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‘A mixture of herbs, all of them deadly taken in large quantities on their own. But the measure of oils extracted from each plant is just about safe if mixed with wine or water.’ Rowena replaces the stopper. ‘This is wine.’

‘What are the herbs?’

‘Mandrake and valerian. Mugwort and henbane. The smallest touch of deadly nightshade but not to the potency of what was in Wynn Evans’ vial.’

Henry frowns at this. ‘Deadly nightshade I know, of course, but my knowledge of herbs is woolly at best. What do the others do?’ and when Rowena tells him he swears. She nods in understanding.

‘It’s a risk to pair so many toxic plants together. I’m surprised Lady Gwen has not suffered more than she has. What prolonged effects such a tincture might cause, I do not know.’

Henry does. Organ failure. Internal bleeding. Death. A slow death, but death all the same, and the thought leaves him cold.

‘I need to put a stop to it.’

Rowena shakes her head. ‘To remove the tincture so suddenly could do more harm than good.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then how will you do it?’

He sighs, runs his hand through his hair. ‘I do not know. But it isn’t a simple task. There are many other factors to consider.’

Henry considers them now.

First, there is the matter of Mrs Evans. It is she who administers the tincture, she who guards Gwen Tresilian like a hawk. There is no question the old housekeeper knows she does not sedate her with laudanum (for if she knew, then why hide the bottles?) which raises further questions. Why? To what purpose?

Second, if Mrs Evans is in possession of bottles identical to the one found in the gatehouse does that mean she, rather than Dr Beddoe, played a part in her brother’s death? Do the other servants know too? And what of Linette? How can it be possible that she has spent so many years unaware her mother is being drugged? It seems incomprehensible. So, then, has Linette lied to him all this time?

Then, thirdly, there is Dr Evans himself.

Perhaps, as Reverend Dee suggested, the bottles did belong to the old doctor. If that was so he must have known what was in the vials given to Lady Gwen, and instructed his sister to administer their contents. But why? And if he did instruct such a thing, and the vials were indeed his own, then the one found in the gatehouse is not as suspicious as he once thought.

But then, what of the deadly nightshade within it?

Has Julian Tresilian known any of this? Surely he could not, for why bring him here as Lady Gwen’s doctor when it was clear Henry would, in time, discover the truth? If such a thing was to be kept secret, then employing him was a reckless decision.

‘Dr Talbot?’

Rowena’s voice is soft, tinged with concern, and Henry raises his head.

‘I do not know,’ he says again, despairing, and a cricket chirps noisily in the grass.

‘’Tis a difficult situation,’ Rowena murmurs. ‘I do understand. If I can help in any way …’ The cricket ceases its song. She rises to her feet. ‘I should start back.’

Henry stands too, moves to take her hands, then thinks better of it.

‘Must you?’ he asks, searching her face. ‘Aren’t you lonely, living there all alone?’

Rowena sighs, looks out over the fields to the ruined cottages below. ‘Of course I am,’ she replies softly. ‘But I have to earn a living.’

A thought flashes into his mind then, and Henry’s stomach flips at the possibility of it.

‘You could earn it with me. As my assistant. I’m not used to your traditional methods, but it is clear to me now I should adopt at least some of them if I am to get along here in Penhelyg. Your help, it would be appreciated. I can pay you handsomely from my own salary.’

Rowena’s eyes snap back to his. ‘Dr Talbot, I—’

‘The gatehouse will be ready soon,’ Henry says in a rush. ‘There’s a spare room. It’s yours, if you want it. Staying at the gatehouse would be far more convenient than living out here. Safer, too.’

‘But—’