CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The next morning Linette leads Henry up the small winding path he marked that first morning into the dense trees abutting Plas Helyg’s boundary walls. It is a steep uneven path; Henry must watch his footing as he follows Linette’s more confident journey upward and Merlin bounds happily ahead, wiry legs navigating the exposed roots and overgrown bracken with careless ease. How unfit I am, Henry thinks as he puffs behind them – at least in London he did not have to contend with sheer hills – and it is a relief to emerge onto open fields, a relief when Linette allows him to stop for breath.

She puts her hands on her hips, looks out on the vista, the breeze whipping strands of tangled blonde hair about her shoulders.

‘I will never tire of this place.’

Perspiring, Henry removes a handkerchief from his pocket, presses it to the back of his neck. He loosens his cravat, and as he turns his head to let the warm air dry his skin Henry catches sight of Linette’s face. She took the news of Henry’s suspicions with obvious distress, and had a haunted look for the rest of the night. Now Henry is relieved to see an expression of calm.

‘Don’t you think it beautiful?’

It is beautiful. Like a grassy sea the fields spread wide below them toward the distant rise and fall of craggy mountains, and the warm morning has been blessed with such blue sky and stark sunshine that their colours are prominent – lush green and rich brown, the pretty purple of summer heather.

‘Very.’

‘Nothing to match it in London, I dare say.’

‘Not at all.’

The wind catches another strand of unruly hair. Linette pushes it behind her ear.

‘We stand now in Cwm Nantcol.’

‘Cwm Nantcol?’

‘It’s a valley, part of Plas Helyg’s lands.’ She points to the right. ‘Over there are the remains of some ancient settlements. See that stone structure in the distance?’

Henry nods.

‘It’s called a cromlech, a relic of the druids. There are many dotted across these fields. And, to the left, you can see the mountain range of Eryri. See,’ she says, raising her finger in a point. ‘That little misshapen triangle between those two knolls? That’s the summit of Yr Wyddfa.’

‘Yr Wyddfa,’ he echoes, trying his tongue across the sounds.

Linette nods. ‘The English call it Snow Hill, but the translation is wrong. It actually means “the grave”.’

‘The grave?’

‘Legend says it’s the resting place of Rhita, the giant that King Arthur slew.’

Another local superstition. Henry says nothing; despite Linette’s apparently calm demeanour he is unsure of her true mood today. No indeed, better to hold his tongue than be on the receiving end of hers. She does not seem to notice his lack of response; she is pointing at the stony outcrop rising to their far left.

‘The mines,’ she says. ‘I go once every fortnight to take up food parcels Mrs Phillips prepares. I’m due to go tomorrow, in fact, if you’d like to accompany me? Julian prefers I do not interfere, but mining is unforgiving work and they deserve some respite every now and then.’ A shadow crosses her face. ‘Come, let’s take the path up toward Moelfre. Miss Carew’s cottage isn’t too far.’

It had been her idea to visit Rowena Carew. As a herbalist if there was anyone (so Linette said last night) who could know what the strange liquid in the vial might be, it was her.

‘Do you know Miss Carew well?’ Henry had asked, and even then he felt his pulse pound at the thought of her.

‘Not well,’ Linette replied, ‘for she keeps much to herself. She came to Penhelyg a few years ago, and has never sought my assistance.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because she does not need it. Miss Carew has a serviceable cottage and is not in want of work. She has a good relationship with my tenants since many of them –’ and here Linette had looked at Henry apologetically – ‘prefer the old herbal methods.’

Henry was not sure whether to be pleased or disappointed. On the one hand, Linette might have been able to tell him a little more about her. On the other, he now has a chance to discover Miss Carew for himself without any other opinion to influence his own.

‘Moelfre,’ Linette says now as they walk briskly across the field, Merlin at their heels, ‘is another curious mountain.’ She looks up at it with a smile. ‘Enaid used to read me a story about three women who were turned into standing stones at its summit when they chose to work on the Sabbath. They went up the hill to winnow their corn but because they were unobservant of the holy fourth commandment they were transformed into three pillars of stone for their wickedness, each the same colour as the dresses they wore – Blood Red, Bone White, Vein Blue.’

This time, Henry is not quite able to stem his disapproval.

‘Really,’ he says, sour, and Linette glances at him.

‘You’ve no patience for our ways, have you? Can you not at least pretend to suffer them?’

‘Do you expect me to believe three women turned to stone?’

‘No. But I expect you to enjoy the story for what it is – a fable – and not mock it.’

He thinks for a moment. ‘Why disregard the logic of science in favour of archaic philosophy that has no foundation of truth?’

She quirks an eyebrow at him. ‘How do you know it has no foundation?’

‘Because reason dictates there is none. Besides, you just called it a fable.’

‘So I did. But is that not very stubborn of you, nonetheless? To disbelieve something so assiduously? Legends are legends for a reason. They came from somewhere.’

A stone cottage comes into view. At their side Merlin barks, runs ahead, and Henry watches him jump over a stile. Once the lurcher has bounded further down the field, he clears his throat.

