CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER TWELVE

The same driver who conveyed Henry to the village met him outside Plas Helyg’s iron gates, but rather than greeting Henry with his previously evasive demeanour the older man spared upon him a broad smile.

‘I feared,’ said he in his slow and stilted English as he directed the pony down the woodland pass, ‘that we’d lose Tomas not three days ago. Mair said you came to see him again yesterday. That was kind. Unexpected.’ The older man sidled a glance at Henry then away again, flushing into his whiskers. ‘You’ve my sincerest gratitude.’

‘You’re very welcome.’

He offered Henry his hand.

‘Name’s Ivor.’

‘Henry.’

‘ Ie .’

Ivor’s gratitude loosened his tongue. Henry soon found that aside from acting as Penhelyg’s messenger and errand man, he also made his living as the village coachman, though his mode of transport does not suit the term; the open cart would do just as well for the transport of hay and livestock but Henry was grateful for the ride, tried to enjoy the journey down pebble-laden tracks and the boggy marshlands of Harlech (a small market town where an abandoned castle nestled on a rocky outcrop overlooking the Irish sea), the dirt roads which led to a small riverbank port named Twgwyn. Despite the best efforts of the ferryman it was a rocky, tumultuous ride across the estuary; as the barnacled oars sliced into the choppy sea Henry gripped the sides of the vessel so hard his palms became host to some nasty splinters. Now on terra firma again Henry swallows, runs a handkerchief across his forehead. As with horse riding, sea travel is a pastime to which he must adapt, and quickly.

Henry shields his eyes, looks upward to the town waiting for him on the hill. On a cliff to his right stands another castle (this one decidedly less put-together than the one at Harlech) and he watches as a gull lazily circles one of its fractured turrets. There is a commotion behind him, a loud offloading of wares, the boarding of a passenger for the return journey. Henry walks up the beach out of the way, pebbles crunching underfoot.

He must ask for directions, thumbs the Welsh dictionary until the pages tear. Having finally made himself understood he is pointed in the right direction and soon finds himself standing in front of a tall townhouse situated down a narrow road just off the main, the stone partition walls spilling fat roses the colour of lemons. He licks perspiration from his top lip. Secluded here there is no breath of sea air, no clouds provide cover. The air has within it a prickly heat and the sun beats down, unrelenting. Puffing into his collar Henry climbs the narrow stone steps, tugs on the bell-pull, and within moments a young maid opens the door.

‘ Oes gennych chi apwyntiad? ’

Henry repeats his rehearsed question.

‘ Gweld Dr Beddoe? Dr Henry Talbot ydw i. ’

The maid nods, opens the door wider, and Henry steps past her into a cool hallway. She indicates he take a seat before disappearing into a room off to the left, and as he sits down on a chair with eagle heads carved into the arms, he looks about him with interest.

Money has been spent in this house, more money than Henry expected a country doctor to have. An expensive and intricately patterned rug runs down the length of the hall, its seam meeting the solid base of an ornate grandfather clock. The wooden floor is polished to a high shine, the whitewashed walls crisp as if newly painted and lined with a still-life gallery of overly-bright fruit and gaudy flowers. He looks across from him to where a large mirror sits above a mahogany side table; on its waxed surface stands a bowl of those same lemon-yellow roses, spilling like taffeta from its glass brim.

Henry loosens his cravat, rests his battered medical bag on his lap, looks at the grandfather clock. Nearly midday. He left Plas Helyg promptly at half past seven. So, then, it took near four and a half hours to reach his destination. No earthly use at all if a patient needed him urgently. True, he has only been employed as physician to the residents of Penhelyg, the private aid of the Tresilian household. But what of the neighbouring towns and villages? Dr Beddoe surely cannot accommodate them all.

He scratches at his hand, tries to squeeze one of the splinters free. In winter, especially, travel will be near impossible. He has heard winters are harsh in the country but here this means a churning sea, perishing cold, muddy roads too dangerous to traverse. The nights would be long as well, the dark impenetrable.

