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The first, that Gwen Tresilian cannot have been awake more than two hours which means a nap is entirely unnecessary. The second is that madness does not rule her.

It is something else altogether.

But what? What caused Lady Gwen’s outburst last night, the one before it, all the rest he has not seen?

When a mind is not engaged it becomes stagnant, repressed. There is nothing to entertain her here, nothing to keep her engaged. It is easy to trap oneself within the confines of one’s mind, to torture oneself with unpleasant memories when there is nothing else to do. Henry slows a moment before picking up speed once more. Perhaps that is it. Does a memory set off her anguished fits? Linette said it was grief that made her mother the way she is. In Henry’s experience, grief manifests itself in a variety of ways, all of which the lady of Plas Helyg exhibits in abundance: confusion, sadness, anxiety, agitation. But Henry saw no madness in that pale face just now. Even the strange things she says do not account for such a condition. No indeed, never has he dealt with a patient such as she. Give him a body with something obviously wrong with it and he can apply himself with skill. But Gwen Tresilian has no superficial ailment. Here, he is working blind.

He strides through Plas Helyg’s cavernous front doors. There is something else that troubles him about her too, something his trained eye is missing but cannot place. What was it about her today that bothered him so? That has, he realises, bothered him right from the start?

It is a niggling and frustrating thought to be sure, but it is another more pressing one that drives him in this moment as Henry crosses the vestibule in the direction of Julian Tresilian’s study.

Three goats within a chevron.

By rights he should go straight to Linette, but this time Henry needs to look at Julian’s book in the cabinet alone, needs to consider this new piece of information without her challenging him at every point. He thinks of the question he asked Linette the other day. Why would an ancient book of philosophy have on it a family crest? It made no sense, he told her, and now Henry thinks with a satisfied smile, he has been proved right.

The symbol is something else.

This assurance buoys him, and Henry steps over the threshold of the study with a rising sense of excitement, only to stop dead on the rug.

‘Can I help you, sir?’

Angharad is standing at the cabinet of curios, duster in hand. Impossible to look now.

‘I got lost,’ he says, and Henry finds himself flushing at the weakness of the lie. ‘I meant to find Miss Tresilian’s study.’

Angharad looks at him shyly.

‘That way, sir.’ She indicates with the duster. ‘East wing,’ the maid adds when Henry hesitates too long.

‘Thank you. Of course.’

He turns, clenching his fists in disappointment. In the vestibule again he considers his next move, and, restless, finds himself returning outside to consider his thoughts on foot.

Books on philosophy, Julian claimed. What else? What were the precise words he used?

Frowning deeply Henry strides up the driveway, passes through the squeaking gates of Plas Helyg. The two paths – the one that takes him down into the village, the other leading to Moelfre – he ignores. Instead he ploughs into the woodland, and with each stride into the forest is conscious of a rising sense of frustration.

Religion, mysticism … Babylon? Henry remembers those words, but not the others connecting to them, for in truth he was not truly listening. He was tired and travel-worn, considered Julian’s enthusiasm as nothing more than the arrogance of the beau monde.

No matter what the books are, the symbol must be significant for the original stone above the fireplace to be changed. Significant enough to be included on the Tresilian portrait, and – more tellingly – etched into the rings that both Julian and Dr Beddoe wear.

Henry comes to a patch of wild garlic, slows his pace. A light breeze rustles the hair at the nape of his neck and he removes a handkerchief from his pocket, presses cotton to skin. He breathes in the pungent smell of allium, counts the beating pulse of his heart, and as he waits for it to slow Henry becomes conscious of the distant sound of running water. Deeper he goes, the forest floor twisted with exposed roots, cosseted with bracken, its green fronds spreading across the route like splayed hands, and it occurs to him suddenly what a foolish notion this was – if he takes a fall, no one knows where he has gone.

Beyond, the sound of water grows louder, a crushing roar. At length the woodland opens up to reveal a river, and Henry takes a moment to appreciate it; the water is clear, its bed a mass of pebbles. A heron stands tense on the bank. His eyes follow the river upward, sees that it drops thrice, waterfall upon waterfall.

For a long moment he stands, staring.

There is nothing like this in London. Nothing at all can compare.

Pulling himself away Henry stays close to the riverside, where fading bluebells line the bank, and walks downward until, eventually, the land levels off into a deep grove of willow trees. There is a dirt track here, a sure footpath, and Henry peers back into the dense woodland, tries to think where it might have led from. He listens to the rushing river behind him and then, with a spark of realisation, remembers the small stream running behind the gatehouse. Is that where it eventually leads? He is positive he is right, but Henry does not want to go back the way he came to prove it – he wants instead to go further on – and so he meanders along the winding footpath, the grove of bending willows forming an inimitable shade. Above there comes the gentle cooing of a dove and, suddenly, the willows open out.

He stands within a clearing. Above him tower stone walls carved out of the hillside, stark shards of shale and slate, and Henry must crane his head to see the top of its wooded banks. It is a sheer drop; one could break their neck if they fell. Across the whole length of the stone, ferns explode from the cracks like lush green fireworks and moss blankets the lower reaches of the wall like a curtain.

But it is the stone crypt that holds Henry’s attention.

It is a large structure reminiscent of a small-scale abbey, constructed from stone with intricate finials which mirror Plas Helyg’s at its top. They are connected by an ornately carved arch, a great moss-mottled skull set high in the middle, a cross of Celtic weave design above that. One word has been carved into the arch – CADWALLADR – age having smoothed the letters until they appear to meld together in the stone. The wide doors are decorated with carved willow trees, two large urns spilling more ferns flanking either side. And, kneeling between them, is none other than the Reverend Mr Owain Dee.

CHAPTER NINETEEN