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Intrigued, Henry had located Penhelyg on a map purchased from the same bookseller who later sold him the dictionary, and was disappointed to find it a small and inconsequential mining village in Wales with no large towns or cities to be found that were not over fifty miles away – an isolated place by the sea, quite far removed from anything he had ever known before. Many thoughts jumbled in his head at that moment as he examined the disc of wax that had sealed the letter, its strange curling symbol set within a crimson circle. Who was Lord Tresilian, and how did he come to know of what happened in London? It was something Henry puzzled over for an inordinately long time, yet in the end he could only be grateful for the opportunity. After all, it was blatantly apparent no other was forthcoming.

‘Will we reach Penhelyg soon?’ he asks the driver now in an effort to distract himself, and though Henry did not expect an answer one comes all the same.

The words are in heavily accented English, but he can at least understand when the driver says, ‘We’ll be there soon enough.’

‘You do comprehend me!’ Henry exclaims, but the Welshman only keeps his gaze fixed fast ahead.

And so they proceed in silence for some time more through shifting yellow sands until, eventually, the road veers away from the shoreline, rises upward, inland. Henry watches the slanting rays of the setting sun turn that grey sea into a single thread of gleaming gold before he loses sight of it altogether around a moss-banked bend. Every few miles they pass through desolate-looking hamlets before moving into deeply shaded woodland, and he smells in the chill air (he wraps his rain-damp coat tight about him) the earthy scent of bracken. Above him there is a sharp cry; he looks up, spies the silhouette of an owl soaring high on the hunt.

Dusk has settled now, the sun lost in a cradle of mauve. Henry looks about him, tries to discern anything more than the strange shadows of country, but the dirt track is steadily darkening like ink spilt upon the soil. In the distance there is the low chattering of birds, the eerie hush of trees, of nocturne come to draw the evening slowly in. Henry swallows. He is used to flame-lit streets and noisy tavern din, not this strange almost-quiet, and he is just about to ask again when they might expect to reach his destination when the woodland parts and the driver instructs the pony to slow.

They stop outside a long line of narrow stone houses. The wheels of the cart have scarce ceased the last turn on their spokes when the two labourers – who have not stopped their pointed muttering since leaving Abermaw – jump down.

‘Penhelyg,’ the driver announces.

Henry stares.

So … small. So meagre! He looks at the cramped unlit cottages, their doors daubed strangely with a stripe of flaking white paint, each and every one. The only thing that softens their harsh facade is a bank of willow trees set behind them, lithe branches bending gently over the slate roofs. Is he truly to live here in this barren backwater? Has he really left London for this?

‘Which is mine?’ Henry asks, weak at the thought of it, but the driver cocks his head in the direction of the trees.

‘Further on,’ that man says, ‘up in the woods. But you’re not going there yet.’

Henry looks at the driver in surprise. ‘I’m not?’

‘Nag wyt. Tresilian’s orders.’

As they were speaking, the two labourers had opened the door to the furthest cottage. Now at the entryway they turn, peer unfriendly-like at Henry before slamming the door. The noise echoes dully into the growing night, and Henry frowns deeply at the strip of ungainly white paint.

‘Have I offended them?’

There comes no answer, only a grunt, a flick of leather on flank.

‘Ymlaen a chdi.’

The pony walks on, takes the cart up onto a path that disappears between crowding trees; Henry must press the soles of his feet into the cart’s foothold to brace himself against the incline, squints into the dark. Another owl (or perhaps the same one) utters a bleak cry to the cooling air, and Henry shifts uncomfortably on the hard bench. His back has begun to stiffen with cold, a painful clamp at his spine. He smells dank earth, rotting fungi, and tiredly he presses the portmanteau to his chest. How much further? His eyes have adjusted to the darkness now, but it has made little difference; the further up the cart goes the deeper that darkness stretches, the trees an impenetrable blanket, tar-black. Somewhere, far back into the woodland, there is the sound of running water. At one point they pass a sharp fork in the road but the cart does not slow its course until, finally, a dim light appears through the spindled branches of the trees. The driver flicks the reins again, clears his throat.

‘That’s Plas Helyg,’ he says, and Henry peers into the gloom.

Ahead is a towering set of gates, the wrought-iron metalwork twisted into an obscure pattern of which Henry cannot make out the details; beyond them, down a wide gravel drive, there stands an imposing stone house. On their approach someone pulls open the gates, and as the pony ambles through them Henry has the uncanny notion that their ancient bars appear to sigh. He cranes his neck, stares upward. Too dark to see it properly, he can deduce only that this house called Plas Helyg is large. Monstrous large. Nothing at all like what he was used to in London.

Why on earth has he been brought here?

It is just as the cart draws up to the grand front doors that they swing open. A tall figure stands on the threshold, supported by a cane. His body is turned to silhouette against the candlelight within, and presently two more shadows join him – the squat form of a woman, a broad-shouldered man – but Henry, unable to concentrate fully now the cart has stopped, feels his head spin and presses his fingers to his temples. What a relief it is to be still!

‘Dr Henry Talbot?’

The voice that calls his name is deep and eloquent. English. Perfect English, no trace of a Welsh accent at all, and the shock of it makes Henry look sharply at the man who spoke. There is a dull crunch of gravel against heel as he steps closer.

‘My dear boy,’ the man says. He takes another step forward, right hand clasped tightly on the silver head of his stick. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

CHAPTER TWO

Henry is ushered inside where he finds himself standing within a large and brightly lit vestibule. Blinking into candlelight he sets his portmanteau down on the flagstone floor and looks about him, wide-eyed.

In front of him a broad oak staircase almost fills the entire space, its newels capped with formidable-looking points. The ceiling is high with richly moulded cross-beams, and set into every wainscoted wall are large panelled doors leading off to other parts of the house. But what draws the gaze – indeed, it can scarce be missed – is a magnificent fireplace boxed in by an elegant sopha and armchair. Made of intricately carved stone it spans the height of floor to ceiling, and at the very central point of the mantle there is engraved a symbol. Though fatigued to the point of faintness Henry recognises it instantly: it is the very same symbol that was imprinted onto the wax seal of his letter.

‘You are very welcome here. Very welcome indeed!’