Edward looked at the list once it was complete. Nine names. One of whom had to be Chérie. Probably not the curate, he thought. But he didn’t cross the man’s name out.
He asked for another sheet of paper and sat down in a corner of the taproom to compose a brief letter to Gareth. I need a favor, he wrote. Can you send me as many of Chérie’s confessions as you can lay hands on? He thought for a moment, and added a postscript. And I’d appreciate it if you’d have your man pack up a week’s worth of my clothes and send them to Creed Hall. I shall be here longer than I anticipated.
The door from the yard swung open and someone entered the taproom. Edward looked up. It was Miss Chapple. Her gown was muddy almost to the knee.
The innkeeper abandoned his tankard and his conversation with the blac
