CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The old housekeeper does not try to thwart him when Henry knocks on Gwen Tresilian’s door the next morning. Instead she leads him without a word into the bedroom.

His patient is only just stirring. Henry goes to the window and opens the curtains by half, then turns to the housekeeper who stands at the doorway twisting a soiled handkerchief between her withered hands.

‘A glass of water, if you please, Mrs Evans.’

She has not slept, that much is clear. Her wrinkled face is haggard, white hair poking out from her mobcap at odd angles, eyes red-rimmed. Gravely he takes one of the saved vials from his pocket.

‘I shall administer five drops of this into a glass of water for her to drink every morning. In a week I shall reduce it to four drops, then three, and so on and so forth. While I would of course prefer her ladyship did not have the tincture at all, it is safer to acclimatise her body slowly. Only time will tell how much damage has been done. In the meantime you can expect vomiting, cold sweats, shivering. Aches and pains, irritability.’ Henry glances at her. ‘I trust you’ll be able to manage? She’ll be quite trying the next couple of days. For safety, keep Lady Gwen in these rooms. No daily walks, for now. Supervision, always.’

The old woman nods. Licks her lips.

‘You think I’m wicked,’ she whispers.

Henry only blinks. ‘The water, Mrs Evans.’

Defeated, the housekeeper goes to the small table next to Gwen’s bed and pours a glass from the carafe that sits there. She passes the glass to Henry with a tremor.

‘I do not think you’re wicked,’ he says finally, pouring the tincture in drop by drop. ‘But you’re lucky the truth was discovered, before further damage could be done.’

‘And my brother? Do you know …?’

‘Not yet. I’m sorry.’

Mrs Evans does not respond. Henry places the glass on the table, props up the pillows behind her mistress’ back.

‘Good morning, my lady,’ he murmurs. ‘How do you feel?’

Lady Gwen swallows, looks up at him weakly from the bed.

‘My head hurts.’

Her voice is hoarse and papery. Henry takes out his pocketwatch, measures her pulse. Fast as to be expected, but not erratically so.

‘Do you remember anything?’

Lady Gwen draws her eyebrows together as if trying, but then she sighs, shakes her head.

‘Here,’ he says, handing her the water. ‘Drink this. All of it.’

Diligently she drinks. When she is done Henry checks her pupils (still dilated) then instructs Mrs Evans to ensure she takes a turn about the room three times that day and he will check on her later on. He leaves them then, and in the corridor knocks on Linette’s door.

‘Linette? Are you there?’

Within, there is silence, but in the strip of light shining beneath the closed door the shadow of Merlin sniffs at the gap.

‘Linette?’ he says again.

Nothing. Not even a muffled sob, just stark unnerving silence.

Henry sighs, moves on.

The dining room is already full, the table spread with Mrs Phillips’ best efforts of bread and cheeses, boiled eggs and cured ham, an impressive pound cake and a pot of steaming tea. Cadoc Powell keeps station at the sideboard, staring straight ahead without expression, waiting to be called upon. Julian’s guests – despite the lateness of the hour they undoubtedly retired to bed, look surprisingly refreshed (except Lambeth, who is nodding off into his teacup) – and as Henry enters the room they all look up.

Rowena is not there.

‘Ah, Henry,’ Julian says from his usual chair at the head of the table. He holds a cigarillo lazily between his clubbed fingers. ‘Good of you to join us. You were sorely missed after the excitement of last night. How is the patient?’

A titter of laughter travels around the table. Henry narrows his eyes.

‘I’m surprised at your concern. I heard how little Lady Gwen’s distress disturbed your merrymaking last night.’

Neither Julian nor his companions have the good grace to look ashamed. Instead Julian spreads his hands with a smile.

‘Well, it would have been a shame to let Gwen’s little episode ruin the evening.’

With something like amusement Sir John grunts into his egg, its yoke trailing down onto the tablecloth in a sickly yellow mess. His wife smirks in response. Powell shifts, the tic in his jaw the only telltale sign that he has heard.

Henry, however, does not bother to hide his disgust. He has known people like them in the past; caretakers in Bedlam, for instance, who took pleasure from bullying the inmates, or mocking any person who felt even a small ounce of sympathy for the poor wretches locked inside their cells, and if they had an audience then all the better. To Henry’s shame he did not say anything then. But he would be damned if he does not say something now.

