CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER EIGHT

It is a relief to return to his room, finally to be alone.

He can still hear the gunshot in the cavern of his memory, the sound it made when it whizzed past his ear. If he had been only one inch to the left …

Henry sits on the bed, removes the bullet from his pocket, balances it again in the centre of his palm.

At Guy’s Hospital he removed his fair share of slugs. Henry can recognise the lead shot of a Brown Bess musket down to the small balls fired by a standard pistol. This one – despite its flattened tip resulting from the impact of the tree trunk – looks to be of middling size, typical of a pistol or hunting rifle.

The type of gun it belongs to tells him two things. First, that it was a weapon meant for shooting large game. But second and more damning … such a gun could only have been fired at close range. Which means that despite Linette Tresilian’s protestations, whoever took a shot at Henry could see him, and knew exactly what they were doing.

But why? Why would someone shoot at him?

He thinks of the villagers he met down in the square. The pretty dark-haired girl. Rhiannon, was it? Henry felt her resentment, her narrow-eyed glare sharp as knives. He thinks too of the young men with whom he shared the cart from Abermaw, the distrustful looks of Plas Helyg’s servants. And the reserve of Mrs Morgan had been as palpable as ice.

Henry does not understand it.

According to his hostess the villagers had been attended by one Dr Beddoe from a town across the estuary. If that were the case then that gentleman would have been no worldly use to them at all if they required immediate attention. Surely they would be pleased to have a new doctor, one that was so readily available? The gatehouse is a mere fifteen minutes away from the village square on foot …

The gatehouse. This too he does not understand. To go to such violent lengths of destruction – why? And, of course, there is still the matter of Dr Evans.

Henry places the bullet onto the coverlet, reaches into his other pocket for the vial he retrieved from the debris of the gatehouse.

Now he is alone, he can look at it with keener attention, and Henry holds the bottle up to the light shining through the window. It is the work of a master craftsman, the shape of it delicate and flimsy, not like his own bottles at all. In contemplation Henry tilts it. Stops. Squints. What he had previously mistaken for dirt is, in fact, the smallest bit of brown liquid, half-congealed at the bottom. Intrigued, Henry pops the gold Turk’s-head stopper, lifts the vial to his nose. Frowns.

The faintest hint of sour fruit.

Still looking at it he opens his medical bag with one hand, means to bring out one of his own vials of tincture to compare … and pulls back with a hiss. A small bloom of blood pools on the tip of his finger, red as berries. Henry peers inside the bag.

‘Damn.’

Some of the bottles are broken; it must have happened when the satchel fell in the forest. He had not been able to bring many supplies with him from London – the governor expressly forbade it – and so these items were the last of his personal supply. Henry sifts through the ones still intact, finally brings out a small bottle of laudanum.

Reddish-brown, this. Similar in colour, yet …

Henry sniffs this one, too. Not sour like the other – laudanum is sweeter. Again, he tilts the strange vial this way and that in the light, watches the congealing liquid slide right to left.

‘What are you?’ he murmurs, but no answer comes.

Henry shakes his head. It is too much for his tired mind to fathom. And though it is not much past midday he is tired, overwhelmingly so. His body aches like – and here he almost laughs – the Devil. All of a sudden it seems as if the past few days of travel, along with today’s early start and the ride down to the coast, have caught up with him and taken their toll. Henry grimaces, shifts on the bed. His buttocks are sore, his spine stiff. And his head! He lies down, succumbing at last to the headache that threatened earlier, its insistent tug …

A knock on the door wakes him. It takes a moment to rouse himself, a moment more to realise the room is filled with long shadows, that the light outside the window has dimpsed. The knock comes again – more impatient this time – and when Henry opens the door it is to find the housekeeper, Mrs Evans, standing on the other side.

‘Miss Linette requests your presence at supper, sir.’

Her voice is stiff, measured. As before, she will not meet his eyes.

Striving for politeness, Henry inclines his head.

‘Please tell her I shall be down directly.’

