“Shipping bodies is expensive,” MacKay said. “You are right about that, and Merridew’s impoverished widow was expected to pay for the lot of it.”

“Even if you were a generous soul seized with a spontaneous charitable impulse toward a stranger, would you rely on the stranger’s widow to cover those costs? And if the innkeeper was also paid—as the letter implies—then why was the innkeeper corresponding with Matilda at all? Why wasn’t she contacted by these Good Samaritans directly and condoled on her terribly sudden loss?”

MacKay wrinkled his nose. “Because somebody wanted Matilda sending that money not to the innkeeper, but to that other address, where the Good Samaritans supposedly dwelled. This all begins to smell of a scheme. Is there even a Hungry Hound on the Oxford Road?”

Tremont took a sip of his whisky, which did, indeed, have the effect of settling the nerves. “I asked Sycamore Dorning about the inns around Oxford. He did not finish his university education, but he claims to have acquainted himself thoroughly with every watering hole between London and Oxford.”

“That’s a lot of watering holes.”

“You will be shocked to learn that the youngest Dorning brother was not academically inclined in his youth.”

“Nothing about Dorning has the power to shock me.” MacKay waved a hand in circles. “Get on wi’ your tale.”

“Dorning claims there is no such establishment as the Hungry Hound, or there wasn’t when he matriculated.”

MacKay swore eloquently in his native tongue. “Inns change hands.”

“They do, but they rarely change their names, lest the mail go astray. Coaching inns are landmarks. People use them to give directions, to calculate distances and fares. The age of the inn is a point of pride. The Dog and Dam, serving fine ale since Adam first kissed Eve, and so forth. One does not change the name of an inn if one can avoid it.”

MacKay asked the inevitable next question. “And the address to which the grieving Mrs. Merridew was to remit a small fortune?”

“I’ve sent two of the men to make inquiries. I was not Oxford-educated, else I might know the direction myself.”

“I did my penance at St. Andrews,” MacKay replied. “Michael Delancey was an Oxford man. Ordained and all that. He should descend upon us from the celestial realm any moment, trailing streams of sober piety. Before St. Michael the Arch-bore blesses us with his presence, you will explain to me why you don’t simply kill Merridew before he can cause any more bother.”

The Scots were so enviably pragmatic. “I already have enough to explain to Saint Peter without adding that sin to my impressively long list.” Tremont hesitated, though MacKay well knew the history with Dunacre. “Matilda would not approve.”

“You considered it.”