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Beddoe pierces Henry with a look.

‘Do you presume to tell me how to conduct my work? To question my methods?’

‘I simply confess myself surprised his symptoms were not accurately interpreted.’

The older man stares.

‘At the point I saw the boy his symptoms had not presented themselves beyond, as I said, a common cold, and the mother was more than happy to treat him using traditional methods, under the advice of Miss Carew.’

Rowena Carew. Those beautiful amber eyes …

‘I met her,’ Henry says, embarrassed to hear his voice falter. ‘I happened upon her yesterday in the village.’

‘Indeed.’ Beddoe licks his lower lip. ‘She is a member of the old school of healing, shall we say. She knows her herbs, their medicinal qualities. She has assisted me occasionally in my consultations, provided alternative means of treatment when it was preferred. Mrs Morgan chose to listen to her in this instance. I have made no error in my administrations, Dr Talbot. But tell me, why have you come here today? I presume it was not to belittle me for any wrongdoing on my part. If it is, a letter would have sufficed.’

The scold is justified. It has always been the way with Henry; at Guy’s he never hesitated to rebuke a colleague or student when they made a mistake. Human lives are at risk in this profession, he used to tell them – there is no room for error, as he well knows. But courtesy should not have allowed such rudeness. Henry is sitting in the study of another medical professional. He is the outsider here, and politeness should have dictated his conduct better.

‘Forgive me. It was not my place.’

There is a pause. The older man gives an imperceptible nod of the head. Henry takes a breath. He must be very careful, he realises, in what he says next.

‘I came because I need supplies. I hoped you might be able to advise on where best to procure them.’

Beddoe clears his throat, his fingers still steepled into a pyramid, and Henry’s gaze involuntarily drifts to them. On the little finger the doctor wears a gold signet ring.

‘Criccieth houses an apothecary,’ the older man says, oblivious to Henry’s frown. ‘Anything you need can be purchased there.’ He looks down at Henry’s satchel on his lap. ‘Is that all you have? Yes, a knapsack would better suit your needs. I’m sure by now you’ve ascertained that carriages are not quite so obtainable here. A bag such as that will be cumbersome.’ Beddoe’s lip twists into a smile that looks to Henry more like a sneer. ‘I should advise that you’ll struggle here, Dr Talbot. While your more particular medical knowledge is, I’m sure, perfectly sound, it will be of little use to you in these parts. The people of Meirionydd, especially the inhabitants of Penhelyg, have a rather archaic view of modern medical practices.’

Beddoe taps his fingers together, the gold ring glinting in the light shining from the window. Is that a pattern etched into the circular disc?

‘Oral tradition, you see. Medical knowledge has been passed through word of mouth here for centuries. They still consider illness to be a God-given punishment, and prefer natural remedies. Rosemary sprigs mixed with honey to prevent nausea, ground fennel for diseases of the eye, a clove of garlic in the ear for earache, that sort of thing. For the more superstitious, a cure for jaundice might involve placing a coin into a mug of clear mead. Most, then, would rather implement these methods than call on a doctor. I know Dr Evans had more sympathy for such practices, often purchased plants from Miss Carew as a mark of goodwill. Grew his own, in fact.’

Henry thinks of the abandoned patch of earth at the gatehouse, those dried-out spindles of foliage that reminded him so keenly of finger bones.

‘You will find that, like me, you are best employed as a personal physician, as I understand you already are. My employer is Sir John Selwyn – he owns the lands around these parts, is Plas Helyg’s closest neighbour other than Lord Pennant on the edge of the Mawddach estuary.’ The doctor lowers his hands, spreads them flat across the red leather-topped desk. ‘This practice is my home first and foremost, and only those who can afford my services are like to come here for more progressive treatment. The rest, as I say, prefer the old cures.’

Henry dislikes the man’s derogatory tone. He sits straighter in the hard chair, tries for a polite smile that does not quite come.

‘Thank you for explaining so clearly, doctor.’

Beddoe inclines his head. ‘I shall write you a list of supplies to get you started. The apothecary can furnish you accordingly.’

He removes a crisp sheet of expensive-looking paper from a drawer, reaches for a quill resting in a marble inkwell next to him on the desk. Henry watches him write, the only sound being the scratch of nib.

‘Have you ever treated Gwenllian Tresilian?’

Beddoe continues to write, does not look up.

‘I’ve given the family a second opinion, yes.’

‘And what did you find?’

‘That Plas Helyg is unfit for a woman such as she.’ He dips his nib, and without looking up he says, ‘She belongs in an asylum.’

Henry feels his growing dislike for the man coil in his gut.

‘You approve of the barbaric methods such places employ?’

Beddoe makes an amused noise in the back of his throat. ‘I do not consider such treatments barbaric. Not if they work.’