Clement Hastings lowered his body into his usual chair of choice across from Will’s secretary and reached into his coat pocket for his small book of notes. He’d come with news, sending an abrupt correspondence early this morning requesting a few minutes of the duke’s time so that he could relay some important, recently acquired information. A bit on edge, Will had been able to think of little else aside from his first intimate encounter with Vivian yesterday afternoon, so this diversion came as a bit of a relief. If it weren’t for the fact that the entire relationship between them centered around that damn manuscript and whomever was behind its desired possession, he’d concentrate solely on her and pleasing her to distraction. As it was, he found it increasingly difficult to think of anything else.
“Thank you, Hastings,” he said, motioning with a nod as he leaned back in his rocker. “What have you this morning?”
“Well,” Hastings began as he crossed one chubby leg covered in purple and yellow plaid over the other, “my men and I have discovered some rather peculiar things about Montague’s past.”
Will slowly leaned forward in his chair. “Go on,” he urged when Hastings paused for several seconds to flip a page or two in his notes.
“His real name is Gilbert Herman. He’s the great-grandson of a Bohemian Jew who immigrated to England during the outbreak of the Seven Years War in seventeen fifty-six. His great-grandfather and great-grandmother, who was pregnant with Gilbert’s grandfather at the time, came here looking for work and eventually started a small merchant business on the east side of London, near the river we believe. In any case, the great-grandfather’s name was…er…Isaac, yes, Isaac Herman.”
Will watched Hastings stretch out a bit in an attempt to get comfortable in the chair. Herman…he’d never heard the name before.
“They named the child she carried David, which was also the name of Gilbert’s father,” Hastings continued gravely. “David Herman the second, Gilbert’s father, was apparently an extremely bright and very interesting character. He took over his grandfather’s merchant business—after his father tired of running it—when he was twenty-two, quickly building it into a solid shipping company—”
“What’s the name of the company?” Will asked, cutting in, quite certain he wouldn’t know anyway, though it seemed a decent place to start.
Hastings frowned and shrugged negligibly. “We really don’t know, your grace. He sold the company only three years after he acquired it. He made his money fast and got out quickly as far as we can tell. He married a woman by the name of Mary-Elizabeth Creswald when he was twenty-seven, a rather plain creature from Northampton whose father owned a small bank. With the money he had and a father-in-law with banking influence, he became, after several years, a rather affluent banker himself in London.”
“When was Gilbert born?”
“Er…let’s see…oh, yes, in eighteen twenty-two, two years after his father married Miss Creswald.” Hastings drew his brows together, looking hard at his notes. “He was an only child, as his mother apparently had a very difficult birth and was told never to have more children. She died of a lung ailment only two years after that. Gilbert was raised by his father to succeed him in the business, but at some time in his youth he was told he had no sense of numbers and would never make it in banking. At that point, I’m guessing, he decided on acting as a profession. The rest you basically know.”
Will leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowed in puzzlement as he tapped his thumb on his desktop. Hastings relaxed as well, closed his notebook, and waited for questions or instructions as was usual. What the devil did the son of a Jewish banker have in common with Vivian? And how could he have possibly learned about his prized manuscript?
“Is either David Herman senior or Herman junior still alive?” he asked, although already speculating on the answer.
The investigator shook his head. “No, your grace, the senior Herman died of natural causes some years ago; Herman junior died in a fire in his home.”
“I see…” Will drew in a long, deep breath. “Did he die before his son left for the Continent?”
“Yes, your grace, the banker died nine years ago. He did, however, leave Gilbert a nice little package of wealth when he went, although most everything is gone now. The actor himself doesn’t have any money to speak of unless he’s keeping it tightly hidden. We haven’t found a trace of any substantial wealth in his name, or his father’s.”
“So,” Will speculated out loud as he slowly stood and began to pace the oriental rug, “two Jewish immigrants come to this country, set up a business, have a son and grandson who, in turn, sells the business at a young age. The grandson marries a plain, ordinary woman whose father happens to own a bank. With the banker’s influence, and his money, he goes into business for himself, making a nice little income. His wife dies and their only child, who is half Jewish, becomes a Shakespearean actor who suddenly turns up in Cornwall, has one rather unusual conversation with a local widowed florist, who, in turn, attempts to extort a priceless manuscript from me.”
“That about sums up what we know so far, your grace.”
Will stopped pacing in front of his enormous mantelpiece, gazing thoughtfully at two fine Chinese vases that, if sold, would render him more cash than the manuscript ever could in a free market. To the average subject, the sonnet was useless.
“Why Vivian?” he heard himself asking. “How does she play into all of this?”
“I’ve no idea,” Hastings answered honestly. He cleared his throat. “But I think it’s plausible that a Shakespearean actor, regardless of where he came from, would desire to possess a manuscript signed by the master himself.”
Will nodded, shoving both hands in his pockets and turning to face the investigator. “Indeed. But why use Mrs. Rael-Lamont?” And why would she put her work, name, and future at risk by coming to me?
Slowly, taking extraordinary care with his words, Hastings tapped his fingers together in front of him as he replied, “I would suspect, your grace, that he’s got some hold over her. And yet we’re not even certain what his intentions are. The change of his name from Herman to Montague might have no malevolent meaning at all. It could be because of his work on the stage, or more likely because Herman is a Jewish name.”
Will very well understood the role anti-Semitism might play in one’s career, within the city or outside of it, and still, Gilbert Herman’s name change seemed most con ve nient. Everything in him told him there was much more involved. There were simply too many questions.
“I don’t like it, Hastings,” Will said, staring now at the floor. “It smells of something else and I want the connection.”
“We’ll find it, sir,” the investigator said with assurance.
“What about the woman at the pub?” he asked, glancing up as it occurred to him.
Hastings sighed. “Nothing, so far. We’ve tried with the pelisse but as yet she’s still a mystery.”
The entire mystery absolutely confounded him, which in turn made him angry. If there was one thing Will couldn’t stand it was being played for a fool.
“What do a blond, attractive woman, a banker’s son turned Shakespearean actor, and an inconsequential widow living perfectly well on her own in southern Cornwall have in common?” he asked aloud, though not really expecting an answer. He should have known that Clement Hastings was, if nothing else, the foremost expert on propriety and so felt obligated to respond.
“Well sir, I still believe the answer lies with Gilbert Montague, or Herman, as it were. It all starts with him. I don’t have any information as yet on Mrs. Rael-Lamont being anything more than she claims to be, though I’ve got two men checking her background, and that of her late husband’s. If there’s something she’s hiding, we’ll find it.”
“Very good,” Will muttered.
Hastings stood as if knowing this was his cue to leave. “I’ll be in touch with anything new, your grace, especially if we uncover something about the woman, or Mrs. Rael-Lamont.”
“Yes, thank you Hastings. That will be all.”
The investigator bowed once and took his leave.
Will stood where he was for several long minutes, staring at the floor, at the intricate weaving of the outrageously expensive oriental rug beneath his feet. It struck him how odd life was when he could afford such luxuries as this, any luxury he wanted, and yet, at this moment, he didn’t feel important, or worthy, or a man of unlimited wealth. He missed Vivian, the verbal witticism they shared with a strong sense of enjoyment, the moments of passion that seemed to possess the two of them when they were together. But mostly, at this second in time, when it felt as if there was no one in the world he could trust, he just felt lonely.