The housekeeper bobs, the scallops of her mobcap trembling, but as she begins to turn away Henry holds out his hand.

‘Mrs Evans?’

The woman stops, focuses her gaze on the door jamb.

‘Yessir?’

Henry searches for the appropriate words.

‘I do hope, madam, we can learn to get along together. I appreciate it will take all of us some time to adjust.’

At last, the old woman raises her eyes to his. For a long moment she watches him, seems to take him in piece by piece.

‘You’re very young for a doctor,’ she says quietly.

‘I’m more than qualified, I assure you.’

‘I’ve no doubt you are,’ Mrs Evans responds, her voice a little stronger than it had been moments before. ‘You wouldn’t be here otherwise. But you might find your age – amongst other things – will go against you.’

It is a loaded comment, delivered with a sharp eye that does not pretend to hide her disapproval.

Henry’s hackles rise.

‘I hope I will be given a chance to prove myself before I’m dismissed so readily.’

The housekeeper says nothing to this. Instead she says, voice clipped, ‘Miss Linette is expecting you. You’d best make haste.’

Mrs Evans pauses then, glances at his creased shirt, his sleep-mussed hair, and self-consciously Henry raises his hand to tidy it.

‘Forgive me, let me change. I’ll not be a moment.’

‘There’s no need,’ comes the reply. ‘We don’t stand on ceremony here, not while his lordship’s away.’ A pause. ‘Follow me.’

The old woman turns, begins a brisk amble toward the stairs in a manner which belies her age. When Henry catches up with her he glances at her face, notes the way the woman’s lips pinch shut, as if determined to keep silent.

But he is not. He considers the vial and bullet left marooned on the coverlet in his room.

Henry appreciates that as the sister of the deceased, the housekeeper, at least, has sufficient cause to resent his presence here. Still, he thinks as they turn a corner and walk past a towering grandfather clock, she might be able to shed some more light on today’s discoveries, and when else will he have an opportunity to ask?

‘I understand,’ he begins, meaning to soften her before delivering the blow, ‘that my predecessor was your brother.’ The old woman pauses in her step, gives a short nod in assent. ‘Yet you go by Mrs Evans, not Miss? Forgive the impertinence, but I wondered why?’

They have reached the last flight of stairs. The housekeeper rests her age-spotted hand on the carved banister and Henry senses her bristle at the question.

‘It is customary for a housekeeper to be called “Mrs”. A formality, only. And if you forgive me the impertinence, Dr Talbot, you are clearly not familiar with country ways or the workings of a grand house. It makes me wonder if you’re quite suited to a position here.’

Mrs Evans has pinned him with such a hard look Henry feels compelled to defend himself.

‘I trained as an apprentice at Guy’s Hospital in London. I then attended university to train as a physician but found I preferred the study of anatomy and returned to Guy’s, where I later taught.’ Henry hesitates at the memory, feels again that now all-too-familiar twist of injustice. ‘I may have no knowledge of country ways or grand houses, madam, but I’m more than qualified in all aspects of medical practice. I’m no inexperienced boy fresh out of the schoolhouse.’

The housekeeper watches him. Henry chews his inner cheek. No matter what has happened since, he is proud of his background, of how far he has risen, and Mrs Evans seems to recognise it for her hard expression softens.

‘Very well.’

She begins to descend. Henry takes a breath and she stops again, gives him a questioning look.

‘I do not wish to cause you pain,’ he says, keeping his voice as gentle as he can, ‘but I was told you found Dr Evans’ body.’

A small intake of breath. A sudden sheen to her pale blue eyes. ‘ Ie .’

‘He was discovered on the threshold of the gatehouse, I understand?’

Mrs Evans looks away, swallowing hard. He thought she would be angry at his prying, but the question appears instead to have weakened her. She stares down into the vestibule, into the fire that burns brightly in its cavernous grate.

‘It was like he had seen the Devil himself.’

Henry frowns.

‘The Devil, madam?’

