CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The journey back up to Plas Helyg was not conducive to chatter. Julian’s phaeton juddered and jolted up the woodland path, the servants’ trap driven by the groundsman Dylan cluttering close behind, and together they produced an altogether noisy racket that left Henry’s ears ringing. Now Lord Tresilian lounges back in his armchair before the fire, cigarillo in hand. He breathes it in deeply, seems impervious to the fact that it will do little good for his cough, and Henry watches the man blow smoke through his mouth in ever decreasing rings.

He looks sicker than when Henry last saw him – Julian’s cheekbones stand out sharply from his skull, the dark circles under his eyes more pronounced. But his smile is as wide as it was the previous week, his black eyes beetle-bright.

‘Come. Sit. We have much to discuss.’

Indeed they do, Henry thinks as he takes the armchair opposite, but this is a situation in which he must practise restraint. When he first met Julian, he thought of him as nothing more than a rich eccentric, someone who had the best interests of his relatives at heart. But now … Henry glances at the bookcases on the back wall, the tome on its plinth that could answer so many questions. But would Julian, if asked? He has already been proven a liar. So, then, what to do? Watch and wait, as Francis would say. Watch and wait.

‘Was your business in London productive, sir?’

The older man nods. ‘I’ve procured a few more artworks for my collection.’

He gestures to a stack of paintings leaning against the curio cabinet, and Henry sees that one has already been unwrapped. It depicts a woman in deep sleep with her arms thrown below her, a demonic apelike creature crouched low on her chest.

‘An unusual painting,’ Julian says, ‘is it not?’ and Henry searches for a polite word but cannot find one, opts instead for honesty.

‘Disturbing,’ he says, but the answer seems to satisfy his host.

‘I saw this particular painting in the Royal Academy last year. The Nightmare , it’s called.’ He tilts his head, gaze focused intently on the incubus before sliding to the horse’s head on its left which until that second Henry had not noticed. ‘It caused quite the horrified stir, apparently. Nothing like it had been attempted before.’

It makes Henry distinctly uncomfortable. Pointedly he turns his back on it, focuses on Julian once more.

‘It must have been very expensive if you purchased it from the Academy.’

‘I’m sure it would have been, but this is not the original.’

‘A forgery then?’

Julian sucks on his cigarillo, a look of contemplation on his face.

‘I prefer the word “copy”. Quite a few of the pieces here have been purchased at a fraction of the price of the original. I use a dealer in Ludgate Street, you see. Unscrupulous character by all counts but he knows his stuff. But I did not ask you here to discuss my collection.’

‘No.’

‘No,’ Julian repeats. A pause. ‘Drink?’

Henry pulls his pocketwatch from his waistcoat. ‘It’s ten minutes past the hour of nine. In the morning,’ he adds meaningfully as if the point needs to be clarified but Julian smiles, holding a carafe of what Henry takes to be the expensive port.

‘I know precisely what time it is.’

Henry lets silence be his answer.

Lord Tresilian shrugs, pours himself a glass, cigarillo still smoking between his clubbed fingers. ‘Very well. But I hope you do not think less of me for indulging.’

He replaces the stopper in the decanter, and as he does so his gold signet ring flashes in the firelight.

‘Tell me, then,’ Julian says. ‘What do you make of our fair Linette?’

Henry licks his lips. ‘I have come to know Linette very well this past week.’

Julian watches him over the rim of his glass.

‘And?’

‘And I do not feel her to be in any danger of inheriting her mother’s –’ he pauses, must consider how best to describe it, under these new circumstances – ‘malady. I think your concerns simply stem from her solitude here in Penhelyg for so many years, and, I hesitate to say, neglect?’

For Henry is sure now that contrary to Lord Tresilian’s previous claim, no fondness for Linette induces him. There comes no reply to Henry’s summation. He carries on.

‘In short, I feel that Linette is merely a woman of strong beliefs who takes great pride in her role as mistress of Penhelyg. Indeed, I have a deep respect for her – I’ve never known a woman as enterprising as she is. You should be very proud of everything she has achieved here.’

Some emotion darkens Julian’s face. The fire cracks. He places his glass on the marquetry table between them.

‘I see. Well. I confess myself relieved, then, on that score.’ Julian tosses the stub of his cigarillo into the fire, steeples his fingers together. ‘Neglect is a harsh word, Henry, but perhaps not completely undeserving. I confess, I never much liked children, and by the time Linette came of an age to be interesting … well, the damage, so to speak, was done.’ He smiles softly. ‘It’s a comfort to know you have succeeded in gaining her trust and friendship where I could not. Still, I see now it is not appropriate for the pair of you to be so much in each other’s company.’

The last was said in a decidedly pointed tone, and the implication makes Henry sit up in his seat.

‘Surely you do not think Linette and I have formed an attachment?’

Julian reaches for his glass again and takes a sip, swills the port around his mouth before swallowing, Adam’s apple rising sharp above his cravat.

‘You asked if my business was productive,’ he says, ignoring Henry’s question. ‘While in London I also arranged for the repairs to the gatehouse. A ship follows mine at the port in Abermaw – I never do travel by road, far too slow and uncomfortable – and it should be here tomorrow. Work will begin as soon as the men arrive, and I’d like to see you established there before the week is out.’

Henry’s surprise at Julian’s suspicion in regards to the nature of his and Linette’s relationship pales in comparison to this unwanted news. He had not expected the repairs to be under way so speedily, and to leave Plas Helyg would be a risk. If Enaid Evans is as dangerous as he now suspects, then it would not be prudent to leave Linette and Lady Gwen alone.

