The Dead Mrs McIntyre

By Richard Watkins

Victorian London. Brilliant young barrister Henry Jones and his wife, Lucy, are expecting their first child. Complications develop, and the celebrated surgeon Bryan Trembarth takes Lucy to his private hospice, but Lucy dies in childbirth. Devastated, Henry seeks solitude in the English countryside.

In Heathfield, East Sussex, Henry is stalked by a beautiful young girl. When these mysterious visitations turn violent, Henry flees from Heathfield and returns to the Bar in London. During the most important defence case of his career, he receives information that his child may still be alive.

The trail of these rumours leads him to Scotland. And in discovering the horrific truth of his wife’s death, Henry also learns the value of true friendship—and the possibility of new love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Sep 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781664100060

Richard Watkins

Richard Watkins is an avid reader of military history. During fifty years as professional tax consultant, traveller, rally driver and navigator, and medieval re-enactor, Richard has developed a strong love of wild, desolate places and circumstances demanding immense human endurance. A member of the Historical Novel Society of Australia, Richard has been writing since early childhood, including a medieval trilogy. The Dead Mrs McIntyre is his first book in the gothic/mystery genre. Richard has two adult daughters and lives in the Southern Highlands of New South Wales, Australia, where he and his artist wife have converted a 138-year-old stone church into their private library and art gallery.

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THE DEAD

MRS MCINTYRE

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RICHARD WATKINS

Copyright © 2020 by Richard Watkins.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design and photo by Jared Lyons

Rev. date: 10/20/2020

Xlibris

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CONTENTS

Author’s Note

PART ONE

THE HEATHFIELD GIRL

Chapter 1     My Dearest Lucy

Chapter 2     Amontillado and Ornithology

Chapter 3     I Go to Heathfield

Chapter 4     I Make an Acquaintance

Chapter 5     Return to the Cottage

Chapter 6     A Break in the Weather

Chapter 7     The Second Meeting

Chapter 8     Snow and Remonstrance

Chapter 9     Like a Hermit

Chapter 10   Red Fox

Chapter 11   At The Wild Wren

Chapter 12   The Week before Christmas

Chapter 13   Christmas Eve

Chapter 14   Hastings Lane

Chapter 15   The New Year

Chapter 16   I Return to Heathfield

Chapter 17   Loxton Manor

Chapter 18   The Heathfield Girl

Chapter 19   Legacies of Heathfield

PART TWO

TRIALS BY JURY

Chapter 20   An Ill Wind

Chapter 21   With Murderous Intent

Chapter 22   Revelations

Chapter 23   Sails in the Darkness

Chapter 24   Best Defence

Chapter 25   Kensington Gardens

Chapter 26   The Trial of Ronald Walters

Chapter 27   A Dangerous Game

Chapter 28   The Verdict

Chapter 29   Hercules

Chapter 30   The Turning Point

Chapter 31   Deja Vu

Chapter 32   Dorset

Chapter 33   London and the Last Supper

PART THREE

SEEKING MRS McINTYRE

Chapter 34   Edinburgh and Beyond

Chapter 35   Arbroath Abbey

Chapter 36   Things Could Go Badly for Me

Chapter 37   The Highlands under Snow

Chapter 38   Oban

Chapter 39   Coll

Chapter 40   Flight

Chapter 41   Derrykeighan

About The Author

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Heathfield is a small market town in the Wealden District of East Sussex, UK, with origins dating back to the Middle Ages.

Breckenbrae Farm does not exist but is imagined to be near the south of Saint Dunstan’s Wood. Hadlow Down is a village three miles northwest of Heathfield. The villages in Dorset and Scotland are all located as described. The geography, otherwise depicted in the story, is not intended to be accurate.

