He turned back to the group, silent now that their high spirits were damped. “Gentlemen, I am sorry to miss both the discussion and the companionship, but work calls.” He moved to Pole’s side. “Let us go. The last of the light is gone but the moon should be up. We will manage well without a lantern. If Death will not wait, then nor must we.”
The road that led to Bailey’s Farm was flanked by twin lines of hedgerow. It had been an early spring, and the moonlit white of flowering hawthorn set parallel lines to mark the road ahead. The two men walked side by side, Darwin glancing across from time to time at the other’s gloomy profile.
“You appear to have no great regard for the medical profession,” he said at last. “Though you bear marks of illness yourself.”
Jacob Pole shrugged his shoulders and did not speak.
“But yet you are a friend of Dr. Monkton?” continued Darwin.
Pole turned a frowning face toward him. “I most certainly am not. As I told you, I am no more than a messenger for him, one who happened to be at the farm.” He hesitated. “If you press the point—as you seem determined to do—I will admit that I am no friend to any doctor. Men put more blind faith in witless surgeons than they do in the Lord Himself.”
“And with more reason,” said Darwin softly.
Pole did not seem to hear. “Blind faith,” he went on. “And against all logic. When you pay a man money to cut off your arm, it’s no surprise that he tells you an arm must come off to save your life. In twenty years of service to the country, I am appalled when I think how many limbs have come off for no reason more than a doctor’s whim.”
“And on that score, Colonel Pole,” said Darwin tartly, “your twenty years of service must also have told you that it would take a thousand of the worst doctors to match the limb-lopping effects of even the least energetic of generals. Look to the ills of your own profession.”
There was an angry silence and both men paced faster along the moonlit road.
The farm stood well back, a hundred yards from the main highway to Lichfield. The path to it was a gloomy avenue of tall elms and by the time they were halfway along it they could see a tall figure standing in the doorway and peering out toward them. As they came closer he leaned back inside to pick up a lantern and strode to meet them.
“Dr. Darwin, I fear you are none too soon.” The speaker’s voice was full and resonant, like that of a singer or a practiced clergyman, but there was no warmth or welcome in it.
Darwin nodded. “Colonel Pole tells me that the situation looks grave. I have my medical chest with me back at Matthew Boulton’s house. If there are drugs or dressings needed, Dr. Monkton, they can be brought here in a few minutes.”
“I think it may already be too late for that.” They had reached the door, and Monkton paused there. He was broad shouldered, with a long neck and a red, bony face. His expression was dignified and severe. “By the time Colonel Pole left here, the man was already sunk to unconsciousness. Earlier this evening there was delirium, and utterances that were peculiar indeed. I have no great hopes for him.”
“He is one of Bailey’s farmworkers?”
“He is not. He is a stranger, taken ill on the road near here. The woman with him came for help to the farm. Fortunately I was already here, attending to Father Bailey’s rheumatics.” He shrugged. “That is a hopeless case, of course, in a man of his age.”
“Mm. Perhaps.” Darwin sounded unconvinced, but he did not press it. “It was curiously opportune that you were here. So tell me, Dr. Monkton, just what is this stranger’s condition?”
“Desperate. You will see it for yourself,” he went on at Darwin’s audible grunt of dissatisfaction. “He lies on a cot at the back of the scullery.”
“Alone? Surely not?”
“No. His companion is with him. I explained to her that his condition is grave, and she seemed to comprehend well enough for one of her station.” He set the lantern on a side table in the entrance and took a great pinch of snuff from a decorated ivory box. “Neither one of them showed much sign of learning. They are poor workers from the North, on their way to London to seek employment. She seemed more afraid of me than worried about her man’s condition.”
“So I ask again, what is that condition?” Darwin’s voice showed his exasperation. “It would be better for you to give me your assessment out of their hearing—though I gather that he is hearing little enough.”
“He hears nothing, not if lightning were to strike this house. His condition, in summary: the eyes deep-set in the head, closed, the whites only showing in the ball; the countenance, dull and grey; skin, rough and dry to the touch; before he became delirious he complained that he was feeling bilious.”
“There was vomiting?”
“No, but he spoke of the feeling. And of pain in the chest. His muscle tone was poor and I detected weakened irritability.”
Darwin grunted skeptically, causing Monkton to look at him in a condescending way.
“Perhaps you are unfamiliar with von Haller’s work on this, Dr. Darwin? I personally find it to be most convincing. At any rate, soon after I came to him the delirium began.”
“And what of his pulse?” Darwin’s face showed his concentration. “And was there fever?”
Monkton hesitated for a moment, as though unsure what to answer. “There was no fever,” he said at last. “And I do not think that the pulse was elevated in rate.”
“Huh.” Darwin pursed his full lips. “No fever, no rapid pulse—and yet delirium.” He turned to the other man. “Colonel Pole, did you also see this?”
“I did indeed.” Pole nodded vigorously. “Look here, I know it may be the custom of the medical profession to talk about symptoms until the patient is past saving—but don’t you think you should see the man for yourself, while he’s alive?”
“I do.” Darwin smiled, unperturbed by the other’s gruff manner. “But first I wanted all the facts I can get. Facts are important, Colonel, the fulcrum of diagnosis. Would you prefer me to rush in and operate, another arm or leg gone? Or discuss the man’s impending death in the presence of his wife or daughter? That is not a physician’s role, the addition of new misery beyond disease itself. But lead the way, Dr. Monkton, I am ready now to see your patient.”
Jacob Pole frowned as he followed the other two men back through the interior of the old farmhouse. His expression showed mingled irritation and respect. “You sawbones are all the same,” he muttered. “You have an answer for everything except a man’s illness.”
The inside of the farmhouse was dimly lit. A single oil lamp stood in the middle of the long and chilly corridor that led to the scullery and kitchen. The floor was uneven stone flags and the high shelves carried preserved and wrinkled apples, their acid smell pleasant and surprising.
Monkton opened the door to the scullery, stepped inside, and grunted at the darkness there. “This is a nuisance. I told her to stay here with him, but she has gone off somewhere and allowed the lamp to go out. Colonel Pole, would you bring the lantern from the corridor?”
While Pole went back for it Darwin stood motionless in the doorway, sniffing the air in the dark room. When there was light Monkton looked around and gave a cry of astonishment.
“Why, he’s not here. He was lying on that cot in the corner.”
“Maybe he died, and they moved him?” suggested Pole.
“No, they wouldn’t do that,” said Monkton, but for the first time his voice was uncertain. “Surely they would not move him without my permission?”
“Looks as though they did, though,” said Pole. “We can settle that easily enough.”
He threw back his head. “Willy, where are you?”