‘ Ie , as if he worked his way in. Wynn’s face …’

Henry’s fingers tingle with a strange premonition.

‘His face, Mrs Evans?’

The old woman bites the cushion of her lower lip, and it takes a moment for her to compose herself.

‘I never knew my brother to be scared of anything in his life, Dr Talbot, but there was no mistaking the expression on his face.’ She looks at him, eyes fraught with an urgent light. ‘Wynn looked terrified. As if he had been frightened to death!’

‘Are you coming or not?’

Together both he and Mrs Evans jump. Guiltily, Henry turns his head.

Linette Tresilian stands at the bottom of the stairs, the grey lurcher at her side. She stares up at them, features haughty and impatient, arms folded across her chest.

‘I’ll take my leave,’ the housekeeper says. Her voice is stronger now, the look of pain and panic on her face gone as if they were never there, and before Henry can respond the elderly woman is climbing the stairs. Reluctant, he takes her cue and walks in the opposite direction to meet his frowning hostess.

‘What were you saying to Enaid?’

Henry toys with a lie but Linette Tresilian raises one of her finely arched eyebrows.

‘I will ask her later, if you do not tell me now.’

‘I have nothing to conceal. I was asking about Dr Evans.’

Her expression shifts into one of annoyance.

‘You had no right.’

‘I did not realise the subject was forbidden.’

She purses her lips, breathes out hard through her nose. The dog – who has been staring up at him, wiry tail wagging – makes a grumbling noise, a little throaty brrr .

‘Who is this?’ Henry asks, and the woman in front of him sighs.

‘Your attempt to divert my attention is noted,’ she retorts, one side of her mouth lifting in what Henry thinks might be a smile. ‘But I am famished and have no mind to argue. This is Merlin.’

‘Merlin,’ Henry echoes.

‘I told you. All the animals here are named after Welsh folklore.’

‘So you did.’

This time she does smile.

‘Come, Dr Talbot,’ Linette Tresilian says. ‘My mother is waiting.’

Henry regards the childlike woman sitting quietly at the table, tries to discern similarities to that strange portrait outside his room, but this woman is a mere shadow of her oil-stroked counterpart. This woman is painfully thin, pale skin stretched across gaunt cheekbones framed by long thin hair as white as a dove. A statue carved from marble.

‘This is Henry Talbot, Mamma, your new physician.’ Linette Tresilian gently takes the older woman’s hand, clasps it in both her own. ‘My mother does not usually dine downstairs,’ she adds to Henry, ‘but I thought a change might do her good.’

Henry bows. ‘A pleasure to meet you, my lady.’

Gwenllian Tresilian merely looks up at him from grey-green eyes the mirror of her daughter’s. Dark circles cup them like purple crescent moons.

‘Do not mind her,’ Linette Tresilian says, moving to take a seat a little further down the table. She removes her napkin from its pewter ring. Merlin trots over, settles down at his mistress’ feet beneath the table. ‘As I told you before, sometimes she will carry a conversation as if there were nothing wrong at all. Most days, however, she is as you see her now. Please, doctor, take a seat.’

Henry does not move, for Lady Gwen appears to be reading his features like a map – her gaze roves over him, pupils wide, as if looking for something she cannot find.

‘How are you, my lady?’

Her eyes move downward then, into the cushion of her lap. Linette Tresilian twirls the napkin ring between her forefingers.

‘If Mamma wishes to speak, she will. Sit, Dr Talbot.’

She indicates a seat opposite her, and as Henry takes it she jingles a small bell next to a bowl of apples set in the middle of the table. Lady Gwen does not react to the sound; indeed, it is as if, now, she is in some sort of trance, and Henry watches her thoughtfully. According to her daughter, the tenor of her mind changed after the death of her husband, but can grief really cause such drastic change in behaviour? And so long after the first terrible blow?

A small door behind Linette opens and through it comes Plas Helyg’s sour-faced butler.

‘Are you ready to be served, Miss Linette?’

‘Thank you, Cadoc.’