The defence of Ronald Walters for the murder of Pamela Doherty, as related in this story, is inspired by the events known as the Camden Town murder. On 11 September 1907, Phyllis Dimmock, a prostitute known to work in the present-day area of Camden Town Markets, London, was found murdered in the house of her de facto lover Bert Shaw, an overnight chef on the Midland Railway. Robert Wood, a young artist who was known to have been with Phyllis in the preceding weeks, was arrested and accused of her murder. With strong evidence against him, Wood was represented by the famous barrister Edward Marshall Hall.

Richard Watkins, Kangaloon, Australia. August 2020

PART ONE

THE HEATHFIELD GIRL

In memory of Alfred

I can see Douglas there before the fire, to which he had got up to

present his back, looking down at his interlocutor with his hands

in his pockets. ‘Nobody but me, till now, has ever heard. It’s too

horrible.’ This, naturally, was declared by several voices to give

the thing the utmost price, and our friend, with quiet art, prepared

his triumph by turning his eyes over the rest of us and going on,

‘It’s beyond everything. Nothing at all that I know touches it.’

—Henry James (1898), The Turn of the Screw

CHAPTER 1

My Dearest Lucy

London, October 1860

I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to Dr Bryan Trembarth. A man of slightly less than average height, with a neatly trimmed beard and twinkling, intelligent blue eyes, his composure gave me the reassurance I needed to see me through the awful days that followed Lucy’s emergency.

My wife, Lucy, was eight months with child and had chosen to take her confinement at our home in Hastings Lane, North London. Our household staff were absolutely devoted to Lucy, and Dr Trembarth had taken to calling in every second week to check on her progress. Lucy was of slight frame, the style of woman that hardly seemed to have emerged from childhood but who carried herself with the maturity of a lady and still, at that time, displayed indomitable spirit. Each morning, before embarking on my journey to my barristers’ chambers in the city, I would take her small pale hands in mine and tell her I loved her before pressing the most delicate of kisses upon her brow. Lucy would beam brightly at this modest attention and say, ‘Darling Henry, Mrs Kessler and I and the little one will be safe until you return.’

An amazing, talented young lady, Lucy, with the simplest of smiles, gave me the support I needed to deal with the monsters that London’s underworld threw at me every day in my work as a barrister—the child-thieves ‘gonophs’, the ‘hoisters’, dragsmen, prigs, and bluebottles. Despite maintaining a genteel chambers, wafts from the underworld would always penetrate my work and Lucy’s quiet demeanour gave me a strength that years of study alone never could.

Lucy’s Prussian head of house, Mrs Kessler, displays a brand of authority as if bestowed upon her at birth and would meet me in the hall and assure me that all would be well while I was away for the day. They were both ignorant of the horrors that were to come.

I would then stride off to Gresham Street, briefcase in hand, with Lucy’s words in my mind. The image I will always carry with me is of Lucy sitting comfortably in her chair in the morning room, the pale light falling across her smiling face, and one hand resting on her child within. We were both so much looking forward to the birth of our first child.

At that time, Lucy’s face was always filled with an incandescent rosiness, whether the result of her physical condition or enthusiasm for her impending motherhood, I could not tell. I dared not enquire. I wished for the latter and might have been disappointed if it was the former. The fact was we were both so looking forward to the coming event that we were afraid to speak of it, lest we dispel the magic feeling we were both experiencing. Lucy and I just basked in each other’s radiant countenance and kept our hopes and wishes to ourselves until such time when we had a child with whom we could share it all. All very silly, really, but Lucy’s strength lay in her developing her own feelings, and I was happy to let her do so.

I knew that Lucy would spend that morning of October 22 in her studio room where the sunlight was most effective, working on her watercolours. About mid-morning, her good friend Sarah Cantwell would arrive, it being Monday, and the two of them would immerse themselves in their art. Lucy had become quite competent at landscapes, and Sarah is an immensely talented portrait artist.

On that morning, a boy came to my outer office asking for Mr Henry Jones. Miss Pryor came into my room where I was reading depositions for an upcoming trial and presented me with a note. ‘Have the boy wait,’ I said and took the folded note. I recognised Dr Trembarth’s confident hand but noted a certain urgency in the slant of the letters. As near as I can remember now, I read,

Henry, Your wife’s condition has taken a serious turn, and she is experiencing severe abdominal constrictions. I have taken the liberty of ordering a hansom cab to convey her to Ashgrove House, Goswell Road. Please meet me there with all haste. Bryan.

Rapidly collecting my thoughts, I asked for the boy to be sent to me. I dipped my pen and scratched a note to the address of Major and Mrs Henshaw in Shepherd’s Bush, Lucy’s parents. I followed this with a note to Mrs Kessler at Hastings Lane. I gave these notes to the boy, together with a ten-shilling note, and demanded that he use the fastest conveyance he could find to deliver both of these messages. I cannot now remember what this lad looked like or how I could have assessed his reliability, but I do recall that he showed considerable interest in the ten-shilling note.

Having despatched the boy, I quickly stepped into the office of my partner-at-law, Benjamin Davis. He took the pipe out of his mouth and pointed the stem towards the front door of our chambers.

‘Get going,’ he said. ‘I can handle things here.’

Taking up my hat and coat, I brushed past a worried and confused Miss Pryor and made for the door.

When I arrived at Ashgrove House, I expected to find Dr Trembarth and my wife in a maternity ward, but after several pressing enquiries, I was finally directed to the surgery. I was feeling very confused and worried by now, and this apprehension had produced a tight knot in my chest.

Dr Trembarth greeted me in a waiting room outside surgery and immediately grasped me by the hand and shoulder. ‘Henry’, he said, ‘we may have to operate on Lucy. She is quite ill, but we are doing all that we can.’

It was then I noticed that Dr Trembarth was wearing a surgical gown over his tweed suit and had pulled the face mask down under his bearded chin. He looked up at me with those intensely blue eyes. ‘All we can,’ he repeated. ‘It’s her blood pressure—extremely high. I must ask you to wait here. Please sit, and I will come back and keep you informed.’

‘The baby?’ I asked, not quite knowing how to express my mounting concern.

‘It’s a bit early to say, Henry. Lucy is very strong, but there are extreme difficulties. I must go back in.’

He shook my hand firmly, but I now recall seeing a great strain upon his face that day. He left me and disappeared into what I assumed was a surgical room.

At around four o’clock that afternoon, Major Henshaw and Elizabeth arrived in the waiting room that I had occupied solely for several hours. During that time, my anxiety had steadily increased. I had not seen Dr Trembarth again since that first greeting, and when James and Elizabeth arrived, my reserves of strength had diminished markedly.

I could barely look at Elizabeth. Even at this early point, without the trauma to come, Elizabeth’s usually refined countenance was lined and heavy.

James was straight to the point. ‘What’s happening, Henry?’

‘There is no news yet,’ I offered lamely. ‘Dr Trembarth spoke to me when I came in here and said Lucy was strong, but I doubt this is going to be an easy birth, so he gave me to believe.’

‘But what is the cause of all this?’ The major was used to demanding information and getting prompt and intelligent responses, but in this matter, I had very little to tell him.

‘He mentioned blood pressure,’ I said without further explanation because there was none.

Elizabeth gave a little gasp of horror and started to swoon. James caught her around the waist, and together, we guided her to a chair. James then went off in search of a glass of water and returned shortly with a full ewer and several tumblers, and I must say, for the next several hours, he displayed a tender consideration for his wife that belied his career as a stern military man.

It was nearly midnight before we saw Dr Trembarth again, and this time, he clearly showed signs of fatigue. Notwithstanding, he greeted us all warmly and paid special attention to Elizabeth, who was suffering from the long hours of anxious waiting. He told us that Lucy was resting calmly, but there was no sign of the baby being ready to be delivered. In short, as best as could be determined, there was to ensue a waiting period to see what developed for mother and child.

