“Forgive our jests,” he said. “This is an old issue here. Dr. Monkton has not been one to ask my advice on disease, no matter what the circumstance. What does he want now?”

The outcry came again. “He’s a pompous old windbag.”

“Killer Monkton—don’t let him lay a finger on you.”

“I wouldn’t let him touch you, not if you want to live.”

Pole had been staring furiously about him while the men at the table mocked Monkton’s medical skills. He ignored the glass held out toward him, and a scar across the left side of his forehead was showing a flush of red.

“I might share your opinion of Dr. Monkton,” he said curtly. “However, I would extend that view to all doctors. They kill far more than they cure. As for you gentlemen, and Dr. Darwin here, if you all prefer your eating and drinking to the saving of life, I cannot change those priorities.”

He turned to glare at Darwin. “My message is simple. I will give it and leave. Dr. Monkton asks me to say three things: that he has a man at Bailey’s Farm who is critically ill; that already the facies of death are showing; and that he would like you”—he leaned forward to make it a matter between him and Darwin alone—“to come and see that patient. If you will not do it, I will go back and so inform Dr. Monkton.”

“No.” Darwin sighed. “Colonel Pole, our rudeness to you was unforgivable, but there was a reason for it. These meetings of the Society are the high point of our month, and animal spirits sometimes drive us to exceed the proprieties. Give me a moment to call for my greatcoat and we will be on our way. My friends have told you their opinions of Dr. Monkton, and I must confess I am eager to see his patient. In my years of practice between here and Lichfield, Dr. Monkton and I have crossed paths many times—but never has he sought my advice on a medical matter. We are of very different schools, for both diagnosis and treatment.”