CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY

In Wales the weather changes as fast as the snap of a finger. Linette woke to bright sunshine, and in Henry’s absence she passed a wholly distracting morning tallying the ledgers with the window wide open to the sound of birdsong. But, as the day edged into afternoon, the clouds gathered and the heavens opened, causing the fountain outside to overflow and the hens to seek shelter in their pen. Plas Helyg’s stone walls held little of the morning heat, and the house was thrown into such an oppressive gloom that Angharad was soon tasked to build up the fires.

Now, Linette closes Julian’s study door behind them, presses her hand against the casement so it clicks quietly into place.

Just moments ago she had happened upon Henry leaving her mother’s room; in the dimness of the corridor he looked sombre, as if his mind were preoccupied with some dark thought, and that sombre expression was enough for her to feel some semblance of alarm.

‘Is Mamma all right?’

A beat. ‘Yes.’

Linette sagged with relief. ‘Does she still speak in riddles?’

‘No,’ he said, hand straying to his trouser pocket.

‘Well, that’s something, surely?’ He did not reply. ‘I am so sorry about last night. Did she hurt you at all?’

She had peered at his neck then, tried to get a better look at the birthmark she spied on his collarbone, but it was hidden neatly away beneath shirt and cravat.

‘Not at all.’

How strange he sounded.

‘I missed you at breakfast.’

‘I apologise,’ said Henry. ‘I … I went for a walk.’

‘’Twas a long walk, then. You’ve been gone some time.’

Another odd beat passed between them, and Linette regarded him, unsure.

‘I hoped we might go to Criccieth today,’ she said slowly, ‘to visit the apothecary and ask if he knew anything about the vial, but now, well.’ Linette gestured to the panelled ceiling then, the faint patter of rain. ‘The weather’s turned.’

‘So it has.’ In the dimness of the hallway his frown was so deep a line had appeared between his brows. ‘Linette, I …’

‘Yes?’

It felt, then, as though he was on the cusp of saying something, and troubled by his expression she had moved closer, smelt on him the faint scent of sweat.

‘What is it?’

He chewed his inner cheek.

‘It was a good idea, to visit the apothecary. But if we cannot go now perhaps we might occupy our time in some other way? Your cousin’s study, for instance.’

‘This again? Henry, we are not breaking into the cabinet,’ Linette said in terms that broached no argument, but he was shaking his head.

‘I meant that we could look at the other books. You see …’

Henry told her then of how he happened upon her mother in the garden and what she revealed. Linette had stared.

‘Mamma told you that?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘That the Tresilian crest …’

‘Is not the symbol at all.’

‘Are you sure ?’

But why would Henry lie? It was as Linette was reeling from the shock of it that he then told her of his encounter with Mr Dee on his walk, and their subsequent conversation. It is why, now, they find themselves once again in Julian’s study.

‘Hellfire clubs,’ Henry says as he crosses the room, ‘have been in existence from the beginning of the century. The Duke of Wharton created the first.’

‘How do you know this?’ Linette asks, still somewhat dazed by what he revealed upstairs.

‘I don’t know that much, not really,’ Henry throws behind him, coming to a stop in front of Julian’s bookcase. ‘This has been told to me in passing by Francis Fielding, or overheard in coffee-houses and taverns. It’s all common knowledge in London. The term “Hellfire” has become a bit of a running joke.’

‘A joke?’ Linette asks, coming to stand beside him, and Henry nods.

‘They called Wharton the “Hellfire Duke”. Before the Hellfires came into fashion, clubs were a means for men of high rank to meet and discuss their interests. Poetry, philosophy, politics, that sort of thing. But apparently Wharton’s group was known to ridicule Christianity. It was said their president was the Devil, members attended meetings dressed as characters from the Bible, and their activities included sacrilegious ceremonies. Nonsense of course, it was all merely satirical; a way to demonstrate how liberated and forward-thinking they were, an opportunity for the rich to play dress-up and pander to make-believe. Then, of course, there was Dashwood’s clan.’

‘Dashwood’s clan?’

‘Francis Dashwood, Earl of Sandwich. His club was called many names, but most often the Medmenham Friars. They had a motto: Fais ce que voudras . Do what you will. And they meant it, too. There were rumours that their meetings were of a more … physical nature.’

A beat. ‘I see.’

Despite her stalwart sensibilities, Linette is conscious of a sick taste on her tongue, has no trouble in understanding what he means.

