CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

If Henry had been asked to imagine a traditional Welsh cottage, Mr Dee’s might be what his mind would conjure up. Not ten minutes’ walk from the crypt it is a small, whitewashed house with a low lintel which Henry has to duck under to avoid bumping his head. A tiny entryway divides the cottage in two – a small kitchen to the right, a sitting room to the left, with a set of poky stairs leading upwards to the first floor. It is pleasantly furnished for a man living on his own, with rustic wooden furniture happily situated, woven rugs lining the stone floor. The house feels too small for the reverend’s bulk, but that man moves through it with ease and directs Henry left, gestures to some high-backed wooden chairs and a circular table set under a window overlooking the lush green valley. The mine is visible through the open window, and Henry can even hear the faint sounds of pickaxes on stone, the shouts of miners hard at work. If he squints, Henry can just make out a wagon filled with timber resting near the spoil-heaps.

Lord Pennant, then, wasted no time.

‘I only have nettle, Dr Talbot,’ Mr Dee calls from the kitchen. ‘Will that suffice?’

‘I’ve never had it,’ Henry calls back.

There is the clatter of pots and pans, then the reverend appears at the sitting-room door, wiping his big hands on a cloth.

‘I’m afraid a lowly vicar like myself cannot afford such luxuries as brown tea. I’m sure the Tresilians serve better fare, but I’m happy enough with my simplicities.’

‘I assure you, nettle tea will suit nicely.’

Mr Dee nods, retreats back into the kitchen.

Henry had been startled to see him at the crypt. The reverend too looked surprised but then his face broke into a welcoming smile, and he lifted himself from the forest floor by his crude walking stick.

‘Dr Talbot!’ he exclaimed, ambling over, grass stains on his knees. ‘What a pleasure to see you.’

‘How d’you do?’ Henry answered, hesitant, for it is not common to meet someone in such a strange otherworldly place. Mr Dee seemed to understand his reserve, for he gestured across to the crypt with his lantern jaw.

‘The Cadwalladr tomb. It’s where Hugh Tresilian is buried as well as Lady Tresilian’s parents, her ancestors before them. I bless their resting place every week.’

‘At Linette’s request?’

‘Oh no.’ He laughed low in his throat. ‘I’ve never even known the Lady Linette to visit here, and she has no fondness for prayers. Indeed, she only attends the Sunday service at church because it is her duty. No,’ he sighed, raising his eyes up at the sheer bank, ‘I do it because I feel compelled to. As a man of God.’

‘Ah.’

The vicar regarded him. ‘Are you a man of God, Dr Talbot?’

‘I am not.’

‘A pity. Are you a man of tea?’

It had not taken much to persuade Henry to return to Mr Dee’s cottage with him. Henry was, he realised, parched and hungry for he had not yet taken breakfast, and so was gratified to accept the invitation. Together they crossed the clearing, took another willow-lined path on the other side. Within minutes they had emerged onto an open field, and Penhelyg’s church came into view.

The large man – tall and blocky rather than fleshy and round – had walked briskly, wooden staff swinging between the long grass, and Henry had to rush to catch up with him. The sun disappeared behind a suspect-looking cloud.

‘It will rain soon,’ the vicar said, eyeing it dubiously. ‘It’s in the air. Too hot by half, and the sun doesn’t seem to know what to do with itself.’

Henry tripped over a hard clod of earth beneath the grasses. Mr Dee reached out to steady him.

‘You’ll need a staff if you plan to stay here, Dr Talbot. Mighty handy if you like to walk, as I do.’ He tapped his own. ‘Good solid oak will do you right. Sturdy, stalwart. The forest provides plenty of broken branches in the storms.’

They climbed a stile, reached the church on the other side.

Tucked behind a border wall it was small and pretty, with pointed arched windows and trefoils that reminded Henry of clover leaves. Trees stood tall between the gravestones, and lush green ivy coated the walls, spilling over onto the slate roof of the lychgate. He thought Mr Dee might take him through for a closer look, but instead the man gestured to a path on the opposite side of the lane, leading to the cottage Henry finds himself seated in now.

Penhelyg Church can be spied through a smaller window on the opposite side of the room. He means to look at it again, but as Henry steps toward it his attention is drawn to the stone wall that has, until he stood up, been concealed by a wooden beam. Henry stares, transfixed – hanging from hooks top to bottom are row upon row of wooden spoons.

Mr Dee returns with two stoneware mugs. Henry takes his, still staring at the wall.

‘What are they?’

