CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Henry takes the first flight of stairs two steps at a time, Gwen Tresilian – weighing no more than a child – lying limp in his arms. He is tired. He is body-weary and brain-worn, a condition which can easily be accounted for by the upheaval of the past few days but now, after the events of this evening, Henry feels as if he has been entirely stripped of all vigour. He longs to simply shut his eyes and sleep.

He hated that dinner, hated the fakery, the forced politeness. Julian had held it in his honour yet it felt like a mockery, an opportunity to show him off as some sort of jest that Henry was not part of. Still, he has become adept over the years at discoursing with entitled gentry; has he not dined with the governor of Guy’s Hospital and his arrogant associates, endured the likes of many such as the Pennants and Selwyns, the coarser company of self-entitled men such as Beddoe and Lambeth, and pretended to look as if he enjoyed it?

Linette, however, made no such attempt; her frustration was clear to see on her face, simmering like water boiling within a covered pot, and once Julian confessed to his ludicrous scheme – Slate to copper, copper to gold – he expected Linette at any moment to let her anger at Julian and his guests spill over, that she might let her caustic tongue run wild. And perhaps she would have, if it had not been for Gwen Tresilian.

If tonight has taught him anything, it is that he can keep quiet no longer. Indeed, Henry did not mean to keep his silence for as long as he has. Enough is enough.

They form an odd procession. Mrs Evans and Linette, Mr Dee and Rowena, following him up the stairs like a ceremonial troupe. The housekeeper trails close at his heels, wringing her hands in anguish.

‘Oh, be careful,’ she whispers. ‘My lady’s never fainted before.’

‘Perhaps because you never gave her the opportunity?’ Henry retorts.

‘I don’t understand,’ comes the reply in a voice wobbling with emotion. ‘I’ve always protected her.’

‘What an interesting way of putting it,’ he replies as they reach his patient’s rooms. ‘I’d not class poisoning your charge as protection, but to each their own.’

At this the housekeeper stops in her tracks. Behind her, Linette shoots Henry a look of alarm.

‘What do you mean?’

He nods at the door. ‘Open it and I shall tell you.’

The scent of gorse is pungent: vanilla and coconut, cloying sickly with the scent of beeswax. Protection, Rowena said. But, Henry thinks grimly, what exactly does it protect against? Demonic spirits? Or evil intentions?

He crosses the room, past the housekeeper’s truckle bed, through into Gwen Tresilian’s bedchamber where he lays her gently down on the coverlet. Immediately the old woman moves to join her mistress, but Henry raises the flat of his hand to stop her.

‘Stay where you are, Mrs Evans. I’m afraid you have some explaining to do.’

The housekeeper watches him, eyes wide as moons. ‘No,’ she whispers. ‘I cannot.’

‘Enaid?’ Linette asks, leaving her vigil in the doorway and stepping further into the room. ‘What does Henry mean?’ She looks between him and Mrs Evans. ‘What is going on?’

The woman does not answer. Linette, Mr Dee and Rowena watch. Henry clears his throat.

‘Aside from her general lack of speech, and the fits – as she demonstrated to spectacular effect just now – in the main, Lady Gwen appears to be in tolerable health. Even so, there can be no denying that all is not well with your mistress. You keep her locked away in these two rooms. She never comes downstairs to eat, except that once when Linette had her dine with us. The only time I’ve been privy to one of her daily walks about the house is when, a few days ago, I found her alone in the garden.’

Something shifts in the housekeeper’s face.

‘I think we can all agree that Gwen Tresilian is barely present in her own mind. So it’s interesting, is it not, that she and I had a perfectly sane conversation before Mr Powell interrupted us.’

‘You never told me.’ Linette, this, staring at him across the dim room, confusion writ on her face.

‘I’m telling you now.’ Henry looks again to the housekeeper. ‘What do you have to say about that, Mrs Evans?’

The old woman hesitates. ‘It is true there are times she is more aware, shall we say, than others. Linette herself has told you that.’

‘Indeed. But when are those times? Perhaps,’ Henry says, eyes narrowing, ‘when the tincture you give her wears off?’