‘Personally, sir , I found your behaviour last night unpardonable. You told me when we first met that you cared deeply for Lady Gwen, but now I have my doubts. For you all to treat her illness as some sort of parlour game was in very poor taste. You should be ashamed.’

Julian raises the cigarillo to his lips, all the while not taking his dark eyes from Henry’s. Then, slowly, he blows the smoke from his mouth, and Henry watches as ash falls like little fireflies onto the tablecloth.

‘Well,’ Lord Tresilian says silkily. ‘Linette has clearly been a bad influence on you, exercising that sharp tongue of hers.’

‘On the contrary, my comments are based entirely on what I’ve witnessed since we met. Last night alone was enough for me to settle my opinion of you.’

Powell looks at Henry then, his expression unreadable. He fancies he sees some spark of approval in the butler’s eyes, but then Julian is speaking again and Henry cannot tell for sure.

‘You disappoint me. Still, no matter, I’m not in the least bit offended. But I’ll take this opportunity now to tell you the gatehouse will be finished today.’ Julian picks a flake of tobacco from his tongue. ‘I have a ship at Abermaw waiting to take the workers back to London and they’ll be gone long before evening. So, considering your intense disapproval of me I shouldn’t think you would have any objections to removing yourself there as soon as possible. Of course, I’m not a fiend. Tomorrow will suffice. That’s enough time to prepare yourself, is it not?’

Henry looks between the men and women sitting at the table before his gaze settles on Julian. How mistaken he has been in him, and to leave Lady Gwen and Linette in the house with the man is a risk Henry does not want to take. Yet what can he do? he thinks, shifting uncomfortably under Julian’s hard black-eyed stare.

‘Very good,’ he bites out.

Reluctantly Henry moves to leave, keen to put as much distance between them as quickly as possible, but at the threshold of the dining room he remembers himself and turns back.

‘The meal last night was held in my honour, so I thank you for that,’ Henry says without the politeness he would usually strive to show in other circumstances. ‘But I hope you will forgive that I have no wish to repeat the pleasure.’

Julian, the Pennants and Selwyns, Beddoe and Lambeth say not one word. Henry ducks his head.

‘I bid good morning to you all.’

‘The wound heals nicely,’ Henry says some hours later, folding the soiled muslin around his hand and putting it into his knapsack. ‘No need for a bandage now. Let the air get to it.’

He had left Rhodri Jones until last, visiting his other patients whose houses were further afield, including Tomas Morgan who (Henry was gratified to find) is now fully recovered, having caught the young man unmooring his little fishing boat and pushing it out to sea. The rest mend in degrees – superficial cuts and bruises have been aided by Rowena’s administrations while other more severe injuries require more time, but Henry is satisfied that each and every one of the miners will make a full recovery, even if they are not all as they once were.

He thinks, of course, of the man who lost a foot, another with an arm so crippled he will not be able to work in the mine again. Head wounds such as this one, however … Well, that is something different entirely. And yet, Rhodri does remarkably well.

‘I’m very pleased with your progress.’ Henry rises from the bed, looks down at his patient sternly. ‘But you mustn’t exert yourself. It is far too soon.’

Rhodri grimaces. ‘I’ve no intention of it.’ He glances at his wife – a gentle woman with a kindly smile. ‘It’s nice to have a rest for a change.’

Henry thinks he comprehends.

Their exchanges are achieved in stilted Welsh – disjointed on his part, his dictionary has been well thumbed this day – but the Joneses understand him tolerably well and he them.

‘I shall come again in a day or two, unless you have need of me sooner? You’ll find me at the gatehouse as of tomorrow.’

‘We will send word up, I can assure you,’ Mrs Jones says. ‘Cai can go, can’t you, Cai?’

They all look to him. The lad sits silently in the corner of the tightly cramped bedroom he shares with his parents, watching Henry’s treatment of his father with curious eyes. But at his mother’s words Cai blushes furiously and scarpers from the room like a scared rabbit. Mrs Jones shakes her head.

‘I’m sorry, doctor. He’s been so anxious since his pa …’

‘There’s no need to apologise,’ Henry says, swinging the knapsack onto his back.

Before, the boy was so hateful; now the conflict he feels is writ clearly upon his face. Only last week Cai despised him, Henry is quite convinced. But now? To be so sure of something, only to have all one’s beliefs scattered to the wind like dust, is a feeling Henry well understands.

