Page 60 of Miss Dauntless
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.”
“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.”
“I admit to attempting some research on the legal question of whether a man officially dead and buried can be murdered, but the law offered no comforting insights. To fake one’s death is not a crime, though. Deception is a sin, but that particular deception is not an actionable crime.”
“I find that hard to believe.” MacKay paused while a murmur of voices came from the direction of the foyer. “To put family and friends through such an ordeal ought to be a crime.”
“The cases I found related to people wiggling out of debts, betrothals, and contractual obligations such as articles of indenture. To the extent fraud resulted from the faked death, the fraud is a crime. I’d have to prove, after all these years, that Merridew was attempting to defraud somebody other than his wife. She, having become his legal chattel upon speaking her vows, cannot sue him for anything. The judges opine that a cow cannot sue its owner, hence a wife cannot take her spouse to court.”
“And Merridew, as a professional swindler, would think nothing of defrauding that good lady out of her meager savings or what she could borrow from Mrs. Oldbach. Harry Merridew makes up in cunning what he lacks in honor.”
“And he is Matilda’s lawfully wedded spouse.” A fact that would not budge, no matter how long Tremont pondered it. “I’m hoping he’ll divorce her, for a sum certain.”
MacKay rose to set his glass on the sideboard. “You propose to bargain with the devil.”
“Whether Matilda marries me or not, she and Tommie deserve to be free of that man. He might allow her a separation from bed and board, but my objective for her is a divorce.”
“The penny press will have a field day.” MacKay said this as kindly as it was possible to pronounce a capital sentence on a woman’s good name. “Not fair, but there it is. She’ll be the merry widow, and her cuckolded husband the victim of the rapacious lord.”
“I usually play a convincing buffoon,” Tremont said, finishing his drink and getting to his feet. “Playing the villain will be a refreshing change, however ironic, given Merridew’sbehavior toward his wife. I will understand if you cease to be at home when I call.”
“The day I am not at home to you, Tremont, is the day Dorcas disowns me for hypocrisy. What’s your next move?”
Tremont had been prepared to do without MacKay’s support, without anybody’s support, but the major’s loyalty meant worlds. Not only for Tremont, but for Matilda, who’d had so few allies.
“My next move is to accompany Matilda tomorrow to this meeting with the prospective buyer. I will create the impression that I am her man of business and form my own opinion of the buyer, if he has the courage to show up in person. The men will follow Merridew from the meeting, or watch the solicitors’ office until Merridew is sent a message.”
“You’ve sent men to Oxford, you’re regularly patrolling Matilda’s house, and now you have the solicitors’ office under surveillance.”
“Almost as if I anticipate a battle, isn’t it?”
