Page 14

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?’