Linette looks then from Henry to Enaid.

‘What tincture?’

‘The tincture found in the vials she keeps in a box underneath the bed.’

A beat. Linette stares. Henry clears his throat.

‘Do you realise pupils widen when a person is drugged? Ordinarily this widening happens when the eye is subject to the dark. If you look at yourself in the mirror now, you’ll see what I mean. The term,’ he continues, ‘is “papillary response”, and it should not occur in daylight. Yet that day in the garden your mother’s eyes were dilated even though we were outside in full sun. I confess I did not mark it fully at first … not until I saw the same papillary response in Mr Dee last week.’

At the doorway the vicar’s face clears.

‘Ah,’ he says. ‘That is why you left in such a hurry.’

‘It is. I should have marked it long before then but I never had the opportunity. Clever of you, Mrs Evans, to keep the curtains drawn to disguise the fact.’

Even though the light is dim in the bedchamber, Henry sees how pale Linette has become. She watches as Mrs Evans reaches for the armchair by the bed and sinks down into it, puts her head in both hands.

But Henry will not feel pity.

‘I returned to the house immediately, went directly to her rooms. Your mother, Linette, was unconscious.’

‘Unconscious?’

‘Yes, for I cannot in good conscience say she was asleep. Thankfully Mrs Evans was not there so I took my chance; I opened the curtains and tested my theory.’ Henry’s lips thin. ‘There was no natural reaction to daylight – her eyes remained fully dilated. I searched the room, found under the bed a box of glass bottles, the contents of which I did not recognise. It was not laudanum. So I took one.’

On the chair, Mrs Evans’ shoulders shudder in silent sobs. Henry bends down, reaches under the bed. There is a clatter of glass as he pulls the offending box from beneath. He places it onto the coverlet and removes one of the strange grey-glass vials, holds it up to the scant light.

‘I gave it to Miss Carew so she might identify its contents.’

Something shifts in Linette’s expression, as if the pieces of a puzzle have slotted themselves into place.

‘What’s in it?’ she whispers.

Henry beckons Rowena to speak.

‘It was a mixture of things,’ she says softly. ‘A toxic combination of plants that present in the patient a variety of symptoms. Mugwort induces hysteria, henbane hallucinations and restlessness. They were countered by mandrake and valerian which act as a narcotic and sedative respectively, watered down with wine.’

‘Dear heaven,’ Mr Dee says, looking pityingly at Lady Gwen lying on the bed.

‘There is one other ingredient,’ Rowena adds quietly, and Linette gazes at her with frighteningly blank eyes.

‘Yes?’

‘Deadly nightshade.’

Mr Dee sucks in his breath. Linette still looks blank, as if she has been drugged herself.

‘Like Dr Evans,’ she whispers, and at this Mrs Evans’ head snaps up, her cheeks wet with tears.

‘What?’

Shock is so clearly writ upon her face that Henry begins to doubt his earlier suspicions.

‘Deadly nightshade,’ he repeats, ‘a plant which, in large quantities, can kill. I found an empty vial of it some days ago in the gatehouse.’

Visibly, Mrs Evans swallows. ‘You … you mean?’

‘Your brother was murdered, madam, with a potent tincture of deadly nightshade found in a bottle identical to these.’

She says nothing to this. Cannot, it seems.

‘Did you kill him, Mrs Evans?’

The old woman’s mouth drops and a shaking takes over her, those pale eyes once again filling with tears.

‘How dare you. I loved my brother. Loved him! He was my only—I could never—’

She breaks down again into gut-wrenching sobs, and with an admonishing look at Henry Mr Dee moves to stand beside her and wraps his arm around the housekeeper’s shaking shoulders.

No, Henry thinks, watching them. There can be no denying Mrs Evans’ reaction. Any suspicions he might have had about the part she played in her brother’s death is immediately quenched.

It takes some moments for Mrs Evans’ sobs to quieten. When they do, Henry turns to Linette, who has not moved from her stance at the door.

‘In your mother’s case,’ he says softly, ‘the amount of nightshade used here is minimal, but just enough was added to produce some very telling effects: psychosis, convulsions, seizures.’

