CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER FIVE

Henry watches Julian Tresilian drive a fine dapple grey mare down the gravel driveway and thence through the open gates at the bottom, and only when the sound of the phaeton wheels has dimmed to a low rumble does Henry step through the large stone-arched doors of Plas Helyg.

Arriving in the dark as he did Henry had marked little of the house’s exterior and so he surveys it now. It really is very large. Far grander than any house he has seen in London, though it must be said that Henry rarely went north of the river except to report to Bow Street or monitor a patient at Bethlem Royal. Indeed, Plas Helyg is like no building he has ever seen: built of dark grey stone it is softened by sweeps of lush variegated ivy which twines itself around the windowpanes like gauze; the pediment boasts intricate scrollwork, complemented by high-reaching finials and cupolas on top of four imposing towers. To the far right is a pond, a fountain spouting a stream of water from the middle, and on the other side of the house the gravel drive continues; he glimpses some outbuildings, what appears to be a coach house and stables. And, surrounding it all like a vast green cocoon, are magnificent ancient-looking willow trees.

Henry pulls up the collar of his coat, walks briskly down the short driveway. As he approaches the iron gates he sees now that the obscure pattern he marked last night is composed of intricately wrought depictions of the same willow trees surrounding the house; he walks through the gates, pulls them shut behind him. Their hinges creak, thick with rust.

On the other side, Henry finds himself on a wide woodland path. He looks both ways, notes a smaller pathway off to his left which disappears up into the trees, takes the larger path downward instead.

The woods are broad and dense. Quiet. Trees thickly bank the sides of the path and ferns grow in clumps about their bases. Wild garlic must grow here too for he can smell a hint of its pungent scent. As he walks, Henry becomes conscious of the pleasant hollow sound produced by his boots against the dry earth beneath his heel. There is a light rustling of a breeze; the humid air tickles the tips of his ears. Above him, the loud trill of birdsong. Henry looks up at the branches to locate its source but sees nothing. Instead – through force of habit, he supposes – he finds himself likening those bands of branches to arteries.

Drawing in the fresh earthen scent of the trees, Henry veers closer to the path’s verge. He holds out a hand to touch the dry trunk of what he thinks might be an oak and notes that ivy grows here too, its spindly tendrils reaching up and up as if desperate to escape the woodland floor. There is, Henry thinks, a sense of feeling enveloped within these woods. They have an oppressive quality to them – the trees seem to lean toward him, reaching out with gnarled arms. He turns, peers into the thick vegetation, and realises he cannot see any trace of Plas Helyg, that he could easily become lost if he were to stray into them. Henry wonders what forest creatures are hidden in the undergrowth, what watches him from its dark depths, and he moves back into the middle of the path, must laugh at himself under his breath.

Do not be a fool .

He replaces his hat. Somewhere, now, the sound of water.

Within minutes Henry reaches the fork; he takes the sharp bend which curves downward for a minute before opening up into a small clearing … and frowns deeply at the house that stands before him. It is decidedly less austere than the one he has just come from. Much much smaller, it is built with the same grey stone and echoes the pediment and finials of its parent. It is, or could be, Henry thinks, a lovely house, but with the door and windows in such disrepair (the door hangs from its hinges, the windows are splintered or smashed completely), it looks worryingly bleak. Yet it has been cared for. As Henry approaches he can see a patch of earth to one side – a small garden, it seems – and peeking from the disturbed soil are remnants of foliage, roots like the bones of fingers.

The sound of water takes Henry to the back of the house. Running behind it is a small stream, and stepping gingerly on the banked earth he bends to take a closer look. The stream is narrow, steeped in shade, coming so close to the house it almost looks as if it disappears underneath. Just then a scent travels upward, and Henry wrinkles his nose. From the dark foam-flecked water there comes the faint but very distinct smell he noted before from his bedroom window: the rotten-egg stench of sulphur.

Pondering, Henry returns to the front of the house. On the ground below one of the lower-storey windows there is a crunch beneath his boots. He lifts his foot, marks the numerous shards of glass on the gravel. Strange – this would mean, surely, the windows had been smashed from the inside .

Just as he is examining what looks to be a deeply pitted mark in the door there is the rumble of wheels, the hollow-sounding plod of hooves on the path behind him. Henry turns to see a white pony leading a small cart appear round the sharp bend, driven by a young man. In the back sits a dark-headed girl and, jostling next to her, Linette Tresilian.

‘Dr Talbot,’ she calls, standing when the pony draws to a stop. Henry makes to assist her out of the cart but by the time he has reached her she has already jumped from it. Like last night she wears breeches and a shirt a little too large for her. Garments, Henry thinks again, completely unfit for a lady.

He studies her carefully. She is striking rather than beautiful, he saw that much last night despite his overwhelming fatigue – blonde, boyishly slim with full lips, a pointed nose, arched brows over almond-shaped eyes. But close up he sees there is a hardness to those eyes and her face is weathered; Henry knows the damaging effects of the elements on a complexion when he sees it. He glances at her wild hair, secured only with a tatty ribbon at the base of her neck.

