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He trails off. Linette tilts her head. ‘“Occulta.” Occult.’

‘Occult,’ Henry repeats, ‘yes. Mr Dee said that Julian had shown him books on philosophical magic. Books that – he said – were sacrilegious. Of course, a man of the Church would say such a thing, but for a man of your cousin’s learning, he’d simply consider books like this to be of academic interest. I mean, look,’ he adds, turning to the next shelf. ‘Clavis Inferni. “Inferno”? Histoire des Diables de Loudun. History of Devils, seems straightforward. Loudun … somewhere in France?’ Henry shrugs, moves on. ‘Lemegeton Clavicula Salomonis. Solomon, I think. Epistolae Theosophicae, that’s an easy one too – Theosophical Epistles. So you see, Linette? All these are occult texts. Julian and Beddoe, Lambeth, the Pennants and Selwyns. They’re all part of their own Hellfire club, and these books are their collected philosophy.’

‘What of this one?’

She gestures to the large black tome.

‘Their rubric, perhaps? I’d love to get a good look at it. Don’t suppose …’

Henry reaches out his hand to the handle and attempts to pull, but Linette stays his arm.

‘It’s locked. Julian would never risk sullying these books. He values them far too highly.’

‘Surely you have the key?’ Henry returns, and Linette laughs without humour at the notion.

‘Julian would never trust me with one. No one touches that bookcase, not even the servants.’

‘Well, can’t we pick the lock?’

‘With what?’

‘Do you not have hairpins?’

This, too, would be amusing if it were not so absurd, and instead of laughing again she simply levels him with a look. Henry takes in her unruly hair, the wild curls at her temples, seems then to understand her unspoken point, and together they turn their gazes back to the bookcase. Uneasily Linette marks their ancient spines, reads once more one of the titles Henry translated: History of Devils.

For a man of your cousin’s learning, he’d simply consider books like this to be of academic interest.

Julian is a man of sense. All the countless times he has cocooned himself away, pouring over his collection for hours on end … Certainly he was doing nothing in his study beyond, simply, reading! It was all satirical, as Henry said; a mere bit of fun, a means to entertain. Frowning, Linette stares at Julian’s tome on its stand, the symbol jutting sharply from the black leather. Not the Tresilian family crest, but a symbol signifying a Hellfire club. Julian and Beddoe, Lambeth, the Pennants and Selwyns. Who else? Suddenly she pictures the portrait upstairs, the symbol etched into a golden knife, sucks in her breath. Not a family portrait at all, but something else.

There were rumours that their meetings were of a more … physical nature.

‘My parents were a part of it.’

Henry looks at her, notes the revulsion he sees in her face.

‘You’re thinking of the portrait,’ he murmurs. ‘Mr Dee seems to think so, too. It makes sense, doesn’t it?’

Linette swallows hard, looks away.

‘This is getting us nowhere.’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘Of course it’s not!’ she snaps, and Linette hears how shrill she sounds, must clamp her tongue, stamp down her revulsion at everything she has learnt. ‘You’ve been proven right inasmuch as the symbol on his ring links Dr Beddoe to this book. To Julian. A … a club. But this fact alone has nothing to do with Dr Evans, does it?’

He does not respond to this, keeps his eyes pinned on the ancient books, the symbol on the tome.

‘Henry,’ she begs, tugging at his sleeve. ‘We’re no closer to discovering anything in connection to Wynn’s death than we were last night. Please, come away. We gain nothing by being here. Come away.’

Still Henry stares at the tome behind the glass in much the way she has caught Julian look at it in the past and Linette sighs, strives for a patience she does not feel.

‘Henry, please.’

At last, he looks at her.

‘Very well,’ he says, resigned. ‘But the answer is staring us in the face, Linette. I’m sure of it.’

As a means of distracting him Linette decided upon a Welsh lesson, for there was precious little else to do now the weather had so spectacularly turned, and not willing to frustrate Henry with more folklore she gave him instead some questions to translate, questions one of the villagers might ask if they were ill. Now, with the rain lashing hard at the windowpanes, Linette waits for him to finish, listening to the scratch of nib on paper over the din.