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Henry looks at her meaningfully. ‘If my time working with Bow Street taught me anything, it is to trust your instincts. And my instincts tell me this vial has something to do with Dr Evans’ death. Think about it,’ he continues, when Linette stays silent. ‘An old but otherwise healthy man dies suddenly – Mrs Evans said it looked as though he had been frightened to death. But when I mentioned this to Beddoe he insisted this was not the case.’

Linette’s mouth goes dry. She had not mentioned Dr Evans’ face to Henry that day at the gatehouse, had found the memory of it too horrifying. Linette shuts her eyes, pictures the old man’s wide eyes, his twisted mouth held open as rigor mortis took hold. She assumed that was simply what happened, when one died in such a way, and it has haunted her, that expression; no one – not she nor Enaid and certainly not Dr Beddoe – could deny having seen it.

‘Impossible,’ she whispers. ‘It was obvious.’

‘So why did he deny all knowledge? Beddoe was hiding something, of that there can be no doubt. And, I was sure I saw …’

He trails off, looks confused, but Linette is no longer listening. Feeling ill she raises the vial up in the meagre light of the hallway. Something brown sits at the bottom.

‘What was in it?’ she asks, and slowly he takes the vial back, holds it at eye level between them.

‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘But I do know this. Whatever it was, it wasn’t laudanum. I think, Linette –’ and here Henry’s expression grows grim – ‘it was some kind of poison.’

BRANCH II.

How hard it is to keep the middle way ;

Not to believe too little or too much!

REV. JOHN WESLEY

Journal, Vol. III. No. 26. Mon. 10, December (1764)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The next morning Linette leads Henry up the small winding path he marked that first morning into the dense trees abutting Plas Helyg’s boundary walls. It is a steep uneven path; Henry must watch his footing as he follows Linette’s more confident journey upward and Merlin bounds happily ahead, wiry legs navigating the exposed roots and overgrown bracken with careless ease. How unfit I am, Henry thinks as he puffs behind them – at least in London he did not have to contend with sheer hills – and it is a relief to emerge onto open fields, a relief when Linette allows him to stop for breath.

She puts her hands on her hips, looks out on the vista, the breeze whipping strands of tangled blonde hair about her shoulders.

‘I will never tire of this place.’

Perspiring, Henry removes a handkerchief from his pocket, presses it to the back of his neck. He loosens his cravat, and as he turns his head to let the warm air dry his skin Henry catches sight of Linette’s face. She took the news of Henry’s suspicions with obvious distress, and had a haunted look for the rest of the night. Now Henry is relieved to see an expression of calm.

‘Don’t you think it beautiful?’

It is beautiful. Like a grassy sea the fields spread wide below them toward the distant rise and fall of craggy mountains, and the warm morning has been blessed with such blue sky and stark sunshine that their colours are prominent – lush green and rich brown, the pretty purple of summer heather.

‘Very.’

‘Nothing to match it in London, I dare say.’

‘Not at all.’

The wind catches another strand of unruly hair. Linette pushes it behind her ear.

‘We stand now in Cwm Nantcol.’

‘Cwm Nantcol?’

‘It’s a valley, part of Plas Helyg’s lands.’ She points to the right. ‘Over there are the remains of some ancient settlements. See that stone structure in the distance?’

Henry nods.

‘It’s called a cromlech, a relic of the druids. There are many dotted across these fields. And, to the left, you can see the mountain range of Eryri. See,’ she says, raising her finger in a point. ‘That little misshapen triangle between those two knolls? That’s the summit of Yr Wyddfa.’

‘Yr Wyddfa,’ he echoes, trying his tongue across the sounds.

Linette nods. ‘The English call it Snow Hill, but the translation is wrong. It actually means “the grave”.’