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 about ale, nor men, that one.” His mouth spread in a toothless smile. “She soon learned.”

St. Clare’s hand tightened on the back of Maggie’s chair. He had to force his fingers to unclench.

Maggie cast him a concerned look. Are you all right?

He gave her a brief, tight smile. Never better.