The room now falls completely silent. The smell of gorse wafts gently about the room.

‘Henry?’

Her voice is weak, whisper thin.

‘Yes, Linette.’

‘Is my mother mad?’

‘No,’ he answers. ‘In my professional opinion I believe she is, merely, touched . I think that in the past something traumatised her – whether that was your father’s death or something else, or both – and she has not been allowed to mourn and move forward.’ Henry turns back to the housekeeper, face grave. ‘You’ve been drugging her, Mrs Evans, have been for years. And in doing so your mistress has been stuck in a kind of limbo – her mind exists in an eternal fog that produces visions of things that are not real, so much so that she does not recognise what is . It’s why, Linette, she often does not know who you are.’

‘Oh!’ Mrs Evans chokes. Blood has rushed into her pale cheeks now. When she speaks again her voice is cracked. ‘You cannot know what it has cost me to give it to her, every day, for twenty-six years!’

‘Twenty-six years, madam, is a long time. Do you have any idea what that can do to a body? Her organs will be failing. It will kill her, eventually.’

‘But I didn’t know that, I swear! Please, you must understand. I had no choice!’

‘Of course you did! Everyone has a choice.’

Mrs Evans presses her lips at this, turns her face away.

‘Who concocts it? Your brother? Dr Beddoe?’

‘I don’t know.’

He stares. He did not expect that answer. To possess so many bottles of the tincture, Henry expected Mrs Evans to at least know that.

‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’

‘He never told me,’ the old woman whispers, a frail hand pressed to her chest as if to suppress her grief.

‘Who never told you?’

‘Lord Tresilian.’

It does not shock him to hear the name. But Linette raises a hand to her throat, looks as though she is going to be sick, and Henry feels achingly sorry for her then, knows now too that Linette had no part in this either, no part in this at all.

‘Mrs Evans,’ he says, striving for a calm he does not feel. ‘What happened to Gwen Tresilian? Why has Julian ordered you to keep her drugged? Has it anything to do with his club?’

She looks panicked, like a rabbit poised to flee. Mr Dee presses his hands flat together in prayer.

‘My dear lady. Speak. Confess. The good Lord will hear you and offer his forgiveness. You need not be afraid.’

But in that moment Linette utters a choking gasp, is looking at the housekeeper with an expression on her face that makes Henry suck in his breath. Never, not once, has he seen anyone look the way she does now, as if her heart has been so completely torn in two.

‘All my life I’ve looked up to you,’ she whispers. ‘All my life. But you’ve lied to me from the very start. How could you? How could you? ’

Finally, the old woman’s face breaks.

‘Linette, I—’

But it is too late. With a strangled cry Linette turns on her heel and leaves the room.

Henry confiscates the tinctures. Mrs Evans makes no objection – indeed, the old woman is too emotionally exhausted to even exert herself to try – and so he promptly takes the bottles out into Plas Helyg’s gardens and deposits their contents into an obliging flowerbed, keeping only a few back with the intention to wean Lady Gwen off them later. These he locks in his trunk, tucks the key into his pocket.

Rowena and Mr Dee have sat with Mrs Evans while Henry has been downstairs, and when he returns it is to find the housekeeper quiet and dry-eyed, hands clasped as the vicar leads her in prayer.

‘You have to understand,’ Mrs Evans says to Henry when they are done. ‘There were circumstances, circumstances beyond my control …’

‘I’m sorry, madam,’ Henry tells her, firm and unmoving, ‘but no circumstance can be so damning that they can justify what you have done here.’ He gestures to Lady Gwen sleeping soundly on the bed. ‘You’re slowly killing her, don’t you see?’

‘I swear,’ she whispers, ‘I didn’t know what was in those bottles. His lordship told me it was a more potent mix of laudanum, something more stringent to keep her numb, that was all. That’s the truth.’

‘Then I ask once more. Why?’

‘Because my lady was so disturbed she was a danger to others and herself! Lord Tresilian told me that unless she was sedated she’d have to go to an asylum, and I could never live with myself if she were sent to one of those. I’ve heard such stories!’

