“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?”