Page 72 of The Shadow Key

‘Well, then. You must be mistaken.’

‘Perhaps on that point. But there is another. Lord Pennant intimated that Beddoe had designs on Dr Evans’ position here in Penhelyg, that Sir John Selwyn does not pay him well.’

Mr Dee sniffs. ‘I’ve heard that Sir John’s fortunes have not been favourable for quite some time. He breeds horses. Racing fillies, fine creatures of Turk lineage. The dapple grey of Lord Tresilian’s – that comes from Selwyn stock. For many years he gained quite a profit from them but his thoroughbreds have since stopped producing, and he’s lost the sponsorship of the Crown. It does not surprise me that his coffers cannot stretch to paying a personal physician the appropriate wage. Still,’ the reverend adds, ‘it’s a stretch to say Dr Beddoe would resort to such extremes. Murder? He had no particular like of Wynn, that is true, but no liking for Penhelyg, either. Salary aside, why should he want the position? Even Criccieth, he once said, held little appeal. I believe he owned a practice in London some twenty years ago, catering exclusively to the rich. It’s a wonder he does not return to it – he’d have no lack of patrons, I’m sure.’

‘Then why doesn’t he?’

‘I couldn’t possibly say.’

Thoughtful, Henry taps his cooling mug. Interesting, that Beddoe once kept a high-end London practice. Why on earth, then, would he have relinquished it for a position in Wales? Henry thinks of the doctor’s expensively furnished house. His background explains that, at least. Or, perhaps the house has been furnished using different means. Maybe creditors are the problem, and Beddoe cannot leave Wales. If the doctor has since fallen on hard times, that could be his motive for murdering Dr Evans in order to take his more lucrative position. Still …

‘My suspicions,’ Henry says now, ‘arose before I met Lord Pennant. When I questioned Beddoe some days before about Dr Evans’ death he was particularly evasive. And … there’s something else that’s been bothering me.’

‘Something else?’

‘Yes. He wears a ring identical to that of Julian Tresilian. It has a symbol on the signet.’

‘A symbol?’

Again Henry’s fingers tingle, that familiar instinctive pull of intuition.

‘Linette always believed the symbol to be the Tresilian family crest, but today I learnt from Lady Gwen this is not the case. The symbol appears too on an antique book Julian collected on his travels, but it’s also present on the fireplace at Plas Helyg, and in a portrait of him with his cousin, Hugh, and Lady Gwen. Each of them wears gaudy robes, jewelled turbans, clothes no English aristocrat would usually wear. The background is the kind you might see in the British Museum – temple ruins, that sort of thing.’

Something has shifted on Mr Dee’s square face. Henry leans forward.

‘What is it?’

The reverend looks grim. He takes a long sip of nettle tea before answering, and Henry tries not to squirm with impatience.

‘I do not know the symbol of which you speak,’ he says, slow and measured. ‘But I believe I can at least enlighten you as to the connection.’

‘Yes?’

Mr Dee places his mug very carefully between them, taps the stoneware rim.

‘Julian Tresilian, together with Lord Pennant and his wife, as well as Sir John and his, are all part of their own exclusive gentlemen’s club. It is, as I understand it, a club for those belonging to the higher echelons of society to promote each other’s professional interests, but they’ve been known to take others of lower stations into their fold. Dr Beddoe, for one. The land agent Mr Lambeth, for another.’ Here, he hesitates. ‘I know this, because they invited me to join them some years ago. Lord Tresilian showed me a few of his esoteric books. Quite sacrilegious, in my opinion.’

‘Sacrilegious?’

‘Works that held reverence to philosophical magic. The four elements, astrology, scrying, alchemy … that sort of thing. Obviously I declined.’ The vicar shrugs his shoulders. ‘In any case, that is your connection to Elis Beddoe. And from what you say – if the symbol appears in Plas Helyg as well as on the rings – perhaps Gwen and Hugh Tresilian were part of the club too.’

Henry sits back in his seat, a suspicion spooling in his stomach.

This makes sense. He has heard of such clubs from his time in Bow Street; the governor at Guy’s belonged to one himself in his youth, and had once (so Francis alleged) used its connections to get himself off from a charge of fraud thanks to an affiliated judge. There were whispers, even, of a Bow Street official keeping similar company (a fact of which Francis was rather more close-mouthed). But for a club to favour works on philosophical magic … There was a name for such fellowships, a name that left a bitter taste in Henry’s mouth:

‘Hellfire.’

Mr Dee blinks.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Hellfire clubs,’ Henry repeats. ‘Secret societies rumoured to dabble in, as you put it, philosophical magic. Mostly, though, they were thought to take part in irreligious and immoral acts.’

The vicar looks displeased.

‘Immoral acts?’

‘Indeed. They are a place where one can indulge freely in more unsavoury pastimes – unchaste women, gambling, drinking to excess, that sort of thing.’

---