Henry thinks of Bedlam, and his lips thin. He knows what stories she might have heard, does not wish to confirm them.

‘And if my lady went to an asylum,’ she continues, ‘I’d have lost my position, and poor Linette …’

She begins to sob again. Henry sighs.

‘The bottles, Mrs Evans. Do you recall seeing them anywhere else?’

The housekeeper shakes her head.

‘And you’ve no idea why one with more deadly contents might have been used to kill your brother?’

Her face crumples. ‘No,’ she whispers on the edge of another sob. ‘None.’

They leave her then, for it seems there is nothing more to be said. In silence Rowena and Mr Dee descend to the darkened corridor below and stop outside Henry’s room, where all three look at each other gravely.

The strain of laughter wends its way up the stairs. The vicar shakes his head in disgust.

‘It is a most distressing situation,’ he says. ‘I am shocked. Most shocked. When you told me of dear Wynn, I hoped you were mistaken. Indeed, I’d begun to convince myself of the fact these past few days. But now …’

Mr Dee wipes his forehead with a handkerchief, setting his wig askew.

‘What can be done?’ Rowena asks. ‘With Lord Pennant as magistrate we have no one to go to.’

Another peal of laughter trickles up the stairs, the sounds of merrymaking unmistakable. How can Julian and his friends continue to enjoy themselves after this? How can they be so callous?

‘Mrs Evans’ explanation is sound,’ Henry says now, trying to keep his anger at bay. ‘What concerns me more is what part Julian Tresilian played in all of this. There must be a reason why he insisted Lady Gwen be prescribed with such a powerful mixture rather than laudanum alone. And there must be a link between the vials – Lady Gwen’s and the one that contained the poison used to kill Dr Evans.’

‘Dreadful business,’ the vicar mutters. ‘Ungodly business.’ He pauses, yawns deep. ‘If you don’t object, I do not wish to stay in the room prepared for me here. I’d much prefer the safety of my own home.’

‘Are you sure? It’s very late.’

‘And the walk will be a blessing, I can tell you.’

Seeing that the reverend means not to be dissuaded, Henry bows his head. Mr Dee smiles weakly, turns to Rowena.

‘Are you staying tonight? I can walk you home, if you too prefer to leave.’

‘Thank you, but I shall stay.’

Mr Dee nods, turns to Henry, clasps his hand in his.

‘Come and see me before long. I cannot fathom what to do next but something must be done, of that there is no doubt. In the meantime, I shall pray for you. Whether you believe in God or not, He believes in you.’

With that he bids them goodnight. Henry and Rowena watch his ambling gait as he descends the stairs, until they are quite alone in the corridor.

The only light comes from the windows. The moon has moved to the other side of the house, but there is still enough of its gaze to prevent them being in complete darkness. Her face he beholds in snatches; Henry can see only the irises of Rowena’s eyes stark against their whites, the Cupid’s bow of her fine mouth, the paleness of that beautiful satin-smooth skin …

‘Rowena,’ he says to prevent his fancy running away with him. ‘I wanted to thank you.’

‘Thank me?’

‘Your help at the mine, with the vials. If it weren’t for you …’

Rowena ducks her head. ‘You need not thank me, Dr Talbot.’

‘Henry,’ he says, taking her hand. ‘Please. Call me Henry.’

She says nothing, but nor does she pull away, and he feels the first flurry of hope. They would do well together, she and him – Henry with his medical knowledge, Rowena with her herbs. A partnership, based on mutual respect and trust.

Love.

Could Rowena learn to love him? Could he be so lucky?

Rowena looks up at him now in the lowlight. For the briefest moment Henry wonders if she might refuse him as she did the other day, but then she gives a small shaky nod.

‘All right. Henry.’

He wants to draw her into an embrace and, yes, yes , to kiss her, feels sure that this time she would not rebuff him if he did. Instead, reluctantly, he lets her go, and Rowena steps back from him as if released from a trap.

‘Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight, Rowena.’

Their eyes linger on each other for what feels like endless seconds. Then Rowena turns and walks down the corridor, pale skirts swinging in the wake of her hurried steps.