‘I think it is best if you go home now and return in the morning,’ he said. ‘There is nothing more that can be done here tonight. I am concerned that Mrs Henshaw needs some good rest herself.’

‘I am not leaving here until I know that Lucinda is safe and well,’ Elizabeth countered.

‘Of course, Mrs Henshaw,’ Dr Trembarth agreed. ‘I understand your concern. But … just a minute. Please wait here. I will return directly.’

Dr Trembarth disappeared in the direction of the surgical room once again, and Elizabeth reiterated to us her determination not to leave until she had been made fully aware of her daughter’s condition.

‘Yes, Beth’, James said, ‘I will have Trembarth give us a bit more information than he has so far.’

‘I am not leaving,’ Elizabeth repeated, pressing a lace handkerchief tightly between her palms.

Thankfully, the door to the surgical room opened again after only a short time, and Dr Trembarth ushered in a nursing sister, obviously of some seniority in her calling but not a woman of mature age.

‘Major and Mrs Henshaw, Mr Jones, this is Sister Burroughs,’ Trembarth announced. ‘Sister is head of midwifery at St Mark’s, and she helps me here at Ashgrove House in times of emergency. Fortunately, Sister has been at Lucy’s side from the moment she arrived here.’

Sister Burroughs came and sat beside Elizabeth and took hold of her hand. ‘Lucy’s condition, Mrs Henshaw, is what is called pre-eclampsia. Lucy’s blood pressure is high. We have put a saline drip into her arm. All of Lucy’s vital organs are under strain from the pregnancy, so we will continue to monitor her condition until we can deliver baby. A wee dose of laudanum will help with the pain.’

Dr Trembarth, standing beside Major Henshaw, corroborated Sister Burroughs’ account at every point. ‘Injections of magnesium sulphate at regular intervals should ease the pressure,’ he added.

This exercise had the effect of allaying the immediate fears the major and his wife had for their daughter’s condition, but I wondered about the saline drip because I thought an increase in fluids would increase Lucy’s blood pressure, but not being a doctor, I accepted what Sister Burroughs was telling us.

‘So’, Dr Trembarth said when Sister Burroughs had finished, ‘Lucy is resting, and we will monitor her condition throughout the night. The best thing for you to do, Mrs Henshaw, is get some sleep and return here in the morning. That would be most beneficial for you.’

‘Elizabeth?’ James enquired. Elizabeth nodded her consent, and James helped her to her feet.

‘Don’t go all the way to Shepherd’s Bush at this hour,’ I suggested. ‘Just go up to Hastings Lane—it’s much closer, and Mrs Kessler will look after you both. I have already intimated to her you might be staying over. Then you will not have so far to come back in the morning.’

All agreed this was an excellent plan, and Elizabeth seemed quite relieved at the reduced amount of travel.

‘What about you, Henry?’ Dr Trembarth asked.

‘I will stay here,’ I replied, glancing at Elizabeth and hoping this admission would not cause any further prevarication on her part. Fortunately, James had escorted her halfway to the door and was talking about having Rogers bring the carriage round to the front, and Elizabeth had no more to say.

‘Good man,’ I heard Dr Trembarth say. I turned back to him; his countenance was once more full of reassurance. ‘I will have a blanket brought for you, and we must be able to scrounge up a cup of tea, even at this hour.’ Then he took me by the arm, and his voice gained a more serious timbre. ‘I am sorry, Henry. I would normally be able to take you in to see Lucy, but it is a very delicate time. It is best if you just stay here and let us get on with it. You do understand, do you not?’

‘Perfectly,’ I replied, not really knowing how I felt. ‘I will be fine, just fine,’ and I managed a smile.

I cannot even begin to describe how terribly the next twenty-four hours unfolded. James and Elizabeth were back with me at eight o’clock in the morning and looked much the same as when they had left just after midnight. I had not slept more than a few nods at a time, and we stoically sat in that room all that day and the next night. No more was there any discussion on anybody leaving. Dr Trembarth, himself a man racked with fatigue, gave us intermittent reports, but as the hours wore on, it became more obvious that the hoped-for outcome was slipping away, as was Lucy’s grasp on life.

