Page 13 of The Shadow Key

‘Been, returned, and is now belowstairs with the servants.’

He stops twisting the ring, and Henry marks that its bezel has engraved upon it, too, that strange curling symbol.

‘I’m afraid the damage to your new home is rather extensive. It’s as well you came here last night and were spared the sight of it.’

Henry lays his half-eaten bap down on the plate.

‘Is it really so very bad?’

His host nods, grave.

‘Linette has provided me with a list of what needs replacing. I begin my return to London today – I’d rather procure what is needed there than rely on local tradesmen.’

‘I assure you, there is no need for such expense.’

‘It is not a matter of expense,’ Julian returns, ‘but pride. Linette may be satisfied with quaint country fare, but Plas Helyg is a grand estate. It deserves only the best, you see.’

Henry does not see. He has never owned anything new himself, has always been happy enough with whatever was provided for him – as long as it was serviceable, it would do. But of course, Lord Tresilian is used to a certain way of living – men such as he are rarely like to give way on such matters – and so Henry says, ‘I do, sir. Of course. Might I see the gatehouse for myself?’

The question appears to take the older man by surprise. ‘I advise against it. Surely you would prefer to see it at its best?’

‘It will make me appreciate the transformation all the more, I should think?’

Julian stares. Then, unexpectedly, he stands, leaning on his silver-topped cane for purchase. Henry rises in turn.

‘Go, if you will. You’ll find the gatehouse down the pass; just turn right at the fork. I regret I cannot accompany you for my ship waits in Abermaw, and I must make haste to catch the tide.’

‘I understand.’

‘Very good.’

He reaches out his hand, clasps it in Henry’s own. The hand is cool to the touch, and Henry feels the hard club of Julian’s fingernails push into the soft skin of his wrist.

‘Farewell for now, then,’ Julian says warmly. ‘Remember what I told you about Linette? Do look out for her, won’t you? As you saw last night …’

Henry inclines his head. ‘I shall do my best.’

‘I’m most gratified.’ The older man releases him. ‘I shall see you again very soon. Very soon indeed.’

CHAPTER FIVE

Henry watches Julian Tresilian drive a fine dapple grey mare down the gravel driveway and thence through the open gates at the bottom, and only when the sound of the phaeton wheels has dimmed to a low rumble does Henry step through the large stone-arched doors of Plas Helyg.

Arriving in the dark as he did Henry had marked little of the house’s exterior and so he surveys it now. It really is very large. Far grander than any house he has seen in London, though it must be said that Henry rarely went north of the river except to report to Bow Street or monitor a patient at Bethlem Royal. Indeed, Plas Helyg is like no building he has ever seen: built of dark grey stone it is softened by sweeps of lush variegated ivy which twines itself around the windowpanes like gauze; the pediment boasts intricate scrollwork, complemented by high-reaching finials and cupolas on top of four imposing towers. To the far right is a pond, a fountain spouting a stream of water from the middle, and on the other side of the house the gravel drive continues; he glimpses some outbuildings, what appears to be a coach house and stables. And, surrounding it all like a vast green cocoon, are magnificent ancient-looking willow trees.

Henry pulls up the collar of his coat, walks briskly down the short driveway. As he approaches the iron gates he sees now that the obscure pattern he marked last night is composed of intricately wrought depictions of the same willow trees surrounding the house; he walks through the gates, pulls them shut behind him. Their hinges creak, thick with rust.

On the other side, Henry finds himself on a wide woodland path. He looks both ways, notes a smaller pathway off to his left which disappears up into the trees, takes the larger path downward instead.

The woods are broad and dense. Quiet. Trees thickly bank the sides of the path and ferns grow in clumps about their bases. Wild garlic must grow here too for he can smell a hint of its pungent scent. As he walks, Henry becomes conscious of the pleasant hollow sound produced by his boots against the dry earth beneath his heel. There is a light rustling of a breeze; the humid air tickles the tips of his ears. Above him, the loud trill of birdsong. Henry looks up at the branches to locate its source but sees nothing. Instead – through force of habit, he supposes – he finds himself likening those bands of branches to arteries.

Drawing in the fresh earthen scent of the trees, Henry veers closer to the path’s verge. He holds out a hand to touch the dry trunk of what he thinks might be an oak and notes that ivy grows here too, its spindly tendrils reaching up and up as if desperate to escape the woodland floor. There is, Henry thinks, a sense of feeling enveloped within these woods. They have an oppressive quality to them – the trees seem to lean toward him, reaching out with gnarled arms. He turns, peers into the thick vegetation, and realises he cannot see any trace of Plas Helyg, that he could easily become lost if he were to stray into them. Henry wonders what forest creatures are hidden in the undergrowth, what watches him from its dark depths, and he moves back into the middle of the path, must laugh at himself under his breath.

Do not be a fool.

He replaces his hat. Somewhere, now, the sound of water.

Within minutes Henry reaches the fork; he takes the sharp bend which curves downward for a minute before opening up into a small clearing … and frowns deeply at the house that stands before him. It is decidedly less austere than the one he has just come from. Much much smaller, it is built with the same grey stone and echoes the pediment and finials of its parent. It is, or could be, Henry thinks, a lovely house, but with the door and windows in such disrepair (the door hangs from its hinges, the windows are splintered or smashed completely), it looks worryingly bleak. Yet it has been cared for. As Henry approaches he can see a patch of earth to one side – a small garden, it seems – and peeking from the disturbed soil are remnants of foliage, roots like the bones of fingers.

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