‘Are you quite sure?’
Henry says it to see what the reaction might be, and he is not disappointed. Something shifts across the older doctor’s face, his eyes darken, his fingertips press against each other ever so gently, and Henry knows now – knows – his suspicions have merit.
‘I am surprised at you, sir,’ that man says now, ‘for asking such a thing. Even if there had been one you would not show the records of your London patients to a stranger, surely?’
And now, Henry quirks a brow. He did not mention that he hailed from London. News, then, travels fast in these parts.
‘It is only,’ Henry says now, pretending a more reasonable tone, ‘that Dr Evans was a resident of Penhelyg. It’s right I should know the facts.’
‘You have the facts. I have given them to you. Heart failure. It really is that simple.’
They look at each other across the table. Beddoe meets Henry’s gaze without batting an eye, and Henry understands then that he will glean nothing further from him.
‘Very well. Perhaps, though, you would be willing to relinquish the case notes of the patients from Penhelyg you have seen these past weeks?’
The older man’s eyes narrow. He picks up the quill, resumes the list. Then, without looking up he says, ‘I only make notes for my own patients. Besides, as I told you, their ailments were superficial. Not worth the paper and ink to write them down. Now then, Dr Talbot,’ he adds, offering the sheet between bony fingers. ‘Is there anything else?’
It is in that moment Henry sees clearly the signet of the gold ring he wears, and it is all he can do not to clutch at the doctor’s hand, draw it toward him, take a closer look. Is that not a familiar symbol etched within its shining disc?
‘Dr Talbot,’ he says, still holding the paper across the desk. ‘Is there anything else?’
Henry tears his eyes away. There is, of course. There is the matter of the strange vial in his pocket, the residue inside which he suspects to be something far more sinister than laudanum. But clearly there is no use in voicing any of it to this man.
Observation. Contemplation. Interrogation.
‘No,’ Henry says, taking the list. ‘That is all.’
Beddoe splits a smile.
‘Splendid. My next patient is due, so you’ll forgive that I cannot accommodate you for longer. The list I’ve made here should suffice. I trust,’ he adds, ‘you’re not yet acquainted with where the apothecary is located?’
‘No, sir, I am not.’
Beddoe sounds a small brass bell on his desk. ‘My maid shall direct you.’
He smiles again, fake and tight.
‘Good day, Dr Talbot.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Linette’s mother was once proficient at the harp, so Enaid told her many years ago. It had been one of her greatest pleasures to listen to her mistress play, to have fluting folk tunes fill the mansion’s cavernous walls. Servants would stop in their work and listen, such was the quality of her playing.
It is hard to imagine such a thing now; Linette’s mother sits at the little stool beside the harp absently strumming the strings with a look of bewilderment on her face, as if desperately trying and failing to conjure in her memory sounds that had once been pretty, but are now merely tuneless noises that send Linette’s ears into a painful ache.
Linette shifts on the armchair beside the bed, squints down at the recent treatise on farming resting on her lap. It is late. The sun’s dying rays are barely visible through the chink in the curtains, the room lit only with candles tiered in lofty corners about the room so as not to hurt her mother’s eyes. Some might think such a display beautiful and peaceful, the way the tapers flicker and bend, how the sprigs of gorse appear to glow in the wake of their flames, but to Linette it is distasteful. To Linette it echoes the sombre confines of the Cadwalladr crypt in the forest, a living shrine keeping out all the beauty of outside. What a wonderful sunset there must be across the horizon, she thinks, glancing up at that golden gap in the curtains. What a view it must afford from those great windows, a view her mother can never see!
On the opposite side of the bed, in a chair of her own, Enaid coughs. She is sewing up the tear in her mistress’ blue dress, a tear made when she writhed so violently on the dining-room floor the other night. Linette stares at the methodical rise and fall of the needle and thread, bites her bottom lip.
‘Why were you so difficult with Henry yesterday? You know he is here to help. He’ll not harm Mamma, I’m sure of it.’
Linette is not sure what she expected Enaid to say. A dismissive shrug, an apology, or, even, a denial. But whatever she expected, it was not this – the old woman rests the needle, and her pale eyes fill with tears.
‘Oh, Enaid. Please don’t upset yourself.’
‘I cannot help it,’ she whispers. ‘I love her as my own, as I do you. It hurts to see her like this. And to not have Wynn here …’
Feeling her own tears threaten to rise, Linette looks back down into her lap, grips the treatise hard, determined to keep her eyes dry.