The mistress of Plas Helyg, it must be said, looks every inch a common farm boy.

‘Good morning.’ Henry does not know whether to call her ‘lady’ or ‘miss’ so settles for nothing at all. ‘I wanted to see the damage for myself.’

She helps down the girl who begins to remove three buckets from the floor of the cart. Linette Tresilian looks at him, grey eyes (or are they more a pale shade of green?) sharp, assessing.

‘I’m afraid it is rather dreadful.’ She gestures to her companions unloading the cart – on the patched gravel the buckets have been joined by a rake, a broom, cloths, wire brushes, other items Henry cannot fathom the use of. ‘This is Angharad, our maid, and Aled, one of the groundsmen. They’ll be setting the place to rights.’

Henry nods in greeting. They nod back, but neither of them will quite meet his gaze.

‘Set to rights,’ Henry says now, turning back to his hostess. ‘There is much to do, then?’

‘As I said.’

As last night, her tone is waspish. She has a sharp tongue when she chooses to use it.

Aled and Angharad share a look before turning away.

Linette Tresilian smiles tightly. ‘Come. I’ll show you what we are to contend with.’

She beckons Henry to follow her into the gatehouse. He does as bidden and inside he stops and stares, open-mouthed.

The hallway is a comfortable size, or would be if not for the debris strewn across the flagstones as if a storm has raged within; there is scarce room to move what with the pictures and ornaments that lie broken on the floor. As Henry raises his head he catches the splintered sight of himself in a mirror, the middle of the glass cobwebbed in its break. A large hole has been made in one of the wainscoting panels, its impact similar to the axe mark in the door.

‘My God.’

Linette Tresilian folds her arms. Aled and Angharad, who have trailed in behind them, disappear deeper into the house without a word.

‘Yes,’ Henry’s hostess replies. ‘I am not ashamed to say my reaction was a little more verbose.’

He looks at her. The woman smiles again but it is cold. Unfriendly, almost.

‘You will find me very direct, Dr Talbot. It’s a habit I have been scolded for often.’

Her temper, too, is questionable.

‘I’d ensured the gatehouse was beautifully prepared,’ she continues, leaving no room for Henry to comment. ‘It was cleaned top to bottom, freshly painted. New everything that needed it. Dr Evans was always happy with the state of his old threadbare pieces – he’d had them for years, after all – but it wasn’t right to allow them to be passed on to you. I even procured some English books for you since the old doctor only owned Welsh. So to find it like this …’

Henry nudges a torn painting of the sea which lies upturned on an Indian rug with the toe of his boot.

‘Who could have done such a thing?’

A beat.

‘I wish I could tell you.’

Something in her voice.

‘That is not an answer,’ Henry says, directing at her a hard stare which she returns, unflinching. ‘You will find that I am just as direct as you. “I wish” is very different from “I don’t know”. Which is it?’

The woman next to him purses her lips.

‘It is both, actually. But I cannot deny I have my suspicions.’

‘And they are?’

For a moment she does not answer. Instead she stares, eyes assessing, as if trying to fathom him.

He wishes she would not.

‘You must understand,’ Linette Tresilian says, ‘that Dr Evans meant a great deal to everyone here, and he will not be so easily replaced. Especially by an Englishman.’

Henry blinks. ‘Are you saying someone did this because I’m not wanted here?’

His hostess clears her throat; lightly touches the edge of a curtain half-divided from its rung.

‘The gatehouse was Dr Evans’ pride and joy,’ she murmurs, not looking at him. ‘He’d be turning in his grave if he saw it now.’

The change of both tone and subject is obvious and Henry would have pulled her up on it, if not for those last words.

‘He’s dead?’

She raises an eyebrow at him.

‘Why yes. Didn’t my cousin tell you?’

Henry shakes his head. ‘I knew a position had become vacant, but not the circumstances of how.’

Another beat. A look of sadness skitters across her face. ‘Dr Evans died in March. He was Penhelyg’s physician when I was a child, a man of advancing years even then – needless to say, he was very old. Still, his death was a dreadful shock.’

‘A shock? He’d not been ill, then?’

Linette Tresilian lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. ‘He suffered a little from arthritis, but otherwise, no. I never knew an elderly man to be so robust. Yes, it was a dreadful shock indeed.’

Unbidden, Henry feels a familiar pull in his gut. It is the very same feeling he had whenever Francis Fielding, his contact at Bow Street, would profess to some curiosity about the demise of one of his cases. How, for instance, could a man die of a brain haemorrhage when no head wound had occurred? How might a man be poisoned without presenting symptoms of the fact? Such cases were a puzzle to be solved, and Henry always had been extraordinarily good at puzzles. It was what made him so popular with the Runners.

He bites down a feeling of injustice, focuses instead on the matter at hand.

