And thus, MacKay worried as well. “Whisky, then.”

MacKay poured two generous servings and passed one to Tremont. “Slàinte.”

“Slàinte mhath.” Tremont nosed his drink, then took a sip. MacKay, by contrast, had bolted his at one go, then poured himself another half serving. The chill of approaching winter—or of the brother-in-law’s duty visit—would be stoutly warded off.

“Without meeting Merridew,” MacKay said, “how do you know this buyer is him?”

“I am not absolutely certain, of course, but one plans for the worst possibilities. Matilda reports that Harry changes his alias as often as you change your socks, though he tends to use the first name Harry or its variants. The men have seen a fellow walking past the house—on the street and in the alley—more than once. This man limps, and Bentley claims the limp is familiar.”

“Former Private Benjamin Bentley?”

“Is that his first name?”

“He’s a good man,” MacKay said, gesturing to the wing chairs before the fire. “Never lost his head in the heat of battle, knew how to handle a team. If he tells you a fellow’s limp looks familiar, then believe him.”

“I do.” Tremont sank into a comfortable chair whose back had been warmed by the fire. A green and white plaid pillow provided just the right support to make the chair’s embrace a bit of heaven. “If the men see the limping fellow again, they will approach him with a few questions. Matilda says Merridew did not have a limp, though he might have acquired one on the occasion of his supposed death.”

MacKay took the second chair with the sigh of a man whose backside was greeting an old and dear friend.

“What do you know of that death?” he asked.

“Very little. Matilda has a letter from the proprietor of the Hungry Hound, an inn just south of Oxford on the Oxford Road. The innkeeper expresses his condolences on her loss, alludes to a sudden illness, and begs that she remit a sum certain for the departed’s expenses, which he elucidates to the penny. He further informs her that Harry’s bill has been paid by the same good, Christian folk who arranged for the deceased’s remains to be carted to London and that she can make repayment to them at a specific address.”

“What about that strikes you as odd?”

Oh, everything. “I can understand an old friend paying the shot for a man felled by lung fever or food poisoning, but to pay as well to have his remains crated up in a coffin and carted all the way back to his widow in London? Burying him in Oxford would have been costly enough by the time they’d paid for the coffin, the service, the gravedigging, the bell ringing, and so forth.”