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Suddenly another thought occurs. Unbidden, Linette’s words echo inside the chamber of Henry’s skull: Rumours of distasteful gatherings. All he cared about was his pleasure.

Village girls. Heledd Einion. Was Emyr Cadwalladr a Hellfire member himself?

The reverend is shaking his head.

‘I confess, I find that hard to accept. Why would they ask me to join such a club, knowing my profession? In any case I do not understand what any of it has got to do with Wynn’s death. What proof do you have?’

In that instant, the sun makes its appearance from behind the clouds. It floods the cottage with golden light, one of its rays shining into the vicar’s eyes, making his pupils constrict into tiny pinpoints. Any answer Henry might have made is overturned by another answer, an answer that, now he sees it, he can scarce believe he missed, and another part of the puzzle slips into place.

Mr Dee’s expression shifts from scepticism to concern.

‘Dr Talbot?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Henry breathes, rising from the table so fast his chair wobbles. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he says again, ‘but I need to get back to the house.’

It is lucky Gwen Tresilian is sleeping when Henry returns to Plas Helyg. Or, rather, it is lucky that she is not awake. It is also lucky no one is in the room to stop him from opening the curtains, to stop him from lifting her thin blue-veined eyelids, to see him confirm his suspicions.

It does not take long for Henry to find the bottles beneath the bed, to remove one from the box and rearrange them in such a way it is not obvious one is missing. It does not take long to open the stopper and sniff its contents, to form his grim conclusion.

The vial from the gatehouse. The vial in his hand. The bottles are exactly the same.

Not one hour ago he had been convinced Dr Beddoe was responsible for Wynn Evans’ murder. He had, after all, been the only obvious suspect. But now? Henry’s mouth splits into a grim line as he remembers Owain Dee’s words:

The only person who knew him better than myself was Enaid.

CHAPTER TWENTY

In Wales the weather changes as fast as the snap of a finger. Linette woke to bright sunshine, and in Henry’s absence she passed a wholly distracting morning tallying the ledgers with the window wide open to the sound of birdsong. But, as the day edged into afternoon, the clouds gathered and the heavens opened, causing the fountain outside to overflow and the hens to seek shelter in their pen. Plas Helyg’s stone walls held little of the morning heat, and the house was thrown into such an oppressive gloom that Angharad was soon tasked to build up the fires.

Now, Linette closes Julian’s study door behind them, presses her hand against the casement so it clicks quietly into place.

Just moments ago she had happened upon Henry leaving her mother’s room; in the dimness of the corridor he looked sombre, as if his mind were preoccupied with some dark thought, and that sombre expression was enough for her to feel some semblance of alarm.

‘Is Mamma all right?’

A beat. ‘Yes.’

Linette sagged with relief. ‘Does she still speak in riddles?’

‘No,’ he said, hand straying to his trouser pocket.

‘Well, that’s something, surely?’ He did not reply. ‘I am so sorry about last night. Did she hurt you at all?’

She had peered at his neck then, tried to get a better look at the birthmark she spied on his collarbone, but it was hidden neatly away beneath shirt and cravat.

‘Not at all.’

How strange he sounded.

‘I missed you at breakfast.’

‘I apologise,’ said Henry. ‘I … I went for a walk.’

‘’Twas a long walk, then. You’ve been gone some time.’

Another odd beat passed between them, and Linette regarded him, unsure.

‘I hoped we might go to Criccieth today,’ she said slowly, ‘to visit the apothecary and ask if he knew anything about the vial, but now, well.’ Linette gestured to the panelled ceiling then, the faint patter of rain. ‘The weather’s turned.’