Henry tips his hat in farewell, backs out into the narrow landing. At the bottom of the rickety stairs he reaches for the door, but then a shuffling behind him makes Henry pause.

‘ Doctor? ’

Henry turns.

Cai stands at the threshold of a tiny room to the right, leaning his full weight on his good leg. He looks awkward, shamefaced.

‘Thank you.’

The words are said in English, and Henry can see how much effort they cost him. Cai flushes into his collar, will not quite meet Henry’s eye. Then, taking Henry completely by surprise, the lad holds out his hand.

It is small and dirty, the nails bitten to the quick, but it is steady and determined, and very slowly Henry clasps it in his.

‘A truce, then,’ Henry murmurs.

Cai screws his eyes in confusion, and Henry dismisses his last words with a shake of his head.

‘ Croeso siw?r .’

A look of relief crosses Cai’s face. Then he pulls himself up the stairs back to his parents, and Henry leaves the cottage, smiling.

His good mood, however, does not last long. Visiting his patients has been a distraction, but soon Henry’s niggling worries invade his thoughts like burrowing worms. He crosses the road, starts the incline through the woods.

He was mistaken in Enaid Evans, that much is clear. But her confession – that Julian Tresilian ordered her to drug Lady Gwen – places him firmly as a suspect for Wynn Evans’ murder. But why? And how? Julian would certainly have no access to deadly nightshade, which means Elis Beddoe must still play a part in the scheme. Henry frowns, steps over the protruding root of a gnarly oak. It is the rings that link the two men. Are the Pennants and Selwyns also involved? And what of the land agent, Lambeth? Again and again, Henry pictures the curling symbol on the signets, the portrait … the book.

Before, Linette doubted its connection. Now, there is no denying it.

A sigil, Julian called it. A sigil that we connect to .

The answer, Henry is quite convinced of it, lies inside the book.

Midway up the woodland path he passes the departing carts of the workmen. Henry tips his hat, calls to them his thanks, and as they call back their replies he feels a sense of nostalgic melancholy sweep over him at the familiar sound of cockney.

Will he ever see London again? Does he even want to? Henry stops in his tracks a moment when he realises he does not know the answer. Above him the leaves rustle on their branches, and Henry looks up into their artery-like spindles. Not even in the lush green parks of London could he have seen an array of trees like this. Somewhere a sheep bleats. He sighs, continues on.

Plas Helyg is quiet on his return. The vestibule is empty, dark in the absence of a fire, and Henry frowns.

‘Hello?’ he calls.

Nothing. No one. Not the servants, not Julian or his guests. He wonders where Rowena is. Where Linette is.

How she is.

He has always taken Linette as a woman of strength, but after hearing the truth about her mother, the part which both the housekeeper and her cousin played in Lady Gwen’s illness … how strong can one be, after a revelation such as that?

In his own room Henry kneels at his trunk, unlocks it, takes from it the letter Julian sent him. It is crumpled, well read, folded and re-folded countless times, far more than Henry can remember since receiving it all those weeks ago, for he has memorised every line and word but needlessly he opens it, reads again the first sentence indelibly printed in his mind’s eye:

It has come to my attention that you are without position under circumstances most unfortunate. To ease such misfortune it would be my greatest pleasure to offer you the vacant post of physician in Penhelyg, Meirionydd.

Frowning, Henry closes the letter again, rubs his thumb over the wax seal, the sigil imprinted into its crimson face.

Observation. Contemplation. Interrogation.

Watch and wait.

But the time now for watching and waiting is past. Nothing has come from Francis Fielding’s advice, certainly nothing concrete enough to provide an answer to all the unanswered questions lingering still about Penhelyg like a pestilent curse. No, now is the time for action and, decided, Henry leaves the bedroom and climbs the stairs to Linette’s, knocks sharply on her door.

‘Linette? Are you there?’

Still, silence.

‘Linette!’

The door to Lady Gwen’s room opens. Henry turns, expecting to see Mrs Evans, but is surprised to find Cadoc Powell standing at the threshold instead, Merlin pushing his snout between his legs.

‘She’s out, sir.’

‘Out?’

‘Somewhere in the grounds, I suspect.’

‘And Miss Carew?’

‘With her, I believe.’

‘Can you think where they might have gone?’

Merlin looks up at the butler, wags his tail against the back of the older man’s knees, and Powell opens the door wider.

‘Take the dog,’ he says, and Henry swears for the briefest of moments that Powell smiles. ‘He will lead you.’