing