Page 4 of The Shadow Key

He turns. The older man is reaching out his left hand for him to shake. Henry takes it. ‘Are you Lord Tresilian?’

‘I am indeed,’ comes the reply.

Henry studies the tall man in front of him. In his profession he has become accustomed to marking the tenor of a person by sight alone (dead or otherwise), a skill which made him such a favourite of Bow Street’s finest. Lord Tresilian, Henry deduces by the lined contours of his face and shock of thick black hair with only a light peppering of grey, appears to be in his fifties. Not an old man by any means, but the silver-topped cane he holds is telling; he grips it tightly (too tightly) and there is an odd pallor to the man’s skin, his lips are pale, his cravat a margin loose at the neck. How long, Henry thinks, has the man been ill?

‘Have you eaten?’ he asks, releasing Henry’s hand. ‘Do say you haven’t! I instructed you to be brought up to the house for the sole purpose of welcoming you to Penhelyg. Such a long journey you must have had, all that way by road!’

Gratified by the gesture, Henry shakes his head. ‘I’ve had nothing since the coaching inn at Welshpool this morning.’

At that Lord Tresilian clicks the fingers of his free hand, and as he does so a gold signet ring on the fifth digit glints in the candlelight.

‘Splendid,’ he says as the man and woman who appeared behind him in the doorway step forward. ‘Mrs Evans, please bring a tray for Dr Talbot to my study.’

There is the briefest of pauses before the woman named Mrs Evans dips her knees. She is an elderly creature with skin that reminds Henry of damp wrinkled silk, age-spots smattering her face like oversized freckles. Snow-white hair peeks from beneath a mobcap patched with yellowed darning.

‘Thank you,’ Henry says, managing his first genuine smile in days. ‘I cannot tell you how welcome that would be.’

He addresses both his host and Mrs Evans, but the housekeeper (Henry presumes she is the housekeeper) appears disinclined to look at him as she shuffles past. His new employer leans forward conspiratorially.

‘Forgive her peevishness, Henry. Might I call you Henry? She is not particularly welcoming of strangers at present.’

‘Oh?’

‘A family bereavement, I’m afraid.’

His dark eyes rove over Henry’s features, gaze unnervingly intent, but then he coughs into his fist and turns away. He wipes his hand with a handkerchief, tucks it away into his finely tailored sleeve.

‘Come. Powell, our butler, will bring you a glass of port while you wait.’

Henry looks at the other man. Broad-shouldered as already observed, he is nonetheless squat in stature with a sour face made all the more unpleasant by the old-fashioned periwig he wears; a dull flax colour too long in the front, its curls untamed, which he dips in the direction of his master.

‘Very good, my lord.’

Strong Welsh lilt, deeply gravelled. Polite enough, but Henry is sure he detects a mark of recalcitrance in his tone, and he watches the man walk off toward a plain door tucked behind the cavernous staircase.

‘Come,’ Lord Tresilian says again, just as Henry’s driver walks through into the vestibule, depositing his trunk in the middle of the floor.

‘Thank you,’ Henry attempts in Welsh, and for a brief moment the bearded man stares at him before shrugging and retreating back the way he came, the crunch of gravel loud and hurried. Trying not to feel offended Henry lets his host guide him into a dimly lit hallway and thence into a room tucked neatly off to the left.

It is a large room, grandly furnished, but though its decor is bejewelled and rich, there is something about it that seems to swallow light; the armchairs are upholstered in maroon, the ornate furniture is oiled mahogany, the vermilion-coloured walls filled with pictures, none of which serve to brighten it. Henry stares up at those paintings, struck by their fantastical scenes. Exotic beasts look out from dark canvases, angels cry through torrid clouds. One painting depicts the fall of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden where, halfway up a tree, is entwined a serpent with a human head and arms, offering the damned pair an apple.

Another fireplace here of a more staid and appropriate size is flanked by a mahogany sideboard on top of which sits a baroque globe of the world and a small gun cabinet holding an elegant flintlock pistol. On the other side stands a cabinet which reaches up to the corniced ceiling, devoted it seems to expensive trinkets. Different-sized compartments hold within them a velvet tray of mounted ancient coins, a group of bronze miniature columns, a model of what looks to be a Roman ship cast in marble, a fine set of plaster intaglios.

‘Treasures from my excursions abroad,’ their owner says with pride, seeing Henry’s gaze stray. ‘Many I collected during the Grand Tour when I was a youth. The places I’ve seen! Paris and Versailles, Florence and Pisa, the more obscure locales of Baden and Passau. So many treasures to be found there. Never was I happier in my life than I was then, the world so completely at my feet.’

Henry has known men like this – men born to privilege for whom the Grand Tour is a rite of passage, a culmination of their expensive education. In Henry’s experience, a person cannot ever have the world completely at one’s feet without knowing what world it is one treads within. It is clear to Henry – from the trinket cabinet alone to the lushly decorated study and the very house in which they stand – that his lordship lives a rarefied existence, and therefore he cannot match the older man’s enthusiasm. Still, it is not his place to voice such thoughts aloud, so Henry forces a smile and politely says, ‘You’re lucky indeed, sir, and it’s a fine collection. Most fine.’

Lord Tresilian smiles at the compliment. ‘A modest collection. But nothing at all to these …’

He gestures with a wide sweep of his arm, and Henry looks to where the older man indicates.

At the far end of the room stands a deep mahogany desk; behind it, five rows of bookcases spanning from one side of the wall to the other, filled to the brim. In the centre of the case – propped up on an ornate stand – is a book far larger than the rest.

‘Let me show you,’ his lordship says, guiding Henry down to the other end of the room, and pinioned in his gentle grip Henry has no choice but to follow.

They come to a stop just past the desk. Lord Tresilian surveys the shelves with a look of unmistakable pleasure.

‘Magnificent, are they not? These are where my passions lie.’ He rests his weight on his cane. ‘The Tour, you know, opened my eyes to many wondrous things besides travel and women. Books, Henry, the source of all knowledge! What do you think of them?’

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