The door opens. The maid beckons. Henry rises, follows the girl into a large and comfortably appointed room.

There is a similarity to the gatehouse study in its layout – a sizeable desk, a chair and recliner meant for a patient, what appears to be a well-stocked library, a large cupboard in the corner. Dr Beddoe is lucky. In London Henry’s ‘study’ had been one of the many surgeons’ slabs to be found at Guy’s, the confines of that hospital’s tightly packed operating theatre. Dr Beddoe himself sits in a large, richly upholstered armchair behind the desk. A thin, sallow-looking man wearing a full-bottomed white wig, he does not rise at Henry’s entrance, merely watches his approach over long steepled fingers. The maid shuts the door, leaving them alone.

‘Take a seat.’

He speaks English, Henry notes, but with no Welsh accent. It is a measured voice, one that denotes a watchful and critical mind, and Henry is reminded of his tyrannical schoolmaster at the Foundling who caned him once until his fingers bled.

The seat proffered is simple wooden fare, hard and uncomfortable as Henry discovers when he has taken it. No comfort, then, he thinks, for a patient.

‘So,’ the doctor says before offering a thin-lipped smile. ‘You are Henry Talbot. Your arrival has been long anticipated.’

Henry blinks.

‘Has it?’ he says, careful. ‘My understanding is that my presence in Penhelyg has not been taken with much enthusiasm.’

‘For the villagers, perhaps. But it saves me a great deal of time.’

‘I can imagine. I’ve been most intrigued at how you managed considering how busy you must be. Indeed, it took me quite a time to travel here myself.’

‘It was not so much trouble as you might expect,’ the older doctor replies. ‘My services were not required overmuch. Superficial ailments, hardly worth my time at all. Mere headaches, a shallow cut, an innocent cough which turned out to be the oncomings of a common cold. It helps, of course,’ he says with something of a scoff, ‘that the good Linette Tresilian paid me for the trouble of a weekly visit, else I’d have been inclined to leave them to their own devices.’

‘One of my new patients is not the subject of a superficial ailment,’ Henry counters. ‘If his condition had been left any longer I fear nothing could have recovered him.’

‘Oh?’ Beddoe sends him a lopsided smile. ‘And who was this person, so near to death’s door?’

He tells him of Tomas Morgan. The older doctor sits back in his seat, leather creaking.

‘While the early symptoms of pleurisy would have indeed demonstrated themselves as a cold,’ Henry adds, ‘I feel that perhaps a little more discernment on your part might have made all the difference.’

Beddoe pierces Henry with a look.

‘Do you presume to tell me how to conduct my work? To question my methods?’

‘I simply confess myself surprised his symptoms were not accurately interpreted.’

The older man stares.

‘At the point I saw the boy his symptoms had not presented themselves beyond, as I said, a common cold, and the mother was more than happy to treat him using traditional methods, under the advice of Miss Carew.’

Rowena Carew. Those beautiful amber eyes …

‘I met her,’ Henry says, embarrassed to hear his voice falter. ‘I happened upon her yesterday in the village.’

‘Indeed.’ Beddoe licks his lower lip. ‘She is a member of the old school of healing, shall we say. She knows her herbs, their medicinal qualities. She has assisted me occasionally in my consultations, provided alternative means of treatment when it was preferred. Mrs Morgan chose to listen to her in this instance. I have made no error in my administrations, Dr Talbot. But tell me, why have you come here today? I presume it was not to belittle me for any wrongdoing on my part. If it is, a letter would have sufficed.’

The scold is justified. It has always been the way with Henry; at Guy’s he never hesitated to rebuke a colleague or student when they made a mistake. Human lives are at risk in this profession, he used to tell them – there is no room for error, as he well knows. But courtesy should not have allowed such rudeness. Henry is sitting in the study of another medical professional. He is the outsider here, and politeness should have dictated his conduct better.

‘Forgive me. It was not my place.’

There is a pause. The older man gives an imperceptible nod of the head. Henry takes a breath. He must be very careful, he realises, in what he says next.

