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‘Is there no one closer? Where is the next magistrate?’

‘I’m afraid I do not know. There is a county sheriff – a Robert Evans of Bodweni – I believe, but Bala is near sixty miles away.’

Sixty miles. Such a distance might as well be London, for all the good it will do.

Henry sighs. It is growing late. Out of the window he can see the sun beginning its slow trajectory across the sky, a glowing sphere of molten gold. He looks at his pocketwatch (his father’s pocketwatch) – a little after seven – and stands, holds out his hand for the reverend to shake.

‘Thank you, Mr Dee.’

‘I’m sorry I cannot be of further help,’ he says. ‘It is most distressing, most distressing indeed.’

Henry pushes his chair back under the table, retrieves the torn page of the grimoire from its top and folds it away into his pocket. It is just as he is turning in the direction of the door that his attention is caught once more by the spectacular wall of lovespoons. He crosses the small sitting room, looks at them hanging on their individual hooks. What was it Mr Dee told him they were? Tokens of love. His gaze goes to the spoon he picked from the wall the first day he came here, the one made up of intricate knots intertwining a heart and, decided, Henry turns to the vicar.

‘May I purchase one?’

Mr Dee looks surprised, but then he reaches out to the wall and plucks the lovespoon Henry points at from its hook.

‘This is a lovely one,’ he says, gazing down at it. ‘Took over a week. These knots, you see, mighty fiddly. Am I right in thinking this is for Miss Carew?’ Henry colours. The vicar nods knowingly. ‘You are welcome to it, but may I impart some advice?’

‘Of course.’

‘Be mindful of a pretty face.’

Henry drops a coin into the reverend’s waiting palm. ‘I think I’m old enough to know what I am doing, Mr Dee.’

‘I’m sure you are,’ comes the reply, and when the vicar passes him the lovespoon Henry clasps it tight between both hands.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

On his return from the vicar’s cottage he wrote to Francis as Mr Dee suggested, but as to the good it will do, Henry has little confidence. What the reverend said is true – what has occurred here is too far beyond the realms of reality. Still, Henry thought as he passed the letter to Cadoc Powell, it is worth a try. Francis surely cannot dismiss his claim so readily, not after all he has done for him in the past.

‘So,’ Linette says now, staring at Henry across her bowl of uneaten soup. ‘Mr Dee can suggest nothing?’

A light supper has been served for Henry, Linette and Rowena, but after the events of the day neither one of them is in the mood to eat, and the tureen of soup Mrs Phillips has concocted from the last of the leftovers sits growing cold on the dining-room table.

‘What can he suggest? He too thinks that very little can be done.’

‘Well, we cannot sit here and let them all think they can get away with this!’ Linette pushes her bowl away from her with such force that the soup splashes over the rim onto the tablecloth. ‘Everything Julian has done, everything he means to do … It is diabolical.’

Next to Henry, Rowena presses her napkin to her mouth, pushes her own bowl away with more care. ‘I feel ill,’ she says.

Henry takes her hand. Linette sighs her frustration.

‘Perhaps while we await a reply from your Mr Fielding we could write our depositions. At the very least, then, we’ll have a record of what has occurred. Anything is better than this. Would that help us, do you think?’

‘It might.’

What Henry does not say, is that he suspects this task too will do little good. You’d be accused of libel, Mr Dee told him. Hearsay, conjecture. Besides, after what Lady Gwen told them, can Bow Street even be trusted? A Bow Street official, she said. Still, writing down their accounts of the matter is a better use of their time than wallowing in this state of limbo they have now found themselves in, waiting for something to happen.

Waiting for Julian to act.

Henry shudders. Ritual sacrifice. Ancestral blood. Twins. The bond of two united. It is still too much for him to comprehend. For pity’s sake, how did Julian even expect to carry the deed out? And, of more concern at this juncture, where is Julian? At Lord Pennant’s, would be the obvious answer. Are they preparing, perhaps? He thinks of the others – Pennant’s wife, the Selwyns, Beddoe and Lambeth. There are other things, of course, they could be doing. Henry curls his lip in distaste.

Cadoc Powell, who has just now entered to clear the bowls, is looking at the near-full tureen, their barely touched bowls.

‘Are you not hungry?’ he asks. ‘It is not Mrs Phillips’ best offering, I confess, but—’

‘It’s not the cooking,’ Linette assures, managing a smile. ‘Under the circumstances we just cannot eat. Please, send our apologies.’