‘What was cause of death?’

‘A weak heart. He was found on the threshold, there. It was Mrs Evans who happened upon him. She was most distressed. Dr Evans was her brother, you see.’

This explains why the housekeeper appeared so unwelcoming last night.

‘Who attended him?’ Henry asks.

‘Dr Beddoe,’ comes the reply. ‘He lives in Criccieth, a town across the estuary. He’s been seeing the villagers in the absence of a local physician.’

‘I assume he performed a post-mortem?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

Her voice comes sharp again. Those grey-green eyes narrow. He is not sure she understands.

‘A post-mortem,’ he says. ‘An examination of a body after death.’ When a look of distaste crosses her features, Henry inclines his head. ‘I merely wish to ascertain if my predecessor did indeed die from heart failure. Was there no mark on him? Any sign of external injury?’

‘No,’ she says, forceful. But then she repeats the word – softer this time – and licks her lips. ‘But …’

‘But?’

Linette Tresilian hesitates. ‘I just wish Dr Evans had not died in such a manner.’

Again, that tingling in his fingers. Something is missing here. Henry wants to ask more, to exercise that muscle which – until this moment – he thought he had left behind in London, but she is turning away, a pained expression on her face.

‘Please, let us not speak of it. He is gone and buried, surely that’s the end of it? Come,’ Linette Tresilian says, brusque, unbending. ‘Let me show you the house.’

She leads him through each room.

The first is the study, where a rattan examination couch lies on its side, its seat ripped. A small bookcase has been emptied of its contents. Sheets of paper litter the floor and pictures have been torn from the walls, a desk and chair upturned; one of its legs has snapped and lies at an angle, splinters pointing upward like little knives.

On the other side of the house is a sitting room, its furniture too upturned, which leads into what Henry must assume was a small but well-stocked library for the shelves are empty, the books they once housed scattered across the rug. At the back of the gatehouse in which Angharad and Aled are already at work are a small kitchen, larder and washroom. Upstairs houses two bedrooms and an unexpected quantity of feathers, their origins one must assume having come from the mattresses and pillows which have been so brutally shredded. Every single room has been left in disarray with much of the furniture either broken or damaged.

Having returned to the hallway Linette Tresilian excuses herself to speak with the servants and Henry waits, pushes his hands deep into his pockets.

Nothing has been spared; whoever did this ensured that Henry could not stay here, and it baffles him as to why. What possible reason is there? Who would cause such wilful damage?

I cannot deny I have my suspicions .

Henry sinks to his haunches, picks at a smashed vase marooned on the rug like flotsam.

Linette Tresilian knows who, though she will not confess to it. Why?

Thoughtful, he runs his hand across the back of his neck. Dr Evans could easily have died of heart failure. There have been many people who suffered sudden shocks to the heart having otherwise been perfectly healthy. It does happen. Perhaps, he muses, he is deliberately looking for a puzzle to solve. A chance to do what he could not in London …

A ray of sunshine glints through the splintered windowpane, sends a shard of light across the floor. Henry’s gaze follows the line of it without thinking; the beam ends just at the tapered leg of a satinwood cabinet, and his gaze sharpens.

Something gleams beneath.

He leans over, reaches his hand under the cabinet. Cannot find purchase. With a grunt Henry flattens himself to the floor, reaches once more, and his fingers brush against cool glass. It takes a moment to fish it out, and when he does he narrows his eyes.

A glass vial, no longer than his middle finger, no wider than two.

It is an unusual bottle. Fluted in shape, grey glass, gold Turk’s-head stopper. Unmarked. As a man of medicine, Dr Evans will have housed many apothecary bottles in his stores, but Henry has never seen one quite like this. In fact, it looks more like a perfume bottle of the sort he saw, once, on the dressing table of a Chancery madam he visited a few times fresh out of university. So, then. Why on earth would Dr Evans own such a thing?

Observation. Contemplation. Interrogation. These are methods that have always served him well when it comes to getting to the bottom of a question requiring an answer, whether that be in the form of a patient in need of a cure or a body concealing the cause of death.

An unexpected fatality. A vandalised gatehouse. Could the two be connected?

He curls his fingers around the vial, weighs the glass within his palm.

I might be wrong, Henry reminds himself. He was wrong before, was he not? But something here does not add up – his gut implicitly tells him so.

‘Dr Talbot?’

Henry rises, hides his hand behind his back.

‘I was wondering,’ Linette Tresilian says when she reaches him, and the imploring look on her face reassures Henry she did not see. ‘My mother will still be abed, but if you’re eager to begin your duties might you accompany me to see Tomas Morgan? I’ve been seeing him every day this week, but I’ve done what I can for him now. My services are nothing, I’m sure, to what yours will be.’

‘Of course,’ Henry says in a rush, eager to be gone.

He steps aside, allowing his hostess to leave first, and as she leads him from the ruined gatehouse, Henry surreptitiously slips the glass vial into his coat pocket.