Especially Gwen.

And of course, there is the matter of Julian, his dishonesty surrounding Henry’s employment. He looks at the older man sitting opposite him, his harsh features, those black eyes that reveal nothing at all …

‘I had not thought to quit Plas Helyg so soon,’ Henry says slowly. ‘I would not want your men to hurry with the gatehouse. I’d be quite content to stay here for the coming weeks while they carry out the repairs.’

Julian shakes his head. ‘The men are fast workers; I employed them for that very reason. No, I think you’d be much more comfortable there. The sooner you remove to Dr Evans’ old haunt, the better.’

If there was an ideal moment to bring up Dr Evans’ death and, indeed, the matter of his employment it is now, but instinctively Henry knows to hold his tongue.

Observation. Contemplation. Interrogation.

Watch and wait.

Henry strokes the pocketwatch that still rests in his hand, thumb scuffing over the filigree engravings, the H and T of his name. Julian gestures to it with his glass.

‘A most unusual timepiece. Might I see it?’

Julian does not wait for permission, reaches across the Turkish rug, and Henry is obliged to unclip the watch from his waistcoat. As Lord Tresilian takes it, Henry’s eyes drift once again to his little finger.

‘If you don’t mind me asking, that signet ring you wear—’

‘Mm? What of it?’

His lordship is still examining the watch, its swirling filigree patterns on the dial, the engraved initials.

‘Linette thought it was the Tresilian family crest, but I saw a similar ring on Dr Beddoe, which I found odd since the symbol is also on that large book of yours in the cabinet.’

Julian is silent a little too long. When he looks up it is in a way that makes Henry distinctly uneasy.

‘You have a knack of noticing things others do not,’ he says, ‘but I suppose as a surgeon that is hardly surprising.’ A beat. ‘You’re right, it’s not a family crest.’

‘What is it, then?’

‘What is it? Well now …’ Julian grows thoughtful. ‘What would you say if I told you I’m part of a select gathering of people who subscribe to a more open philosophy of thinking?’

‘A club.’

He does not say the words that come next, though they echo loudly in his head: Hellfire .

‘A club, yes.’

Henry nods. Dares.

‘It seems curious to form a club of political and economic interests so far away from Westminster.’

Julian raises his dark eyebrows. ‘An acute knack indeed. I did not state the nature of the club, and yet …’

‘Forgive me,’ Henry says, careful now. ‘I only meant that such clubs as I’ve heard of – back in London, that is – tend to be located where the influence of political power is at its strongest. Penhelyg, being so remote—’

‘Location in this instance matters not. You see, members of our little group, being of similar mind, are therefore not restricted to London’s social circles.’

‘But Dr Beddoe is not in your social circle.’

Here Julian shouts out a laugh.

‘I did not think you so high-flown! It is not social status that counts in this case, but what knowledge one might bring to the table.’

‘And what knowledge does Dr Beddoe bring?’

Julian stares. ‘That, my boy, is between me and him.’

Henry tries to mask his frustration. He has become too eager, too fast. He must find a way to claw back the upper hand.

‘I did not mean to pry, sir, but I confess myself intrigued. What philosophy of thinking do you prescribe to? Does it have anything to do with the theme of your library?’

Henry knows it does, of course, but he wants to see what Julian might confess to. Indeed, that man watches him now, index finger against his lip, as if deciding what information to share and what to hold back. At length he says, ‘Are you familiar with alchemy, Henry?’

‘I understand the concept, yes.’

‘Then you will know that in the ancient world it was widely believed that if one were to invoke the powers of alchemy, it was possible to transmute all metals into gold.’

Henry stares, not quite sure how to respond, and in the face of it Julian smiles.

‘I speak of how something might transform from one state to another, how a man of lesser means might rise to a higher plane. Do you believe in transmutation?’

It takes Henry a moment for him to construct his next words.

‘I believe we can better ourselves, certainly, but only through hard labour and learning. I do not think our state can be altered by spiritual influence.’

Surely the man cannot believe in such nonsense? For all Julian Tresilian’s failings, Henry took him for a man of sense. He thinks of Philip, Duke of Wharton, of Francis Dashwood’s Monks. They merely flouted sacrilegious notions as a means for harmless entertainment, but this lays claim to something more serious. Henry glances down at Julian’s ring. Was the strange curling symbol on the signet an icon linked to alchemy? Henry asks him outright. Julian inclines his dark head.

‘The symbol is merely a sigil that we connect to,’ the older man replies smoothly. ‘That is all.’

He had hoped for a more fruitful response, but for all Julian Tresilian’s earlier transparency, there is a measure of reserve in this last, and this lack of satisfying answer makes Henry bold.

‘Might I see inside the book? I’d be very interested to know more.’

‘I’m afraid not,’ Julian replies, swift as knives. ‘The book is inordinately valuable, so cannot be handled.’

‘I see.’

The older man smiles without warmth at Henry’s obvious disappointment. Almost deliberately Julian runs a fingernail across the face of the pocketwatch, still sitting in his open palm, before handing it back.

‘If you’ll excuse me, I must ring for Powell. A dinner to arrange.’

Henry blinks. ‘A dinner?’

‘To welcome you to Penhelyg.’

‘Oh,’ Henry says, shaking his head. He cannot think of anything worse. ‘There really is no need.’

‘But there is,’ Julian says, the smile widening, splitting his face like a cut. ‘There most certainly is.’