The barman picked up the sovereign and bit it. Seemingly satisfied, he dropped it into the pocket of his stained waistcoat. He walked out from behind the counter, jerking his head toward a dark, narrow staircase. “He’s upstairs in his room.”

St. Clare didn’t budge. “Summon him. We’ll speak to him here.”

“Can’t do,” the barman said. “He don’t come downstairs no more.”

Maggie felt St. Clare’s arm tense under her hand. She understood why. It could very well 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.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

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.