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‘I’m sorry. I can examine you, if you like? Offer a second opinion …’

But his new employer is waving Henry off. ‘I’ve already been prodded and poked beyond my patience. I know what fate awaits me, unless …’

‘Unless?’

He says nothing more. Something wavers in his face – a look of sadness, a pitiable desperation – and Henry wishes he could help him.

‘Please,’ the older man says finally. ‘Let us not speak of it. The notion of it distresses me. What of you? Are you well-travelled?’

Henry blinks. ‘No, sir. I’ve never left London before now.’

This is not strictly true. He vaguely remembers a farm in the countryside and chasing chickens in the yard, hay bales in summer, a pond where a kindly man had taken him fishing, happy times which, now, are mere whispers of memories that disappear like vapour the moment he tries to catch them …

‘Indeed!’ Lord Tresilian exclaims. ‘Yet you are a man of languages.’

‘I am?’

His lordship tilts his chin in the direction of the hallway. ‘You spoke Welsh before.’

‘I attempted Welsh,’ Henry corrects. ‘When I discovered I was to come here I made it my duty to learn. I shall need to know the language, after all.’

The older man looks thoughtful. ‘A commendable notion, I suppose. I find Welsh to be such an uninteresting language. I much prefer the rigours of Latin and its variations. Welsh is no use to my studies.’

‘But living here surely the language would be useful?’

A smile. ‘I’m an Englishman by birth, and rarely spend time here except when circumstances necessitate it. I actually live in London.’

‘Oh!’

‘I didn’t say, did I? Forgive me, so much on my mind! The truth of it is that I arranged your employment on behalf of my cousin, Linette. It is she who is mistress here at Plas Helyg but she had no means of orchestrating the task, and so I took it upon myself to assist her.’

Henry is surprised. If Lord Tresilian hails from London this explains, then, how he should have come to know about his circumstances, but this cousin, Linette … this is new. He is about to press the matter when Powell enters the room carrying a tray with two generous glasses balanced upon it. The butler leans down to proffer them, the deep red liquid glinting in the flame of the fire. Henry claims one and takes a large sip. It is good port, expensive port – rich and smooth with no bitter sediment – and he closes his eyes at the pleasant burn in his throat.

‘You needed that, I see! Powell, stay, in case our guest wishes for another.’

As the port warms the seat of his belly Henry allows himself to relax. When he opens his eyes, it is to see Lord Tresilian taking a sip from his own glass, watching him over its crystal rim.

‘Now then. I invited you here to welcome you, as I said, before you’re taken to the gatehouse.’

‘The gatehouse, sir?’

‘Julian, please.’ A pause. ‘Yes, the gatehouse.’ He sits forward a little in his seat. ‘It’s been a long-held tradition that all family physicians live at the gatehouse, to be close at hand, you understand. I regret there is no live-in maid, but Mrs Evans and the other servants at Plas Helyg will see to it that all your comforts are amply accommodated for.’

Henry inclines his head. ‘Thank you. I’m most indebted, to be sure.’

Julian waves off his words of gratitude as if they were gnats.

‘Do not thank me quite so soon, for I’m afraid there was another reason I wanted to see you before you settled in. I felt, you see, it could not wait.’

His new employer sets down his glass of port on the marquetry table between them.

‘Linette is the daughter of Lady Gwenllian, the widow of my cousin, Hugh Tresilian.’

He pauses. Henry waits.

‘My dearest Gwen,’ Julian continues, his expression sage, ‘has a marked countenance of mind. You will examine her in due course, but you’ll discover she is much weakened in both body and intelligence. It has been presumed for many reasons that she is a madwoman.’

‘A madwoman?’