Page 86 of The Shadow Key

‘Tomorrow, I believe.’

Linette feels a quiet sense of relief. For tonight at least, she may have some peace. Except …

‘Where is Dr Talbot?’

‘In his room, miss, last I saw.’

It is Angharad who answered. She stands at the far end of the kitchen table, fingers slick with blood, the hare’s pelt half-stripped in her hands.

‘I took him his breakfast this morning. Reading medical books, he was – they were strewn all over his bed, barely had space to put down his tray.’

Above them comes the clang of the doorbell. As one, they look to the beamed ceiling, then at each other.

‘Another delivery, perhaps?’

Cook shakes her head. ‘No, miss. I have everything here.’

The bell rings again.

‘Maybe it’s one of the men from the gatehouse.’

‘I already sent Aled down with a basket.’

Linette looks at the servants. Enaid holds the cup and saucer in one hand, the teapot in the other; Cadoc’s arms are full with a silver serving platter, half-polished. Mrs Phillips is in the process of filling Lady Gwen’s lunch tray and at the far end of the table Angharad brandishes her bloody knife above the hare. None are in a position to leave their stations. Linette wipes her hands on a cloth.

‘I’ll go.’

It takes her a full minute to reach the vestibule in which the visitor pulls the bell again, and when Linette opens the door she means to scold them for their impatience, but when she sees who it is her words catch in her throat.

On the threshold stands Rowena Carew. She is dressed in a pretty walking dress, hair coiled neatly beneath a prim straw bonnet, and the sight of her is enough to ruin Linette’s short-lived peace.

‘Miss Tresilian,’ the young woman says quietly, amber eyes shadowed by the rim of her bonnet. ‘I am very sorry to disturb. But might I speak with Dr Talbot?’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

They take the woodland path up onto the lower reaches of Cwm Nantcol on foot. They do not say a word – have agreed not to speak until they are safely away from Plas Helyg – and this silence, though it is charged with anticipation of the news his companion carries, is calm, peaceful.

Nothing like the painful silence Henry shared last night with Linette.

If only she had not seen him give the vial to Miss Carew! He had been on the cusp of telling Linette his suspicions when Julian arrived but he was thankful, in the end, of the interruption; Henry wanted to be absolutely sure before saying anything and causing distress. Of course, considering the deadly nightshade found in Dr Evans’ vial there could be no doubt of the matter, not really, and yet … Would Enaid Evans really have poisoned her own brother? Would she attempt the same with her mistress? The plausibility of it is untenable, but there can be no denying what he found. No, it had been best to keep silent. Still, it has been a trial. He knows Linette is confused by his behaviour; Henry sees the distrust in her eyes, the hurt. Yet what could he do? What could be done?

Wherever possible he avoided both her and Julian – yesterday Henry had visited the apothecary in Criccieth to ascertain whether he recognised the vial, to which the Welshman stated (so Henry’s dictionary revealed) that he did not. Dejected at this lack of progress, Henry has since confined himself to his room and trawled through old medical books to see if he could find any other explanation for Gwen’s condition, something else to explain the fits, the aversion to light, the odd behaviour that makes her say such strange things, but nothing provided a condition that accommodated all symptoms at once. His only course of action was to wait for Miss Carew to return with an answer.

And now, to Henry’s intense relief, she has.

They continue up the woodland path. Leaves rustle above them, birds temper the air with their sweet song. At one point Miss Carew catches her boot on an exposed root, stumbles into him, and Henry takes her hand to steady her. It is small in his, fits the cushion of his palm perfectly. He feels bereft when she lets him go.

Soon the trees part, the fields stretch out before them, and Miss Carew veers to the right. It takes a few moments for Henry to realise that she is heading toward the stone structure on the far side of the valley – a cromlech, he remembers Linette calling it – set atop a gentle knoll.

It is large, larger than he anticipated from where he first saw it, and on their approach Henry looks at it with interest. Four stones lean against each other in a manner reminiscent of a cave; three of them are propped up to form makeshift walls and what serves as a ceiling is a long capstone mottled with moss and lichen.

‘Let’s sit here,’ Miss Carew says.

They sit just under the lip of the capstone, the grass acting like a cushion, and she brings her knees up to her chest, wraps her hands around her skirts, looks out across the valley with a wistful expression on her face.

As with each time he has seen her, Henry feels his pulse knock hard in his throat.

Her beauty really is unlike that of any woman he has seen before – those amber-brown eyes are little firelights, that flame-red hair molten silk. He even likes the sound of her name. Rowena.

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