‘I came because I need supplies. I hoped you might be able to advise on where best to procure them.’

Beddoe clears his throat, his fingers still steepled into a pyramid, and Henry’s gaze involuntarily drifts to them. On the little finger the doctor wears a gold signet ring.

‘Criccieth houses an apothecary,’ the older man says, oblivious to Henry’s frown. ‘Anything you need can be purchased there.’ He looks down at Henry’s satchel on his lap. ‘Is that all you have? Yes, a knapsack would better suit your needs. I’m sure by now you’ve ascertained that carriages are not quite so obtainable here. A bag such as that will be cumbersome.’ Beddoe’s lip twists into a smile that looks to Henry more like a sneer. ‘I should advise that you’ll struggle here, Dr Talbot. While your more particular medical knowledge is, I’m sure, perfectly sound, it will be of little use to you in these parts. The people of Meirionydd, especially the inhabitants of Penhelyg, have a rather archaic view of modern medical practices.’

Beddoe taps his fingers together, the gold ring glinting in the light shining from the window. Is that a pattern etched into the circular disc?

‘Oral tradition, you see. Medical knowledge has been passed through word of mouth here for centuries. They still consider illness to be a God-given punishment, and prefer natural remedies. Rosemary sprigs mixed with honey to prevent nausea, ground fennel for diseases of the eye, a clove of garlic in the ear for earache, that sort of thing. For the more superstitious, a cure for jaundice might involve placing a coin into a mug of clear mead. Most, then, would rather implement these methods than call on a doctor. I know Dr Evans had more sympathy for such practices, often purchased plants from Miss Carew as a mark of goodwill. Grew his own, in fact.’

Henry thinks of the abandoned patch of earth at the gatehouse, those dried-out spindles of foliage that reminded him so keenly of finger bones.

‘You will find that, like me, you are best employed as a personal physician, as I understand you already are. My employer is Sir John Selwyn – he owns the lands around these parts, is Plas Helyg’s closest neighbour other than Lord Pennant on the edge of the Mawddach estuary.’ The doctor lowers his hands, spreads them flat across the red leather-topped desk. ‘This practice is my home first and foremost, and only those who can afford my services are like to come here for more progressive treatment. The rest, as I say, prefer the old cures.’

Henry dislikes the man’s derogatory tone. He sits straighter in the hard chair, tries for a polite smile that does not quite come.

‘Thank you for explaining so clearly, doctor.’

Beddoe inclines his head. ‘I shall write you a list of supplies to get you started. The apothecary can furnish you accordingly.’

He removes a crisp sheet of expensive-looking paper from a drawer, reaches for a quill resting in a marble inkwell next to him on the desk. Henry watches him write, the only sound being the scratch of nib.

‘Have you ever treated Gwenllian Tresilian?’

Beddoe continues to write, does not look up.

‘I’ve given the family a second opinion, yes.’

‘And what did you find?’

‘That Plas Helyg is unfit for a woman such as she.’ He dips his nib, and without looking up he says, ‘She belongs in an asylum.’

Henry feels his growing dislike for the man coil in his gut.

‘You approve of the barbaric methods such places employ?’

Beddoe makes an amused noise in the back of his throat. ‘I do not consider such treatments barbaric. Not if they work.’

‘Do they, though?’ Henry shoots back. ‘Asylums will provide drug upon drug to a patient without knowing anything concerning the root of the disorder. Such places … they are enough to turn even the sane mad. Indeed, I cannot be induced to think their so-called cures to be of any benefit at all.’

‘That, Dr Talbot, is a matter of opinion. But it does not signify – it is where I believe Gwen Tresilian should be. Alas, his lordship would not allow it, ignored my recommendation. He felt she was better kept at Plas Helyg.’

The coil tightens. The quill scratches on. Henry tries another avenue.

‘You attended Dr Evans at his death, I understand.’

The quill pauses on the curve of a P .

‘I did.’

‘Heart failure, apparently.’