‘Lovespoons,’ the vicar replies, a note of pride in his voice. ‘A little hobby of mine.’

‘Lovespoons?’

‘Tokens of love,’ he explains with a slurp of his tea. ‘It’s a custom here.’

Henry moves to the wall to take a closer look.

The spoons are all intricately carved with different shapes and patterns. Some have etched within the handle a bird, a vine, a heart. Others a cross, a horseshoe, a lock. The detail, Henry thinks, is remarkable, and he says so.

‘How do you make them?’

The vicar puts his mug on the circular table, reaches to the hearth in the corner, picks up a spoon and knife from the mantel and shows them to Henry in explanation.

‘I carve them from the oak trees, those here in the woods. Sturdy and stalwart, as I said.’

‘Do you sell them?’

Mr Dee rubs the bowl of the spoon with his thumb. ‘Ethically I shouldn’t, of course, considering my profession, but my income is such that I find the extra coin helpful. I take them to market at Harlech, sometimes Abermaw. I don’t get much for them, but I must admit it’s not just about the money. I carve for pleasure.’

With his free hand Henry unhooks one of the lovespoons from the wall, turns it over in his palm. The ladle is small, no different in style to a spoon found on Plas Helyg’s dining table, but it is the handle that bewitches. This one has a series of intricate knots intertwined with a heart. Henry runs a thumbnail over the ridges, marvels at the smooth finish.

‘This must have taken days,’ he murmurs.

‘It did,’ the vicar says, smiling at the compliment. ‘The romantic thing is to think of a young man whittling away in front of the fire for his cariad , but these spoons are made by craftsmen. They take years of practice to make well, and I began my craft very young, long before I took my orders. There’s a skill to it. This one here,’ he says, raising the unfinished spoon in his hand; the handle is made up of six wooden spheres in a cage. ‘The balls are not placed in – they’re carved from a single piece of wood.’

‘Incredible. What do the balls denote?’

‘Whatever you like! Some more soft folk like to think of them as the number of children they want to have.’

Henry takes a sip of the nettle tea; when he swallows he immediately coughs. The reverend bares his teeth in a grin.

‘Bitter, I know. It’s an acquired taste, but you get used to it.’ Mr Dee watches him with interest. ‘I suppose you have a lot of things to get used to here. How are you settling in?’

Henry does not answer a moment. Instead he replaces the lovespoon back on its hook, picks up another. This one has tiny wheels and elaborate cogs – so delicate – weighing nothing at all in his hand. To think, it’s been carved from a single piece of wood.

A skill to it, indeed.

In London people would pay good coin for these spoons. Far more, Henry suspects, than Mr Dee sells them for here.

‘I wish,’ he says, setting the spoon back on its hook, ‘that I could say well.’

The vicar nods knowingly. ‘I did think you would struggle.’

He replaces the unfinished lovespoon on the mantel, gestures for Henry to take his seat at the table and joining him there, raises his mug of nettle tea to his lips.

‘Linette has told me the rumours,’ Henry says. ‘About Emyr Cadwalladr.’

‘Ah.’

The reverend does not say anything further, continues to drink his tea with slow measured sips, and it takes Henry a moment to realise he is waiting for him to break the silence. Thoughtfully, Henry regards him. Though he is not a man of God, Henry is perfectly aware of the sanctity of the Church – can Mr Dee be trusted? Trustworthy or not, he cannot think of anyone else who might be able to shed light on everything that has occurred here, and with a deep sigh Henry sets his own mug of tea down on the table.

‘May I speak to you in confidence?’

‘Of course you may.’

‘Did you know the gatehouse was destroyed before I arrived?’

Mr Dee blinks. ‘I did not. Who was the culprit?’

‘It can only have been one of the villagers, for everyone I’ve met treats me with a loathing they do not bother to conceal. Some of the boys intimidated me up on the road and scared my horse. Yesterday Linette took me up to the mines, and their dislike was as palpable as if I had struck them. The other day I was shot at.’

Until now the vicar has been nodding his head in slow sympathy over the rim of his mug, but this brings him up short.

‘Shot at,’ he echoes.

‘Yes.’

‘Heavens, I am sorry. That is most troubling news indeed.’

Henry pauses. Can he trust him? But he must say something – it does no good at all to sit and do nothing.

‘Indeed,’ Henry says carefully now, ‘most troubling. But not so much as what I have to tell you next.’

The vicar raises his eyebrows.

‘Some days ago I discovered a vial in the wreckage of the gatehouse. It has within it the remains of deadly nightshade.’