‘I do not mean to mock. But you must understand my upbringing. I am a man of science, not magic.’

‘Interesting,’ Linette murmurs, burrowing her hands deep into her pockets. ‘I think of them as the same thing.’

‘Oh?’

‘Well, in medieval times science was magic. Scholars believed that God created the heavens according to scientific principles, yet they were still considered divine. So to them, magic and science were one and the same.’

Henry looks at her in surprise. Linette shrugs.

‘I read,’ she says, and her tone is so matter-of-fact he cannot dispute it. ‘Besides, our legends are not magic, not neccessarily. They are simply the myths of our homeland, common folklore. They’re to be respected.’

He has nothing to say to this, nor does Linette seem to expect an answer. Instead she picks up pace as they draw closer to the cottage, and as they reach the lower reaches of Moelfre the land begins to change terrain; half-earth, half-turf, half-water. Bog plants blossom about Henry’s feet, marsh insects buzz about their heads. The ground becomes soft underfoot. Just when Henry feels they must wade through water to reach the cottage Merlin leads them across a small makeshift bridge of mountain rock onto drier planes where rabbit pellets litter the ground like tiny round bullets. A few more steps take them past a dilapidated stone wall. A desiccated jackdaw lies against it, the sun having already dried its sinews to crisp ribbons.

The cottage itself is on the other side, and Henry looks at it with interest. A low and rambling one-storey building made of the same stone as the bridge, topped with a slate roof, and as Merlin trots up to the door (no whitewash mark here, he is gratified to see) Henry perceives a small garden not unlike the barren one at the gatehouse, but this one is filled to the brim: wildflowers vie for attention amongst a bed of thyme, rosemary, mint, and numerous other herbs Henry does not recognise.

It is Linette who knocks, fast and firm. A black-stemmed tree sprigged with delicate flowers grows around the doorway, its spicy, almond-like scent heavy in his nostrils, the tiny white flowers shaking on their thorny stems. Footsteps sound within; Miss Carew opens the door. Her cheeks are flushed, red hair loose down to her waist, and as before all Henry can do is stare.

He has known his fair share of women in his time, of course; he has his needs. Still, it has seldom been Henry’s habit to indulge in such things – often his role at the hospital meant he scarce had opportunity – but when he did, he chose respectable houses. The women he partnered only ever evoked in him a sense of release and polite consideration. Some of them had been pretty, some plain. But none of them looked like this one, and never did they make him nervous and hot-skinned the way this one does now.

‘Miss Tresilian!’ Miss Carew exclaims. ‘Dr Talbot.’ She hesitates at the threshold, looks between them both. ‘Am I needed in the village?’

Again it is Linette who answers, and Henry is glad for it allows him to catch his breath.

‘Miss Carew,’ she says, ‘I apologise for visiting unannounced. We were hoping you might identify something for us.’

She frowns. ‘Identify something?’

Henry clears his throat. ‘An ingredient. It is not one I recognise, and we …’

Miss Carew opens the door wide. Merlin sneaks his way through.

‘Of course,’ she says. ‘Do come in.’

As pretty as the outside of the cottage is, Henry is surprised at the interior. Serviceable, yes, as Linette said, but simple. A little too simple, even for him.

It is an open room – no internal walls divide the space – and upon the earthen floor lies a large reed mat, some worn Indian rugs. At the back of one wall is a single bed with a lumpy mattress, next to it a basket of blankets, a battered chamberstick holding a candle nub resting on top. On another wall stands a large stone hearth, its fire lit and low despite the warmth outside, an iron kettle hanging from a spit. A threadbare armchair is positioned close to the fire. On the far wall a long table is home to flowers and leaves in various stages of preparation, stone bowls, a pestle and mortar, glass bottles and jars. Next to it stands a Welsh dresser, its cavernous doors tied shut with twine. To hold Miss Carew’s ingredients, Henry supposes, though the ceiling itself seems to be its own store – dried bunches of lavender hang from the eaves, other clumps of foliage with woody stems that again Henry does not recognise, and it gives him confidence that Miss Carew might be able to answer their question.

‘Forgive me,’ she says, wiping her hands on the apron she wears. ‘I’m preparing a tincture for Bronwen Lewis’ baby to help her sleep, so I’m afraid I cannot offer refreshment. The kettle, you see—’

Linette is shaking her head. ‘We shall not keep you, Miss Carew.’

Miss Carew nods, looks relieved. Henry retrieves the vial from his pocket.

‘It is this,’ he says, handing it to her. Her fingertips graze his. Henry pulls back as if stung.

Confound it man, control yourself!

‘There’s not a lot left,’ he adds, flushing, ‘but if you could give us an idea of what it might be we’d be very grateful.’

Miss Carew hesitates. Then she takes the vial, sniffs it. A frown mars her forehead, and she crosses the room to the small window set back behind the armchair, raises the bottle to the light. Linette – a pinch having formed about her mouth – watches the young woman like a hawk.

