Mr Hatton chuckled. “Oh, William isn’t dead. The blighter works for the Maharaja of Mysore and lives in a fancy palace. He sometimes sends me strange spices and reams of silk, though Lord knows what he expects me to do with them. Maybe buy a wife.”
Nicholas smiled to himself.
Someone so friendly would learn a lot from a client.
“We are here on a matter of business.” Nicholas might have given the man a calling card had he not left the case in his portmanteau at Grayswood. “My name is Nicholas St Clair. I’ve been informed I’m the beneficiary of Mr Charles Holland’s estate in Bedford. By all accounts, you’re the solicitor he appointed to handle his affairs.”
A lengthy silence ensued while Mr Hatton absorbed the information. Indeed, for a second, Nicholas questioned if the man was still breathing.
“St Clair, you say?”
“Indeed.”
Mr Hatton stared intently. “Yes, you have her eyes. Eyes so dazzling they might silence a room. Were I twenty years younger, I might have noticed the moment you walked in.”
A shiver of awareness rippled down his spine. He knew which features he had inherited from his parents.
“You knew my mother?”
Quite a few people in London shared the same surname, so how had this fellow made the connection? And why would his mother visit a solicitor on Old Compton Street and not the family one in Mayfair?
“Yes, I knew Esther through my sister Marjorie.” He gestured to the chairs opposite his desk and waited for them to sit. “She married an army captain—a man far too old for her, I might add. They lived near Roxton House in Bedford and were frequent visitors to the estate.”
“My mother spent many summers at Roxton in her youth.”
“Sadly, all good things must come to an end. Marjorie moved to Windsor, and I’m almost certain she never saw Esther again. A shame considering they were such good friends.”
“That does surprise me,” Helen said but did not introduce herself. “If my dearest friend moved, I would visit her often. And Windsor is so close.”
Hatton winced in embarrassment. “Well, I do not wish to speak ill of Esther when I know nothing of the situation. Now, you—”
“The situation?” Helen pressed. “There was an incident that ruined their friendship? Ladies can be most stubborn when slighted.”
“It is not for me to say.” The solicitor clapped his veiny hands together. “Now, you mentioned Mr Holland’s will. I believe he wanted the name of the beneficiary to remain secret.”
“Did he say why he named me as heir?”
“No, I presumed you knew you were to inherit … erm … forgive me, I deal with many clients, and my mind is not what it was.”
“Oakmere Hall, Bedford,” Nicholas said.
“Yes, yes, of course. Give me a moment, and I shall find the document.” Hatton pushed to his feet. “I would offer refreshment, but I spill more on the tray than in the teacup these days.” Shoulders hunched, the poor man hobbled from the room.
As soon as he was gone, Helen turned to Nicholas and whispered, “You should press Mr Hatton for more information. Tell him about your mother’s bouts of melancholy and use it as a possible reason for her disagreement with Marjorie.”
“Yes, I feel certain it’s relevant.” But he couldn’t explain why.
Indeed, Mr Hatton painted a picture of a woman Nicholas did not know, someone happy, someone with friends. Even if it had nothing to do with the murder investigation, any information might help him to understand his mother.
Nicholas moved to stand at the window to check the street wasn’t teaming with constables from the local police office.
Mr Hatton returned carrying a document, which he presented to Nicholas once they had both sat down.
“So it is true.” He stared at the elegant script, heat building in his chest when he considered the benevolent gesture. “Probate pending, I’m the owner of a debt-ridden estate in Bedford, and the contents of his leased house in town.”
Hatton cleared his throat. “The owner, sir?”
Nicholas fought to dismiss the pang of guilt. “Charles Holland is dead. I’m sure his aunt will inform you in due course.”