‘Deadly nightshade?’

‘A very toxic poison.’

Mr Dee lowers his tea. The man’s pallor has paled to milk-water.

‘Dr Talbot. Are you intimating what I think you are?’

‘I am. Wynn Evans was poisoned.’

The vicar sits heavily back in his seat, the look of astonishment on his face unmistakable. He opens his mouth then closes it again, grasps his mug tight between his hands. Then, finally, he shakes his head.

‘Are you quite sure of this?’

‘The vial was found in the gatehouse—’

‘Which you said had been destroyed.’

‘Yes.’

‘Perhaps the vial belonged to Wynn?’

Henry hesitates. ‘It is possible, I admit. But it is not a typical apothecary bottle.’ He describes it. Mr Dee frowns. ‘Besides, why would Dr Evans possess a tincture of pure deadly nightshade? If we consider that, and the look of contortion on his face—’

‘I’m sorry?’

The reverend appears confused. It is clear he does not know. Gently Henry explains what Mrs Evans told him, Rowena Carew’s description of the poison’s terrible effects.

Mr Dee stares hard into his mug until a watery sheen appears in his eyes. With a shaking hand he pinches his fingertips to their corners. It is some moments before he lowers them again, and when he looks at Henry once more his cheeks are flushed.

‘Who do you suppose could do such a thing?’

Outside, the sounds of chopping wood wend themselves down across the fields from the mine. The sun peeks briefly from behind the billowing clouds before disappearing again, dipping the cottage into shade.

‘I have some concerns about Dr Beddoe.’

The reverend sits back again into his seat.

‘Why should Elis Beddoe harm Wynn?’

‘I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on the matter. Did they get along? Did Wynn say anything to you?’

Mr Dee shakes his head. ‘It is true they disapproved of each other’s methods. Wynn felt Dr Beddoe’s bedside manner was distinctly lacking, and did not like his caustic attitude to Lady Tresilian’s, ah, ailment. He often scolded Wynn on his sympathy towards the villagers and mocked his tolerance of Rowena’s herbs.’ The vicar spreads his hands. ‘But it was merely professional disagreements, nothing more than that. If it had been he would have surely told me, and the only person who knew him better than myself was Enaid. Have you asked her?’

‘Linette did,’ Henry replies. ‘And her answer apparently was much the same as yours.’

‘Well, then. You must be mistaken.’

‘Perhaps on that point. But there is another. Lord Pennant intimated that Beddoe had designs on Dr Evans’ position here in Penhelyg, that Sir John Selwyn does not pay him well.’

Mr Dee sniffs. ‘I’ve heard that Sir John’s fortunes have not been favourable for quite some time. He breeds horses. Racing fillies, fine creatures of Turk lineage. The dapple grey of Lord Tresilian’s – that comes from Selwyn stock. For many years he gained quite a profit from them but his thoroughbreds have since stopped producing, and he’s lost the sponsorship of the Crown. It does not surprise me that his coffers cannot stretch to paying a personal physician the appropriate wage. Still,’ the reverend adds, ‘it’s a stretch to say Dr Beddoe would resort to such extremes. Murder? He had no particular like of Wynn, that is true, but no liking for Penhelyg, either. Salary aside, why should he want the position? Even Criccieth, he once said, held little appeal. I believe he owned a practice in London some twenty years ago, catering exclusively to the rich. It’s a wonder he does not return to it – he’d have no lack of patrons, I’m sure.’

‘Then why doesn’t he?’

‘I couldn’t possibly say.’

Thoughtful, Henry taps his cooling mug. Interesting, that Beddoe once kept a high-end London practice. Why on earth, then, would he have relinquished it for a position in Wales? Henry thinks of the doctor’s expensively furnished house. His background explains that, at least. Or, perhaps the house has been furnished using different means. Maybe creditors are the problem, and Beddoe cannot leave Wales. If the doctor has since fallen on hard times, that could be his motive for murdering Dr Evans in order to take his more lucrative position. Still …

‘My suspicions,’ Henry says now, ‘arose before I met Lord Pennant. When I questioned Beddoe some days before about Dr Evans’ death he was particularly evasive. And … there’s something else that’s been bothering me.’

‘Something else?’

‘Yes. He wears a ring identical to that of Julian Tresilian. It has a symbol on the signet.’

‘A symbol?’

Again Henry’s fingers tingle, that familiar instinctive pull of intuition.