We never again saw Lucy alive.

When Dr Trembarth brought us the final fateful news, we were devastated—utterly, utterly devastated.

Elizabeth collapsed, and Dr Trembarth immediately arranged for her to be admitted to the Women’s Ward in Ashgrove House and prescribed a strong sedative. In fact, from that very moment, Dr Trembarth took charge of all arrangements, including matters that the family might normally be expected to undertake. I was sure that these matters were not part of a doctor’s duties, but nothing was too much for Bryan Trembarth, and over the next few days, he worked tirelessly to ease the impact of Lucy’s passing on our shattered emotions. I was grateful for these efforts because it allowed James to sit with Elizabeth and so to deal with his own enormous grief. It also allowed me time to write to my parents back home in Rhondda, some twenty miles north-west of Cardiff. Dr Trembarth was then able to delay the funeral another few days to allow time for Ed and Judith to negotiate the score of coaches needed to travel from Cardiff to London. How we survived those dreadful days I do not know, but I am certain we simply could not have coped had it not been for the extraordinary generosity of Dr Trembarth.

The one task that Bryan could not perform for me was the ordering of Lucy’s headstone. Or rather, I insisted that I complete this task myself, but, dear God, what a painful and sorrowful duty! This task took me to the very brink of grief and despair. The headstone would not be ready for the funeral; indeed, not for many weeks. However, Frank Turley, the stonemason, generously agreed to fashion a full facsimile of the stone, in wood, painted stone-grey, with black lettering, so that Lucy’s grave would be fully decorated from the time of internment and not with just a simple white cross. Thus, it was incumbent upon me to provide the wording, and after some considerable deliberation, and not an insignificant number of tears, I penned the following:

Sacred to the Memory of

Lucinda Elizabeth Jones (nee Henshaw)

Born 18 July 1837

Died in childbirth, 24 October 1860

Adored wife of Henry

Cherished only daughter of James and Elizabeth

Beloved sister of Albert James (d’csd),

(Captain, Coldstream Guards)

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A Blessing in Life, Blessed Forever

Mother and Child together in Eternity

I remember my mother and father arrived at 2:00 a.m. on the day of the funeral, the coach from Reading having been delayed somewhat by a washaway on the road around Wokingham. When they arrived at Hastings Lane, I immediately suggested they rest and not attend the funeral service, but being stout Welsh folk, they insisted that a few hours’ sleep would be all they needed to refresh and that they fully intended to be at St James Church, St John’s Wood, at eleven o’clock that morning.

I can recall little of the service, except that Reverend Hollis spoke lovingly of Lucy, having known her for some years when she was a child. Two eulogies were given by her cousins, and these were equally sincere and touching to the effect that this was a very sad affair made bearable by the considerable love shown to my Lucy by her family and friends. A choir of local young ladies singing the Twenty-Third Psalm tested my composure to the very limit.

What I never expected was that, at the close of the service, when Lucy was to be borne from the church, a squad of eight Coldstream Guardsmen marched silently down the aisle; six of them became the pall-bearers, the other two acting as colour sergeants. These guardsmen conveyed the coffin through the congregation to the arched door, with me following, using all my strength to keep a clear eye. This all came to naught, however, when I emerged from the church to see Lucy being carried to the hearse through a guard of honour of forty more Coldstream Guards, and I lost my composure completely.

Such ceremony was not strictly permissible with the deceased not being a guardsman, but Lucy’s brother, Albert, had been a captain and had fallen at Inkerman in the Crimea, having displayed outstanding bravery in the Coldstream Guards’ numerous bayonet charges against the Russians on Home Ridge. Albert had been James and Elizabeth’s only son, and with the passing of Lucy, their only daughter, it appeared that the major, now retired from the guard, was to be afforded this final tribute.

