Clement Hastings was a rather short, round man in his late forties whom Will could only describe as squat. He sported a fairly large nose, small beady eyes, a balding head, and he wore only the most eccentric of clothing. Will often wondered how the man made a living wage as an agent of inquiry, although it appeared quite true that the wealthy and noble frequently needed some sort of pampering for which they willingly, and handsomely, paid. Or perhaps pampering wasn’t the correct word. Hastings wasn’t the type to pamper. The man possessed a remarkably shrewd intellect and was considered by most to be the best investigator in Cornwall. Will had used his ser vices on occasion, though most notably before his trial nearly six years ago.
Walking into his library, Will found the man gazing at one of his shelves of books next to the mantel. Hastings wore another atypical suit—a striped gold and white silk shirt tucked into green and white large, plaid pants, all covered with a lime green waistcoat that pinched his stomach like a corset. Perhaps this was the style in the city, Will didn’t know, but he sure as hell wouldn’t be found dead in such garb. Then again, perhaps the man’s wife dressed him and his choice of clothing was no fault of his own.
“Have you found anything, Hastings?” he asked, heading straight for his desk, hoping the man had come with news today. He’d only been looking into this matter since early in the week, so Will knew the chances for good information were slim. Still, he wanted a report every two days, and so far Hastings had obliged him.
The investigator turned his attention to him and bowed once, a thin smile displayed across his lips. “Good morning, your grace,” he said properly. “I do indeed have something. It’s not much, but it’s a start, I think.”
Will gestured to the opposite chair. “Please.”
Hastings nodded again and walked toward him, arranging his plump form in the chair, his legs stretched out in front of him as he reached into the pocket of his waistcoat for his notes.
“Well now,” he started, flipping through several small sheets of paper, “my men in London are starting their investigation into Mrs. Rael-Lamont’s background, and about that, I have no news.” He cleared his throat. “However, from my own discreet questioning about town I’ve learned she’s lived in her Penzance home, alone aside from a small number of servants, since ’forty-four, apparently moving here after the death of her husband. There’s nothing to suggest he ever came to Cornwall while still alive, although I think…” Hastings frowned and turned the sheet over. “Ah, yes. The property, I believe, is in her late husband’s name, though that has yet to be verified. So it looks as if he purchased it without ever seeing it, and I suppose that’s not too odd if he’d planned to vacation here and then died unexpectedly.” He looked up to Will, his features forming a pleasant, relaxed confidence. “I’ll have more information, your grace, within the week, as soon as I get news from the city. She’s evidently got a trust set up there from which she’s drawing income.”
Will sat back in his chair, rubbing his fingertips along the top of the secretary, his mind churning with possibilities that so far added up to nothing substantial whatsoever. Except that she also drew income from selling and arranging flowers. And she had the most delicious tasting lips. “Anything else on her husband?”
Hastings shook his head. “Nothing here, sir, but again, I’ll have more later in the week.”
“Very good.” Will moved to stand, when the investigator turned another sheet of paper.
“One last thing, your grace, and perhaps this is totally insignificant.”
He remained in his chair, eyeing the investigator speculatively. “Yes?”
Hastings frowned, this time deeply enough to form creases in his forehead. “You asked me to check for people she’s seen recently, and I’ve found one meeting she had that’s rather odd and unlike the others.”
Will said nothing, just waited.
Hastings looked up again. “It seems she does a good business selling flowers and floral arrangements to the local well-born, and most of them either send for her to come to their homes for consultations, or call on her for appointments.”
This seemed very trivial to Will, but he decided against that remark. It was the man’s job to take note of the ordinary, he supposed.
“Apparently,” Hastings continued, “according to one of her neighbor’s scullery maids, early last week Mrs. Rael-Lamont had a visitor whom she did not expect and who was apparently so low-born he was taken ’round the back of the cottage to meet her in her nursery. He was there only a few minutes, and when he left, she immediately closed the house up and refused visitors, customers, and social callers, and she does have a good many lady friends in the community. That was the day before she came to see you, your grace.”
Will sat forward in his chair, leaning one elbow on the armrest, growing ever more intrigued. “Do you know who it was who called on her?”
Hastings scratched his jowls with wide, puffy fingers. “Well, now, that’s what’s so odd, sir. Seems it was an actor.”
He could feel his heart thud against his chest. “An actor?”
The investigator chuckled, shaking his head as he glanced back to his notes. “I know, sir. Very odd, but yes indeed, an actor from the Shakespearean touring group—the lead actor, I believe. Name’s Gilbert Montague, but that’s all I know about him for now. I’m working on more information.”
Will ran his fingers through his hair harshly and abruptly stood, walking with purposeful strides toward the conservatory windows. He didn’t know any actors, and as far as he could remember, had never met one in his life. But Hastings was right; this meeting between the widow and an actor at her home was far too unusual and coincidental to the moment to ignore, especially since a Shakespearean actor might be well informed about Shakespearean works not generally known to the public.
“I want him checked thoroughly,” he said, staring out the window to the coast beyond. “Can you look into this immediately?”
He heard the rustle of clothing behind him and it occurred to him that Hastings was no doubt trying to stand in his male corset. How utterly uncomfortable, but then again, the man’s unusual taste in fashion was none of his concern.
“I can begin this afternoon, your grace. Shall I return two days from now, same time?”
Will pivoted to look at the man directly again. “Yes, and sooner if you have news of some significance.”
“Understood, sir,” the investigator agreed with a tip of his head. “Is there anything else?”
“No, that’s all for today.”
Hastings retrieved his hat from a bookcase shelf and nodded once more in Will’s direction. “Good day to you, your grace.”
“Good day, Hastings.”