Powell bows his head, turns to an ornate sideboard and picks up a glass decanter filled with deep red liquid, pours Henry a glass before serving the women.

No one speaks. The fire crackles gently behind him, the carriage clock on the mantel ticks softly over the turn of its cogs. Linette Tresilian takes a small sip from her glass, eyes meeting Henry’s over the rim.

‘I wish to apologise for my behaviour today.’

Powell dips in a bow, closes the dining-room door behind him.

‘You’d be forgiven in thinking me an unfriendly, harsh-spoken woman,’ she continues. ‘But the truth is I’ve become rather too used to solitude. I’m not much used to seeing people outside of Penhelyg, and, well, I cannot bear for them to be maligned.’

As she trails off Henry reaches for his glass, is surprised to find only a mediocre claret. Perhaps Julian keeps the more expensive goods back for when he is in residence. Thinking of him now, Henry twists the crystal stem between his fingers.

Julian had asked him to be mindful of his once-ward, to judge if she shared her mother’s weakness of mind, but so far Henry has seen no evidence of it. An unusual woman, yes, indeed, precisely what Linette Tresilian has confessed to herself: harsh-spoken and solitary. He remembers her defensiveness when he suggested she was lonely. What sort of childhood must she have had, with no parents and a frequently absent guardian? It is clear to him, Henry thinks, that Julian Tresilian simply does not understand his cousin’s nature. Still, he must reserve judgement. One day is not enough for him to determine a person’s character. And did not Julian say Lady Gwen had been Linette’s age when her symptoms first began?

Henry places his glass back down on the table, offers a polite smile.

‘I do understand. But that does not change the fact that the gatehouse was vandalised and someone shot at me this afternoon.’

A flush appears on her cheek – with embarrassment or shame Henry cannot tell – but Linette Tresilian seems not to be led and changes the subject entirely.

‘I suppose after the delights of London, Penhelyg is quite a shock. What was it like? Did you enjoy your work?’

It is a question Henry should have expected at some point or another, yet he is not prepared for it, is struck silent a moment, the harsh words of the hospital’s governor turning over themselves in his head again and again like the cog of the carriage clock on the mantle:

You are a disgrace to this hospital, a disgrace to your good name as well as mine, a disgrace to all those who put their trust in you …

Henry means to reply with an answer that would serve not to reveal too much, but before he can Powell returns with a plate in each hand, the maid, Angharad, following behind holding another. Immediately Merlin scuttles up, nose raised, ears twitching, and the butler must sidestep the animal before he can set the plate he carries in front of Lady Gwen, her daughter in turn, leaving Angharad to set the final plate down in front of Henry.

‘Liver in gravy and onions, with potatoes and greens,’ she tells him quietly, her Welsh accent pronounced and lilting. Henry looks down at the dish – a less substantial portion than the night before – and he watches the steam rise from the brown sauce, the smell of onions sweet and rich. But, with unease, he notes how the flesh of the liver gleams in the candlelight, reminding him of the kidney he held in his hands all those weeks ago, slick and fat and pulsing.

No tumour. No tumour at all.

Linette Tresilian’s voice brings him back.

‘When Julian is away we serve only one course,’ she tells him as the servants leave the room once more. ‘I don’t see the need for three or four as I’ve heard city folk take. Far too much ceremony and a complete waste of food. I trust you don’t object?’

‘Not at all,’ Henry says faintly, disturbed at his unwanted memory. ‘I’d be at a loss if you were to offer such a spread.’

Indeed, his own meals used to consist of cold food parcels delivered to Guy’s by his landlady, quick tavern fare, or a late-night penny pie from a street seller en route to his lodgings after his shift at the hospital was done.

‘And while we are at it,’ she continues, brusque again, ‘please call me Linette. We’re to be together far too much to keep up the pretence of formality.’

Gratefully, he raises his eyes from his plate.

‘Thank you. I confess, I’m wholly sick of not knowing how to address you.’

‘I may call you Henry, then?’