‘Like Wharton’s club it was implied there was a connection to the Devil,’ Henry continues, and here he reaches up to the bookcase, hovers his fingertip over the glass as he peruses the titles of the ancient volumes housed there. ‘An account was circulated which accused the Friars of practising black magic. Again, nonsense. Written no doubt by a member who had fallen out with Dashwood over some petty grievance or other, but it eventually put a stop to the club’s meetings sometime in the late sixties, I believe.’

‘All right,’ Linette says. ‘But what does any of this have to do with Julian’s books?’

Henry stops. Taps the glass.

‘See, here?’

Linette must squint up to a higher shelf. He is indicating the spine of a book bound in faded red leather.

‘ De Occulta Philosophia Libri III ,’ he reads. ‘My Latin is rusty, but the word “Philosophy” is obvious. “ Libri ” means book. And there …’

He trails off. Linette tilts her head. ‘“ Occulta .” Occult.’

‘Occult,’ Henry repeats, ‘yes. Mr Dee said that Julian had shown him books on philosophical magic. Books that – he said – were sacrilegious. Of course, a man of the Church would say such a thing, but for a man of your cousin’s learning, he’d simply consider books like this to be of academic interest. I mean, look,’ he adds, turning to the next shelf. ‘ Clavis Inferni . “Inferno”? Histoire des Diables de Loudun. History of Devils, seems straightforward. Loudun … somewhere in France?’ Henry shrugs, moves on. ‘ Lemegeton Clavicula Salomonis . Solomon, I think. Epistolae Theosophicae , that’s an easy one too – Theosophical Epistles. So you see, Linette? All these are occult texts. Julian and Beddoe, Lambeth, the Pennants and Selwyns. They’re all part of their own Hellfire club, and these books are their collected philosophy.’

‘What of this one?’

She gestures to the large black tome.

‘Their rubric, perhaps? I’d love to get a good look at it. Don’t suppose …’

Henry reaches out his hand to the handle and attempts to pull, but Linette stays his arm.

‘It’s locked. Julian would never risk sullying these books. He values them far too highly.’

‘Surely you have the key?’ Henry returns, and Linette laughs without humour at the notion.

‘Julian would never trust me with one. No one touches that bookcase, not even the servants.’

‘Well, can’t we pick the lock?’

‘With what?’

‘Do you not have hairpins?’

This, too, would be amusing if it were not so absurd, and instead of laughing again she simply levels him with a look. Henry takes in her unruly hair, the wild curls at her temples, seems then to understand her unspoken point, and together they turn their gazes back to the bookcase. Uneasily Linette marks their ancient spines, reads once more one of the titles Henry translated: History of Devils.

For a man of your cousin’s learning, he’d simply consider books like this to be of academic interest.

Julian is a man of sense. All the countless times he has cocooned himself away, pouring over his collection for hours on end … Certainly he was doing nothing in his study beyond, simply, reading! It was all satirical, as Henry said; a mere bit of fun, a means to entertain. Frowning, Linette stares at Julian’s tome on its stand, the symbol jutting sharply from the black leather. Not the Tresilian family crest, but a symbol signifying a Hellfire club. Julian and Beddoe, Lambeth, the Pennants and Selwyns . Who else? Suddenly she pictures the portrait upstairs, the symbol etched into a golden knife, sucks in her breath. Not a family portrait at all, but something else.

There were rumours that their meetings were of a more … physical nature.

‘My parents were a part of it.’

Henry looks at her, notes the revulsion he sees in her face.

‘You’re thinking of the portrait,’ he murmurs. ‘Mr Dee seems to think so, too. It makes sense, doesn’t it?’

Linette swallows hard, looks away.

‘This is getting us nowhere.’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘Of course it’s not!’ she snaps, and Linette hears how shrill she sounds, must clamp her tongue, stamp down her revulsion at everything she has learnt. ‘You’ve been proven right inasmuch as the symbol on his ring links Dr Beddoe to this book. To Julian. A … a club. But this fact alone has nothing to do with Dr Evans, does it?’

He does not respond to this, keeps his eyes pinned on the ancient books, the symbol on the tome.

‘Henry,’ she begs, tugging at his sleeve. ‘We’re no closer to discovering anything in connection to Wynn’s death than we were last night. Please, come away. We gain nothing by being here. Come away.’

Still Henry stares at the tome behind the glass in much the way she has caught Julian look at it in the past and Linette sighs, strives for a patience she does not feel.