‘Linette always believed the symbol to be the Tresilian family crest, but today I learnt from Lady Gwen this is not the case. The symbol appears too on an antique book Julian collected on his travels, but it’s also present on the fireplace at Plas Helyg, and in a portrait of him with his cousin, Hugh, and Lady Gwen. Each of them wears gaudy robes, jewelled turbans, clothes no English aristocrat would usually wear. The background is the kind you might see in the British Museum – temple ruins, that sort of thing.’

Something has shifted on Mr Dee’s square face. Henry leans forward.

‘What is it?’

The reverend looks grim. He takes a long sip of nettle tea before answering, and Henry tries not to squirm with impatience.

‘I do not know the symbol of which you speak,’ he says, slow and measured. ‘But I believe I can at least enlighten you as to the connection.’

‘Yes?’

Mr Dee places his mug very carefully between them, taps the stoneware rim.

‘Julian Tresilian, together with Lord Pennant and his wife, as well as Sir John and his, are all part of their own exclusive gentlemen’s club. It is, as I understand it, a club for those belonging to the higher echelons of society to promote each other’s professional interests, but they’ve been known to take others of lower stations into their fold. Dr Beddoe, for one. The land agent Mr Lambeth, for another.’ Here, he hesitates. ‘I know this, because they invited me to join them some years ago. Lord Tresilian showed me a few of his esoteric books. Quite sacrilegious, in my opinion.’

‘Sacrilegious?’

‘Works that held reverence to philosophical magic. The four elements, astrology, scrying, alchemy … that sort of thing. Obviously I declined.’ The vicar shrugs his shoulders. ‘In any case, that is your connection to Elis Beddoe. And from what you say – if the symbol appears in Plas Helyg as well as on the rings – perhaps Gwen and Hugh Tresilian were part of the club too.’

Henry sits back in his seat, a suspicion spooling in his stomach.

This makes sense. He has heard of such clubs from his time in Bow Street; the governor at Guy’s belonged to one himself in his youth, and had once (so Francis alleged) used its connections to get himself off from a charge of fraud thanks to an affiliated judge. There were whispers, even, of a Bow Street official keeping similar company (a fact of which Francis was rather more close-mouthed). But for a club to favour works on philosophical magic … There was a name for such fellowships, a name that left a bitter taste in Henry’s mouth:

‘Hellfire.’

Mr Dee blinks.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Hellfire clubs,’ Henry repeats. ‘Secret societies rumoured to dabble in, as you put it, philosophical magic. Mostly, though, they were thought to take part in irreligious and immoral acts.’

The vicar looks displeased.

‘Immoral acts?’

‘Indeed. They are a place where one can indulge freely in more unsavoury pastimes – unchaste women, gambling, drinking to excess, that sort of thing.’

Suddenly another thought occurs. Unbidden, Linette’s words echo inside the chamber of Henry’s skull: Rumours of distasteful gatherings . All he cared about was his pleasure .

Village girls. Heledd Einion. Was Emyr Cadwalladr a Hellfire member himself?

The reverend is shaking his head.

‘I confess, I find that hard to accept. Why would they ask me to join such a club, knowing my profession? In any case I do not understand what any of it has got to do with Wynn’s death. What proof do you have?’

In that instant, the sun makes its appearance from behind the clouds. It floods the cottage with golden light, one of its rays shining into the vicar’s eyes, making his pupils constrict into tiny pinpoints. Any answer Henry might have made is overturned by another answer, an answer that, now he sees it, he can scarce believe he missed, and another part of the puzzle slips into place.

Mr Dee’s expression shifts from scepticism to concern.

‘Dr Talbot?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Henry breathes, rising from the table so fast his chair wobbles. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he says again, ‘but I need to get back to the house.’

It is lucky Gwen Tresilian is sleeping when Henry returns to Plas Helyg. Or, rather, it is lucky that she is not awake. It is also lucky no one is in the room to stop him from opening the curtains, to stop him from lifting her thin blue-veined eyelids, to see him confirm his suspicions.

It does not take long for Henry to find the bottles beneath the bed, to remove one from the box and rearrange them in such a way it is not obvious one is missing. It does not take long to open the stopper and sniff its contents, to form his grim conclusion.

The vial from the gatehouse. The vial in his hand. The bottles are exactly the same.

Not one hour ago he had been convinced Dr Beddoe was responsible for Wynn Evans’ murder. He had, after all, been the only obvious suspect. But now? Henry’s mouth splits into a grim line as he remembers Owain Dee’s words:

The only person who knew him better than myself was Enaid .