‘I prefer you do.’

‘Good.’ She takes a sip of claret. ‘Henry, you did not answer my question.’

That brief flicker of gratitude is replaced immediately by a familiar feeling of dread.

‘Why did you ask it?’

Linette lifts one shoulder, begins to slice into her potatoes.

‘Well, no doctor I’ve encountered has been as methodical as you clearly are. Not even Dr Evans seemed quite so in tune, shall we say, with his patients the way you were with Tomas. He evidently did not possess the same level of learning as you.’

While she was speaking, Merlin rested his long chin on the table. Linette cuts a small chunk from the liver on her plate, offers it to the dog who snaffles it loudly between his teeth.

‘That is not uncommon, considering I imagine he trained as only a country doctor.’

‘Oh?’

He repeats what he told Mrs Evans.

‘I ended up taking a leading position at the hospital which I held for five years,’ he adds. ‘I gave lectures on the nervous system, bone structure, anatomy and dissection. I had apprentices of my own. Patients were often referred to me on recommendation.’ He hesitates. ‘Sometimes I consulted on Bow Street cases.’

Linette’s brow furrows. ‘Bow Street?’

‘Home of the Runners. They are London’s law enforcement. My contact there would often ask me to examine a body or a prisoner, advise on either cause of death or best treatment.’

‘Indeed? You must have been very busy, then. I’ve heard crime is as common as rats in the city.’

‘Francis only called on me for the more obscure cases. Cases that required more investigation.’

Linette blinks.

‘Murder?’

‘Occasionally.’

‘Ah.’ She sits back in her seat, raises an eyebrow. ‘Is that why you’re so suspicious?’

Observation. Contemplation. Interrogation. But this is a new and unfamiliar playing field, one that Henry must consider carefully before making any further move, and so he simply answers, ‘That has something to do with it, yes.’

At the end of the table Lady Gwen – who has until now simply sat with her hands in her lap – picks up her knife and fork. Her daughter slowly scratches Merlin’s chin, watches Henry carefully.

‘I see,’ she says softly. ‘Tell me, then – if you held such a prestigious position, why stoop to one here? Surely a village doctor cannot begin to compare to that of a city surgeon and all the opportunities it afforded?’

Lady Gwen makes a noise in the back of her throat. It is a strange noise, an odd strangled gurgle. Methodically, she begins to cut the liver into tiny pieces. ‘ Hoath, Redar, Ganabel, Berith …’

Henry frowns at the whispered words.

‘What is she saying?’

Linette sighs. ‘I don’t know.’

‘It’s not Welsh?’

She shakes her head. ‘Remember I said that sometimes she speaks words in a language I do not understand? Well, this is it.’

Her mother repeats the four words over and over as she continues to cut the liver, proceeds to do the same with the beans. Then, once she is done she falls silent and – so very delicately – pierces one of the morsels with her fork and takes a bite.

‘I’ve tried,’ Linette adds, ‘to find out their meaning but no dictionary I possess refers to them.’

Henry watches her chew with keen interest. Lady Gwen has been served the same size portion as himself and Linette but the pale blue dress she wears hangs from her small frame, her collarbone protrudes from the snow-white skin, and in the candlelight her cheeks look gaunt. He would be very surprised if she clears her plate. Still, she is eating, and the fact that she can feed herself without prompt or mess is an encouraging sign. His gaze shifts back to his own plate, and he cuts into the liver. The knife sinks in effortlessly. Henry tries not to make comparisons to the image that imprinted itself upon his mind moments before, raises the fork to his lips.

They eat in silence for some time, the only noises silver against porcelain, the whimper of Merlin begging for scraps. At length Lady Gwen raises thin fingers to her mouth, gingerly removes a piece of fleshy grit from her tongue. She places it on the side of her plate, looks down at it wide-eyed.

‘Why did you leave London?’

Linette’s voice is like a whip-crack in the quiet. Henry lowers his fork.

Hell’s teeth, she is persistent! He hoped that her mother had distracted Linette enough for her to forget their earlier subject.

