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‘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.’