‘Henry, please.’

At last, he looks at her.

‘Very well,’ he says, resigned. ‘But the answer is staring us in the face, Linette. I’m sure of it.’

As a means of distracting him Linette decided upon a Welsh lesson, for there was precious little else to do now the weather had so spectacularly turned, and not willing to frustrate Henry with more folklore she gave him instead some questions to translate, questions one of the villagers might ask if they were ill. Now, with the rain lashing hard at the windowpanes, Linette waits for him to finish, listening to the scratch of nib on paper over the din.

He is slow in his translations; her attempts at distraction quite failed. He taps his foot, twists the quill fast between forefinger and thumb, staining his fingernails black with ink. At length Henry pushes the paper from him with a deep and heavy sigh.

‘There,’ he says. ‘I’ve done my best.’

Linette takes the paper, reads over his work. In only two lessons, the doctor has already mastered the Welsh alphabet and makes good progress with its pronunciation, only stumbling a little at double letters which trip over his tongue like a cough. As Merlin snores beneath their feet Linette reaches for Henry’s dictionary, runs a determined finger down a page filled with C’ s.

‘Here,’ she says, tapping a word halfway down the page. ‘You used this word where you could have used another.’

‘ Cartref .’ Henry looks at her to see if he has pronounced it correctly. Linette nods.

‘It means “home”, so you are not incorrect, but there are actually two other words for it.’

‘Of course there are,’ he says drily. ‘Why?’

‘It’s to do with the context, and also whether the word is used as a noun or an adjective. But you will instinctively learn when to use the right one.’

‘I’ll never remember it all.’

‘You will. Did you not say you had a mind suited to learning? One day it will become second nature. I’d wager in a year you’ll be as fluent as I.’

As they have been speaking Henry has outlined the C of cartref again and again until the ink is blurred onto the paper, a nebulous crescent moon. Linette bites her lip.

She understands his frustration for it matches hers, though likely in different ways.

This new discovery, that Julian is a member of a Hellfire club, disturbs her, but not so much as the more unsavoury truth regarding her parents. She thinks once more of the portrait upstairs. When Linette was a girl she often looked up at it and admired her mother’s beauty, the confidence that shone through the canvas, wondering how that woman could be so different from the one she knew. Now, her mother’s expression – that playful smile – has taken on a new meaning.

What manner of woman had her mother been?

Linette rubs her aching temples, smothers a yawn. Her nights have been restless of late, and her fatigue has made her irritable, a state which she does not like. Indeed, it has been getting increasingly difficult to hide her emotions from Enaid, whose sharp eyes see far more than she lets on. The poor woman worries about her most dreadfully, but how can Linette tell her that her brother may have been murdered? It would break Enaid’s already sore heart.

A heavy tap at the window makes her turn her head. Outside, the rain continues to fall persistently, and she listens to the lull of its beating force against the gravel drive. Many times over the years she would stop whatever she was doing and simply sit, and listen. Rain, of course, can be heard anywhere in the world, but Linette fancies that Welsh rain has a particular cadence to it, a freeing quality so wholly its own. It is this thought that sparks in her another.

‘There is one more form of the word for “home”,’ she says, ‘but its meaning is complex. You won’t find it in the dictionary.’

‘Oh?’ Henry leans back, rests his quill on the table.

‘ Hiraeth .’

‘ Hiraeth ,’ he echoes, teasing the words across his tongue. He nods. ‘I like the sound. But why is it complex?’

Linette smiles, wistful.

‘The word is more of a feeling. An emotion that ties you to the idea of home. It’s a place in your heart, a feeling of rightness, a sense of belonging. It is what Plas Helyg is to me, what I suppose London must be to you.’

He says nothing to this. In fact, he grows very still.

She wants to ask him about his childhood as a Foundling but dare not. He spoke of loneliness, once. Was it because he too feels that emotion? Linette wants to tell him she understands – understands so completely – but finds she cannot think of the words. Instead, she asks, ‘Do you miss London?’ and that haunted look returns, the one he has worn so often since arriving here, and Linette regrets saying anything at all.

‘Henry, what is it? Are you all right?’

He takes a little too long to answer.

‘Yes, I’m all right.’

‘I’m not sure you are.’ Linette finds herself hesitating. ‘I have to ask you again. Why here? It’s so strange that you should have left a grand city filled with opportunity, to have chosen Penhelyg of all places instead. When Julian received your letter—’

‘My letter?’