‘I shall tell you,’ he hedges, ‘if you tell me why I am not welcome here.’

For a long moment Linette stares at him across the table, sun-browned skin pale in the candlelight. She opens her mouth, shuts it again.

Henry leans forward.

‘They dislike you because you are an Englishman,’ Linette says.

He blinks.

‘I don’t understand.’

Very slowly she places her cutlery down on her plate, takes a sip of wine, lingers over it before setting it down.

‘To understand it,’ Linette begins, ‘you must know our history. Many of the Welsh estates have dwindled dreadfully in recent years, to the detriment of those who relied on the landowners for their care. I’m sure you’ve noticed there’s little to entertain here – many of the gentry took to the cities. As a consequence they left their estates under the care of agents who leeched money from tenants and the land into the purses of their employers, who then squandered it. Some could curtail their spending, like our neighbours Lord Pennant and Sir John Selwyn, but many others were plunged into debt and passed their estates on to English gentry. My grandfather was one of these men. He preferred the delights of London and spent so freely there it put Plas Helyg on the edge of ruin.’

Her face darkens.

‘Fearing bankruptcy, Emyr Cadwalladr evicted tenants to sell land, and let the mansion fall into disrepair. All he cared about was his pleasure. He was a prolific gambler, lost the mines in a game of cards to Julian. It ruined him.’

Linette’s gaze shifts briefly to her mother still looking at the gristle on her plate.

‘Luckily he had a beautiful daughter to bargain with. My father – being the elder and richer of the two cousins – married Gwenllian Cadwalladr, became sole owner of Plas Helyg, and took on all its debts. Just as well since my grandfather died a few months later, but it was an arrangement that robbed Penhelyg of a Welsh landowner. It was English money that secured the estate.’

Henry shakes his head. ‘But surely that was a good thing? The estate was kept intact.’

Out the corner of his eye he sees Lady Gwen has begun to sway, but Linette seems not to notice. She taps a fingernail against the long stem of her glass, its tink tink tink a dull chime in the enclosed room, before letting her finger fall still.

‘According to Cadoc, my father made moves to treat his tenants more fairly, repair the damage my grandfather wrought. But then he died too, Julian took over and, well …’ She sighs. ‘He wasn’t interested in running a rural estate hundreds of miles from London society. Everything was managed in his absence by Mr Lambeth, another Englishman, hired by my cousin to replace the Welsh agent already in place. My grandfather had been reckless, ’tis true, but Mr Lambeth charged impossibly high rent, neglected the villagers’ homes and ignored their needs when the floods came. As for the mines, they’re a profitable enterprise to be sure, but dangerous. Julian’s obsession with gold …’ Linette shakes her head. ‘He had the workers dig deeper and deeper into the valley, pushed the mines too hard. There have been three collapses in recent years, tragic deaths. All this has made them resent English intrusion. Though I’m half-English myself, they recognise my Welsh heritage and have benefited firsthand from my efforts to make their lives easier since I inherited. But you? You are yet another Englishman.’

At the top of the table, her mother’s breath hitches.

Henry frowns at the explanation. It seems so … flimsy. Yes, he can understand why the villagers might dislike Julian Tresilian’s less than mindful treatment of them, but him ? What of the gatehouse? What of the gunshot? Could his heritage really be so offensive that someone might contrive of a way to be rid of him?

‘No.’

Linette blinks. ‘No?’

‘No,’ Henry repeats. ‘That is not everything. There’s something more to this, something you aren’t telling me. What is it?’

Though her expression does not change Henry knows instinctively he is right. But there is no time to push her, less time for her to answer, because there comes then a long and mournful moan.

Together their attention snaps to Gwen Tresilian. The older woman is gripping the sides of the table, knuckles jutting against her thin skin, staring at the tiny bit of gristle on her plate with a look of unmistakable horror.

‘ O na ,’ Linette whispers, and the words are barely out of her mouth before Lady Gwen begins to scream.