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Linette stares. ‘Why wouldn’t I be sure?’

‘Because,’ he says, careful, ‘while I admit I only saw a fleeting glimpse of it I’m also sure I did not imagine it, either.’

‘Henry, speak plain. Imagine what?’

‘Beddoe,’ he answers, ‘wears a ring with that very same symbol.’

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

‘Tell me everything you know about it.’

They are in the vestibule of Plas Helyg, standing in front of the vast fireplace. Until now, Linette has rarely thought about the symbol. It has always been familiar to her, of course; on the Tresilian portrait upstairs, on the book in Julian’s study displayed so grandly inside its glass cabinet, on his ring … All this she marked years ago. Until now, the only other place Linette knew it existed was on the fireplace:

The symbol was simply here, as familiar to her as Plas Helyg’s creaking gate and smoking chimneys, the stained-glass window in her bedroom depicting the white and red dreigiau of Dinas Emrys. Indeed, she had accepted it without a second thought. So why should Dr Beddoe possess a ring with the Tresilian crest?

Linette tries to consider whether she ever noticed him wearing a ring before, but she is not in the habit of taking particular interest in a person’s hands, nor does she encounter Dr Beddoe enough to mark his. The last she saw of him was the other week on his final visit to Penhelyg when she paid him his extortionate fee. Did he wear a ring then? Linette cannot remember. Whether she marked it or not, Henry has, and yes, there can be no denying it is most unusual. But despite this strange discovery, that is not what concerns Linette at present. No indeed … what concerns her is the deadly nightshade found in the vial, and Henry’s terrible suspicions.

A surge of sorrow overtakes her then, followed closely by anger. Dr Evans. Poisoned! He had no enemies – the old doctor was liked by everyone. And though he sometimes did not agree with Dr Beddoe, the latter would have no reason to kill him. What motive, after all, could there possibly be?

‘Linette?’

Henry’s hand on her wrist brings her back with a jolt, and she releases a shaky breath.

‘All I know is that it’s the crest of the Tresilians.’ She gestures to the stone in which the symbol has been carved. ‘The original stone was replaced with this one once my father took over the estate. It was a willow tree before.’

‘A willow tree?’

‘Pen means head, helyg means willow, plas means mansion. Essentially then, the village name loosely translates to Head of the Willows, or Village at Willow’s Head, and the house itself is Willow Mansion.’ Linette frowns, angles her face to look at the symbol again. ‘I often thought it sacrilege that Plas Helyg’s Welsh connections should be removed in favour of the Tresilians. But after I inherited it seemed too much effort to change it, not to mention the expense. The needs of my tenants were my priority.’

Beside her, Henry looks thoughtful.

‘And that’s it?’ he asks. ‘That’s all you know?’

‘I’m sorry, yes.’

‘Then let us look at something else.’

He is crossing the vestibule before Linette has a chance to register what his intentions are. She rushes to catch him up.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Where do you think?’

He is already through into the corridor, striding down it to reach Julian’s study at the far end, and as they cross the threshold Linette looks about it with distaste.

It is, she thinks, an unhappy room. While Julian might consider it elegant with its shades of red and mahogany, Linette finds it dark and sombre. The religious paintings are foreboding, the baroque globe a muddy ball on its axis, Julian’s trinket cabinet a profligate display of his wealth.

But it is the books at the far end she likes even less.

As a book lover herself it seems silly she should be so adverse to this ornate collection, yet as Linette and Henry approach those five rows of shelves filled to the brim with ragged tomes, she finds herself looking upon them with resentment.

All they are, all they have ever been, is a reminder that Julian cares more about them than he ever has about her.

Henry clears his throat.

‘Your cousin told me these were his collection of books on hermetic philosophy.’

A hazy memory is spooling at the back of her mind. Strange circles, complicated star charts, obscure banks of tightly packed text, and Linette shrugs with uninterest.