Of their two children, Major and Elizabeth Henshaw retained for remembrance only Albert’s Crimea medal, Inkerman, and the knowledge of the brief but supremely happy marriage of their daughter.

Thus begins this journal of my emotions following the passing of my dearest Lucy and of the strange and quite mysterious occurrences that were to follow at Heathfield.

CHAPTER 2

Amontillado and Ornithology

November 1860

It had been Dr Trembarth’s idea for me to commence a journal. He said it would help me recover from the shock of Lucy’s death by having me focus on an ongoing and deliberate task.

Even several weeks after Lucy’s funeral, I had still not been able to return to work. I had always had a healthy dedication to my professional work and found the law a rewarding career. But those last weeks had found me unable to venture back along the Strand. Benjamin Davis had called by several times, and my dear selfless soul of a partner had assured me all was well and that he was able to handle all the work in the office at the present time. I knew he was lying, but I was as helpless at challenging these assurances as I was at dressing myself in my black suit and wing collar, let alone don silk and wig.

Trembarth had then come to visit one afternoon, at around four o’clock. Although I could not concentrate enough to return to work, I still kept note of the time of day on a regular basis. Sitting alone in the morning room, I would watch the sunrise lighting up the garden and then return there after luncheon to follow the shadows as they crept across the flower beds in the afternoon. The only attractions were the finches and twits that darted and flittered about the garden at various times of the day, but I was aware that my mindless vigilance had me well on the way to total social oblivion. Trembarth’s visit came not a moment too soon.

‘Dr Trembarth to see you, Mr Henry.’ Mrs Kessler’s announcement urged me to break out of my garden state. I had been watching a yellow-breasted robin alight on a strand of ivy, and I turned to see Trembarth enter the room, dapper as usual in a brown three-piece suit, cream shirt, and a yellow bow tie. In place of his normal black doctor’s case, he carried an old brown upright bag of stout leather with a strong brass clasp.

‘Bryan!’ I cried as cheerfully as I could muster but clearly without the spontaneity of san souci. ‘How delightful to see you.’

‘Henry, my dear, how are you?’ He extended his hand, and I was encouraged by his firm grip. ‘A day at a time?’

‘A day at time’, I repeated in reply, ‘but they are all running together so that I can hardly see their separation. What can I do to stop them slipping away completely?’

He took the chair as offered, placing the bag on the side table at hand, and spoke to me of commencing this project upon which I am now quite well advanced. On this occasion, I was well disposed to listen and absorb all that he had to tell me. On previous visits, his words, although kind enough on the ear and sincerely well meant, had slipped by me altogether so that the moment I had farewelled him and closed the door, I had not the slightest recollection of anything he had said to me, and I had returned to my vigil on the garden none the more nourished for his having visited me.

This time, however, I must have passed a stage in my recovery from grief that had reopened my consciousness, and I was eager to engage in the conversation. Not that I was called upon to play a great part in the conversation; Bryan Trembarth had all the words tumbling forth, and I was a happy and compliant receiver. Happy? Yes, that afternoon, I first felt the spark of happiness in that someone was taking the time to care for me, to draw me out of my morose. Not happiness in the sense of any joy—far from it. It was more that I was grateful that Bryan Trembarth, or in fact anyone, cared enough to show me a way back to a normal life, and I found myself taking an interest in the plan that he was unfolding before my eyes.

‘A journal,’ Dr Trembarth was saying. ‘I have found with other patients in times of grief that writing down one’s feelings can be most beneficial. But more importantly, perhaps in your case, Henry, a journal, regularly maintained, helps keep track of the days and weeks as your recovery progresses and attains completion.’

‘It is good to keep track of the time?’ I asked, yet to be convinced of the efficacy of this recommendation.

Trembarth did not answer directly. He closed his eyes and outstretched each hand, touching the fingertips together at chest height. Then he opened his eyes and said in a somewhat distant tone, ‘I have had several cases where the grieving party has come through this period of trauma, to find they had lost not only their loved one but also the time since the initial loss. In effect, they had experienced two losses: a companion and a part of their own life.’

