She wasn’t surprised by the change of topic. “Hathaway. The surname of the couple. Shakespeare’s wife was Anne Hathaway. The link to Julius Caesar. It can’t be a coincidence.”
Lord above. He’d been too busy watching her to see what was right in front of him. “It’s certainly not a common name, so perhaps it’s a sign we’re meant to follow.”
Daventry agreed when they put the theory to him in his Hart Street office. “You’re right to visit the theatre tonight. There’s every chance your father planned this before his death.”
Gabriel nodded. It certainly had the makings of a Shakespearean plot. “But he couldn’t have known I’d agree to help his daughter, that she’d find the mausoleum, or have the foresight to search for the hidden clue behind the miniature.”
“Beware the Ides of March,” Daventry muttered. “I’m sure you have a copy ofJulius Caesarat home, likely a rare edition. Have you looked there?”
Gabriel inwardly grumbled. Daventry could make an intelligent man feel like an imbecile. “Before today, we hadonly one reference to the play. Besides, her father never visited my house.”
A pang of doubt struck him. Many men had visited the house in the past. The rooms were rarely empty. Justin Lovelace had been a frequent guest, free to roam as he pleased.
“We’ll search the libraries upon our return home,” Olivia said.
He liked the way she saidhome, as if it were a comfort, not a burden.
His parents had called it The Park.
Their guests, Sodom and Gomorrah.
He had always thought of it as hell.
“We hoped you’d post a man at the graveyard, sir, and have him watch the cottages. Maybe even the rectory.”
“I’ve had a man patrolling the area for the past two days. On the surface, the only offence Mrs Hodge seems guilty of is being a snoop. Three times in one night, she took a lantern and a swordstick and walked the cemetery grounds.”
Olivia sat forward. “Alone?”
“Yes. Always alone.”
“And the rector?” Gabriel asked.
“Makes regular house calls as you’d expect, and often stays late at St Luke’s. A man with a cart collects him and takes him home. And he never leaves the rectory at night.”
Gabriel exhaled, his patience wearing thin. “Did you have any luck with the undertaker’s cloth? Any news of the body stolen from the watch-house?”
Daventry sat back, drawing a hand through his thick, ebony hair. “I can tell you this. Those involved operate at the highest level. The absence of credible information says more than any report ever could.”
“Then you have nothing to tell us?” Gabriel hoped the agent felt as useless as he did.
“The cloth found at the grave was deliberately placed. Undertakers haven’t used fabric of that kind for years. There’s no record of Mrs Hodge owning the cottages. And my men have”—he paused, choosing the polite phrasing—“used every lawful method to persuade the known resurrectionists to confess to the crime at the watch-house. All to no avail.”
“Who does own the cottages?” Olivia asked.
“I don’t know. There’s no paperwork.”
In his dealings with Daventry, Gabriel had never seen the man stumped. It did not bode well.
“I checked the maid you hired from the registry, and there’s nothing suspicious there.” Daventry hesitated before offering a redeeming detail. “There is one thing. A woman matching Mrs Hodge’s description frequented the bookshop opposite your old address in Clerkenwell.”
Gabriel muttered a curse. “She’s been watching you for some time.” He felt it then—the cold calculation of it. While he’d been listening to Olivia recite verse, Mrs Hodge had been gathering information. “Can we not confront her?”
“With what?” Daventry said, sounding a damn sight calmer than Gabriel. “Visiting a bookshop? Taking a late-night walk?”
After a shared exhale, Gabriel said, “There is something strange we should consider.”
“I’m listening,” Daventry replied.