‘Correct.’

‘Odd, though. I am told he was generally in very good health. Climbed a mountain the week before.’ Henry licks his lower lip. ‘Was a post-mortem done?’

The doctor pauses from his task, raises his head, a wiry eyebrow raised.

‘Such practices are not condoned in these parts.’

‘Why not?’

Beddoe frowns, lays the quill flat beside the unfinished list.

‘Because,’ he says, ‘it is wholly unnecessary. People here tend to die from natural causes, as was the case with Dr Evans. Heart failure, that much was clear. If he’d recently climbed a mountain that can come as no surprise, not at his age.’ The older doctor pauses. ‘But you evidently think otherwise.’

Henry hesitates. ‘Not necessarily. The man was elderly. Even so …’

He thinks of what Evans’ sister had said – Wynn looked terrified. As if he had been frightened to death! – the strange vial he found in the gatehouse. Henry touches the inner pocket of his coat where it sits nestled against his chest.

‘What did you think of the contortion to his face?’

‘What contortion?’

A beat. ‘Mrs Evans intimated—’

But Beddoe is brushing him off. ‘The fancy of females, to be sure. I noticed no such thing.’

‘I do not see why she should lie.’

The older man levels a hard look at Henry across the desk.

‘I hope you might, as a fellow man of science, take my professional opinion over those of a mere woman?’

Henry stares. ‘Might I see the coroner’s report?’

‘There wasn’t one.’

A beat. ‘There wasn’t one?’

‘No.’

‘Why?’

Beddoe sighs impatiently, sits back in his chair, steeples his fingers again. They are thin and grey, like riverweed.

‘Because there were no suspicious circumstances.’

‘Are you quite sure?’

Henry says it to see what the reaction might be, and he is not disappointed. Something shifts across the older doctor’s face, his eyes darken, his fingertips press against each other ever so gently, and Henry knows now – knows – his suspicions have merit.

‘I am surprised at you, sir,’ that man says now, ‘for asking such a thing. Even if there had been one you would not show the records of your London patients to a stranger, surely?’

And now, Henry quirks a brow. He did not mention that he hailed from London. News, then, travels fast in these parts.

‘It is only,’ Henry says now, pretending a more reasonable tone, ‘that Dr Evans was a resident of Penhelyg. It’s right I should know the facts.’

‘You have the facts. I have given them to you. Heart failure. It really is that simple.’

They look at each other across the table. Beddoe meets Henry’s gaze without batting an eye, and Henry understands then that he will glean nothing further from him.

‘Very well. Perhaps, though, you would be willing to relinquish the case notes of the patients from Penhelyg you have seen these past weeks?’

The older man’s eyes narrow. He picks up the quill, resumes the list. Then, without looking up he says, ‘I only make notes for my own patients. Besides, as I told you, their ailments were superficial. Not worth the paper and ink to write them down. Now then, Dr Talbot,’ he adds, offering the sheet between bony fingers. ‘Is there anything else?’

It is in that moment Henry sees clearly the signet of the gold ring he wears, and it is all he can do not to clutch at the doctor’s hand, draw it toward him, take a closer look. Is that not a familiar symbol etched within its shining disc?

‘Dr Talbot,’ he says, still holding the paper across the desk. ‘Is there anything else?’

Henry tears his eyes away. There is, of course. There is the matter of the strange vial in his pocket, the residue inside which he suspects to be something far more sinister than laudanum. But clearly there is no use in voicing any of it to this man.

Observation. Contemplation. Interrogation.

‘No,’ Henry says, taking the list. ‘That is all.’

Beddoe splits a smile.

‘Splendid. My next patient is due, so you’ll forgive that I cannot accommodate you for longer. The list I’ve made here should suffice. I trust,’ he adds, ‘you’re not yet acquainted with where the apothecary is located?’

‘No, sir, I am not.’

Beddoe sounds a small brass bell on his desk. ‘My maid shall direct you.’

He smiles again, fake and tight.

‘Good day, Dr Talbot.’