He then amended his tone and spoke more directly to me. ‘Of course, this is not always a severe loss—the time, I mean. But it can add to the trauma and, in extreme cases, prolong the time of recovery.’

‘It can indeed be self-prolonging,’ I ventured.

‘Yes, indeed,’ Trembarth said almost excitedly. ‘The extended loss of one’s normal pattern of life can easily exacerbate the grieving process, and so perpetuate the grief.’

The reasoning was clear to me, and so I sought to terminate Dr Trembarth’s explanations. ‘And a journal helps this process, you say?’

‘Enormously! A person like yourself, a professional man, appreciates the value of useful endeavours and generally abhors wasting days and weeks. Therefore, the daily entries in a journal would measure that period, and I have found that being aware of that time passing usually, how can I say, urges the patient on to recovery.’

‘I am sure that would be a common eventuality,’ I said.

‘Not with everybody’, Trembarth averred, ‘but, as I say, quite often with people situated like yourself.’

As if to mark the end of this dissertation, Trembarth stirred himself and laid a hand on the bag he had brought with him. ‘Of course, remedies can take various forms, and a tonic can be most beneficial.’

I watched with bemused interest as Trembarth opened the bag and produced a cut-glass bottle not unlike one that might contain brandy. I am not fond of brandy and began to wonder how I might graciously refuse this tonic. However, with Dr Trembarth’s usual propensity to surprise, he quickly dispelled my fears.

‘Sherry,’ he announced. ‘A good sherry can be one of the finest tonics a man can experience.’

I called for Mrs Kessler, and we very smartly had two lead crystal sherry glasses on the table beside Trembarth, who poured from his bottle and offered one of the glasses to me. I sipped.

‘Amontillado!’ I declared.

A smile came to Dr Trembarth’s lips.

‘A very good amontillado,’ I added after my second sip, and Trembarth’s blue eyes twinkled.

‘The very best,’ he said quietly. ‘I have it sent to me from Italy, and it gives me great pleasure to share it with special friends.’

I recalled at this point that Trembarth had a penchant for travelling abroad and delighted in sharing his rich experiences within his circle of friends. We savoured our sherries in silence for a moment, and then Trembarth embarked upon a new topic, one that would indeed require me to commence my journal promptly.

‘A journal, amontillado, and a change of circumstance. That is what I prescribe for you, my dear Henry. A change of circumstance always helps the mind to repair after grief.’

‘How do you mean, a change of circumstance?’ I was not apprehensive at this suggestion, for I was feeling encouraged by Dr Trembarth’s close interest in my welfare, and I found myself willing to consider with some sobriety any recommendation that might fill the void into which I had been staring these last weeks.

‘You must get out of London for a while. Nothing too expensive, mind you. I am not suggesting you embark on the grand tour. Quite the opposite. I know of a little village in the south-east, on the edge of the Weald. I happen to know that a cottage is available for a modest tariff, situated in the countryside where the rural routine can offer restoration of the soul, where the city cannot.’

‘A retreat to the country,’ I said by way of summary.

‘Quite,’ Trembarth agreed, sipping his sherry in satisfaction.

‘Where is this cottage?’

‘Heathfield, a day’s coach journey from Royal Tunbridge Wells.’

‘Beyond the railway,’ I said, showing some understanding of the geography of Trembarth’s recommended cottage. ‘A week or two might indeed be pleasant, although I doubt the countryside will be improved by the onset of winter.’

‘No, no, my good man,’ Trembarth replied, leaning forward in his chair. ‘Quite the opposite. I recommend a three-month stay, and the turning of the season is perfect. Stay there over winter, experience the brevity of comfort over that time, and be there still for the coming of spring. I daresay you will benefit from the reformation of the countryside as winter recedes.’

This was a lot for me to consider. Leaving the household for a