His interruption is sharp, dark eyes narrowed, and Linette looks at him in confusion.

‘Why, yes. You offered your services in response to an advertisement Julian posted on my behalf in one of your English newspapers.’

He stares. ‘Linette. I did not offer my services.’

‘You did. He had your reply within the week.’

She is shocked at how pale he has become. The rain – louder now – vies for attention with the carriage clock on the mantel as she waits for him to speak once more. Finally Henry breathes out, long and slow.

‘I wrote no letter,’ he tells her firmly. ‘This position was offered to me. I had to take it. I had no choice.’

Now it is Linette’s turn to stare. Julian said that, out of all the applicants, Henry had been the best man to replace Dr Evans. And now … now it appears Henry did not apply at all, that he has been, absurdly, sent here.

Julian has lied.

The rain lashes violently against the windowpane, an angry beat against glass that matches the fraught moods of those within.

‘I don’t understand,’ she says. ‘My cousin wrote to you?’ Henry nods his head. Linette’s pulse beats fast in her neck. ‘What do you mean, then, you had to take it? Why didn’t you have any choice?’

His eyes close for a split-second. When he opens them again his brown gaze is shadowed, and for the longest time he is quiet. Then, when Linette starts to think he will not say anything at all Henry sighs, runs a hand through his hair.

‘I suppose it’s time I told you.’

He crosses and uncrosses his legs, as if readying himself for the tale. Disturbed by the movement Merlin stretches, yawns wide.

‘Back in December,’ Henry says quietly, ‘I was called into the governor’s office and asked to examine a gentleman. My reputation, apparently, had preceded me – this man heard I was an accomplished surgeon, that I was renowned for successfully treating more complex cases. My skill with the scalpel was, in Guy’s Hospital at least, unsurpassed. The man in question asked for me specifically.’

Henry stops. Linette waits.

‘He died on the operating table. It happens, in this line of work. Of course it does. Death is an accepted outcome of medicine; we trade in it every single day. But there was no reason why he should have died; his heart had been strong. I still don’t understand it. He exhibited many of the common signs of a cancer –’ he ticks them off on his hand – ‘loss of appetite and weight loss, fever and chills, tremors, nausea, vomiting, weakness, fatigue, abdominal pain, swelling! I made the decision to cut the canker out.’ Henry shakes his head. ‘I was told I’d misdiagnosed the patient. I suppose I must have. The kidney was, after all, clear of infection – there was no canker to remove. And if he’d been any ordinary gentleman, it would simply have been an unfortunate mistake.’

Linette regards him evenly. ‘But?’

‘But my patient, as it turns out, was a very important man. Not only was he a patron of the hospital, he was a viscount, a respected member of the beau monde . He held a seat in Parliament. The governor had assured his family I was the best person to treat him, that my reputation and skill were of the highest order, and so my failure was an embarrassment to the hospital. If reports were to publicly circulate that he had died within the walls of Guy’s then the hospital would have lost its funding. Even had the family not insisted I be dismissed, the board would have done it anyway.’ He grimaces. ‘Their reputation was at stake, they told me, and I was in no position to argue. I thought I could secure a position elsewhere but despite their best efforts to keep the matter secret, news of my failure somehow reached other hospitals, because my attempts at finding another post were thwarted at every turn.’

Henry’s eyes narrow. ‘It is only when I received the letter offering me a position here that I felt hope. But now?’ He clenches his fists on the table. ‘You say your cousin received a letter from me as a candidate to fill the post. But it was Julian who wrote to me !’

Linette can feel the frustration coming off him like mountain mist, can see he is striving to master himself, and she too must fight to keep her composure, but a sick sort of feeling slithers over her like an eel and tethers itself to her spine. If Julian has lied about this, what else has he lied about?

By heaven, what is going on?

As if in answer, Henry buries his head in his hands.

‘This is too much.’

Linette barely hears him, must lean in.

‘Too much?’

‘First the gatehouse, the shot in the woods. Then Dr Evans, Dr Beddoe. This. And …’ He raises his head to look at her. ‘Linette, there’s something else.’

The eel writhes. What else, after everything they have already discovered, can there possibly be?

At this moment there is the sound of carriage wheels crunching noisily across the gravel drive outside, and together they look to the window just in time to see a grey stallion pull a phaeton into the stables, a dark-haired man at its helm.

Finally. Julian is home.