‘Well?’

‘Wait a moment.’

This time Miss Carew crosses to the table of herbs, begins to sift through the bowls and jars.

Henry is fascinated, cannot take his eyes off her. She moves like water in a gentle stream, her skirts whispering along the reed mat, and he is inordinately glad the dimness of the cottage hides the blush he is sure has appeared on his cheeks.

Linette steps forward.

‘Well, Miss Carew?’

Her tone is insistent. If it were not for the seriousness of the situation, Henry might ask Linette to show a little bit of patience, but he too is anxious for the answer. If he is right …

Miss Carew has selected a glass pipette from the table. Very carefully she inserts it into the vial, removes a tiny drop of the brown liquid from its depths. Then – before Henry can prevent her – she has placed it on the tip of her tongue.

He watches, heart in mouth. What if it harms her? But a contemplative look has crossed her face, and she takes a handkerchief from her sleeve, spits into it hard.

‘Deadly nightshade,’ Miss Carew announces.

She holds out the vial. Henry takes it.

‘Are you sure?’

Miss Carew nods.

‘The tincture is old, so the potency is much diminished. But yes, it cannot be anything else.’

A sliver of triumph runs up his spine. Deadly nightshade. One of the strongest natural poisons to exist. He knew it. Knew it!

It is the first feeling of justification Henry has felt since coming here. His dismissal from Guy’s Hospital made him doubt his talents, made him believe he was a failure. But here, here is proof that he is not so hopeless as the governor had him believe! Joyfully Henry turns to Linette, but his triumph turns to guilt as he sees the look of shock on her face.

She had not truly believed him, that was clear. Yet Linette doubted enough to suggest coming to see Miss Carew, doubted enough to ask the question. And now she has her answer.

‘I’m sorry, Linette.’

Merlin, attuned it seems to his mistress’ distress, presses his head against her thigh. Absently Linette lowers her hand, and the dog gently licks her palm.

‘His face was contorted when we found him. Did he suffer greatly?’

Her voice is quiet, sad. Henry hesitates. How to tell her? But here, Miss Carew steps forward.

‘I don’t understand. Someone has taken this?’

Linette’s mouth opens and closes. Henry takes a breath.

‘I found this bottle in the wreckage of the gatehouse.’

Miss Carew’s hand rises to her mouth. ‘You mean … Dr Evans?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

Her eyes widen. Slowly she lowers her hand, presses it against her chest.

‘Poor Wynn,’ she murmurs. ‘I had not … it did not …’ Miss Carew trails off. ‘I was saddened to hear he had died. He was a good man, a kind man. He did not taunt my work as others have.’

She pauses, and Henry wonders if she thinks of Dr Beddoe. In the beat that follows, Miss Carew looks to Linette.

‘To answer your question, my lady, deadly nightshade is a potent poison when used in its purest form. To eat the berries or leaves would in itself be deadly, but as a tincture its potency is magnified. Within minutes Dr Evans would have experienced severe pain, difficulty breathing, loss of sensation. His heart rate would have increased rapidly.’ Miss Carew nods at the vial in Henry’s hand. ‘If he was given the full amount in that bottle his heart would have given out very quickly. Yes, I’m afraid he would have suffered greatly indeed.’

Linette closes her eyes.

‘Good God,’ she whispers. ‘What do I tell Enaid?’

‘Tell her nothing,’ Henry says. ‘At least not until we’ve got to the bottom of this. It wouldn’t be fair to distress her when we still know so little.’

She takes a shaky breath, a single nod. When she opens her eyes again they are hard, an angry light in them.

‘What do we do now?’

Henry turns the vial over in his hand, thoughtful.

‘At Bow Street,’ he says, ‘such matters follow a very simple course. Francis Fielding always considered the facts and took note of all the people who link to them. The facts are these: my predecessor has been poisoned with a tincture of deadly nightshade, administered from this bottle.’ Henry holds it up so both women can see it clearly. ‘Said bottle is not typical of one purchased from an apothecary, so must have been specially made for the purpose by someone of means. It must be noted that Dr Beddoe lives very comfortably for a village doctor, but that observation would be nothing if not for this – the tincture’s effects account for the expression on Dr Evans’ face when he was discovered, yet Beddoe denied noting any such expression when I asked him about it yesterday.’

Henry hesitates. Should he say?

‘And there’s another curious thing I noticed.’

A weary expression passes across Linette’s face. ‘What else can there be?’ she asks, and Henry takes a measured breath.

‘Your cousin wears a signet ring, does he not? A ring with a strange symbol upon it.’

‘The family crest, yes.’

‘Are you sure that’s what it is?’

Linette stares. ‘Why wouldn’t I be sure?’

‘Because,’ he says, careful, ‘while I admit I only saw a fleeting glimpse of it I’m also sure I did not imagine it, either.’

‘Henry, speak plain. Imagine what ?’

‘Beddoe,’ he answers, ‘wears a ring with that very same symbol.’