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The lurcher pauses in his relentless chasing, looks toward the window, tongue lolling. His ears twitch, gaze sidling to the chicken pen, but then Henry is at her side and when he whistles the dog cocks his head, finally takes heed. Merlin trots away around the side of the mansion, and if Linette did not know any better she would think the animal was grinning.

‘He’s taken to you,’ she remarks grudgingly, pushing the window back down into its frame. ‘He does not take to everyone. Heeds them even less.’

Henry shrugs. ‘I like dogs,’ he says. ‘They are more truthful than humans – what you see is what you get with them.’

Linette says nothing to that. Instead she moves toward the small round table near her bookcases, sinks into one of the spindly wooden chairs, buries her head in her hands.

The room is silent but for the ticking of her carriage clock, the buzz of blood in her temples.

‘I did not mean to upset you,’ Henry says. ‘I’m sorry.’

His voice is quiet. Kind, almost. Linette raises her head.

‘Are you?’

‘I am.’

She is not quite sure she believes him. He steps forward.

‘What does “sais” mean?’

A beat.

‘Where did you hear that word?’

‘It’s what one of the boys said to me before he fled.’

‘What did he look like?’ she asks.

Henry describes him.

‘Cai Jones,’ Linette answers with a sigh. ‘Lives in one of the narrow houses down on the road. He is troublesome, I must admit. Cai’s father works in the mines; he worked there too, once, but then he broke his leg two years ago in an accident which made continuing impossible. His brother died in that same accident. Cai plays up sometimes, pilfers from the tavern mostly. Boredom, I suspect, but he’s harmless enough.’

‘Are you sure?’ Henry asks. ‘Perhaps he was responsible for the gatehouse. Perhaps it was him who shot at me.’

Linette considers this. Though unlikely, it is not impossible. Out of all the villagers aside from the Einions, Cai Jones would be the most likely to rebel, to resent another Englishman in Penhelyg’s midst. The gatehouse she might just be able to accept as his doing, and it is true a gun could easily be procured. All the farmers had one, after all. Even Arthur Lloyd kept a shotgun in the tavern. But would Cai actually take the risk to do it? She told Henry before that mining was dangerous work, and it was the truth. Cai never forgave Julian for not securing the cave shafts; the lad holds him personally responsible for the collapse of that tunnel, for the death of his brother, for making him a cripple, and Linette cannot blame him for thinking it either. He has not been the same since, either in body or mind.

‘Linette?’

She looks up, catches her nail against a whorl in the tabletop.

‘I cannot deny,’ she says slowly, ‘that Cai might be a likely culprit. But without proof I can do nothing. And neither can you.’

Henry gives a short sharp nod. ‘I’m not unreasonable. Of course I’ll do nothing. Not unless I have cause.’

‘Such as?’

‘Let’s put it this way. If Cai lays one hand on me or my property I shall have the magistrate called and he will be punished then, mark my words.’

Linette smiles without humour.

‘As the magistrate is Lord Pennant I fear you’ll be disappointed.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it is a matter of status for him, nothing more. As long as his own property is secure then Pennant has no interest in dirtying his hands with those of lower social standing. Besides, like Julian, he’s rarely in residence. You would have better luck consulting Mr Dee – he holds more sway with the villagers. But the reverend is very protective of his flock; he prefers a Christian solution, a charitable one. Not that he has ever had to employ such a measure,’ Linette adds. ‘We have no crimes committed here.’

‘Except for shooting at people, ransacking a gatehouse, and thieving from taverns.’