The Lord and the Banshee (Read by Candlelight #13) - Gillian St. Kevern
1
Like Mereweather, the room was furnished with perfect tact. Mahogany desk, armchairs to match. Only the surfaces, scrupulously clear of knick-knacks, hinted this was not the refined sitting room it appeared. A closer look at the leather spines of the books in the bookcase gave the show away: all medical titles, more than a few of them penned by the man now speaking to him.
“Lord Cross?”
The chaise lounge substituted for a patient couch, while the artistic merit of the Japanese folding screen obscured its usefulness. The room held only two incongruous elements. The first was the picture above the fireplace. The etching depicted the ruins of a Roman bath under the moonlight. The remaining column stood pale and ghostly in the moonlight, while the water reflected the brilliant night sky above. It was a striking romantic piece, entirely out of place for a Harley street doctor known for brilliant innovation, steadfast focus, and the audacity to challenge medical norms.
“This has come as a shock. Would you like a moment?”
The second incongruity was the doctor himself. Thomas had first met Stephen Mereweather when he was a serious young man of nineteen. Then he’d thought the boy old for his age. Now, a slight man of forty-odd years, he wore a wistful expression that made him seem younger than he was.
“A shock.” He pressed a hand to his forehead. “Yes. It is that.”
Mereweather’s tone was even. They might have been discussing the weather! “The damage is irreversible, but with care we can slow its progress.” He poured a glass from the carafe on his desk. He had fine hands, like a pianist. “Here.”
Thomas raised the glass to his lips. Water. “Do you have anything stronger?”
Mereweather shook his head. “Your liver cannot handle it. No alcohol, and a moderate diet.”
His mouth tasted sour. Thomas swallowed, but could not rid himself of the bitterness. “And if I am careful…? Are we talking months, years?”
“It’s hard to be sure. The difficulties you described suggest an advanced state of hepatic encephalopathy, a symptom we’d expect to see in the latter stages of cirrhosis.”
Thomas shook his head. The heaviness did not budge. “I’m sorry I asked.”
Mereweather studied him. “I would make an appointment with your solicitor at once.”
That remark made it real. Not the fall, the confusion, or the bruises he could not explain. The prospect of talking to his lawyer. Thomas tightened his jaw. “Understood.” He stood, picking up his gloves and hat. “Much obliged, Mereweather.”
He walked with Thomas to the door. “Come and see me again next week.”
Thomas paused on the step, walking stick in hand. “Is there any point?”
“In my profession, one cannot make any promises.” The bustle of London traffic almost overwhelmed the doctor’s words. Thomas strained to hear him. “But we can manage this. With care, you could see another Christmas.”
“Five months.” When he’d entered the doctor’s office, he’d been a robust man in his late sixties. And now, not even a half year left…
“Do you need a cab?”
Thomas shook his head. “I’ll walk while I still can.”
He set off down the street. An omnibus rattled past, driver carelessly flicking his whip. A horse whinnied, startled by a careless cyclist. Thomas noted the noise, the way one might the patter of rain against the roof. His mind churned, replaying Mereweather’s words. Cirrhosis of the liver. Advanced. No treatment.
Lucky to see Christmas…
How would he tell Pip?
Thomas stopped short, the depth of it crashing over him in one great wave. Pip—he would have to tell Pip.
The drawing room of the Trent street townhouse was unoccupied, but the fire lit. Thomas pulled the bellpull.
Barnett entered the room with a bow. “Yes, sir?” He paused, a note of polite enquiry in his voice. He appeared the model of a modern butler: his tail coat was immaculate and his hair slicked and shiny as if recently varnished.
Thomas scowled at him. “I want Mr Leighton. Where is he?”
Barnett raised an eyebrow. “I understand Mr Leighton is still in Galway, visiting a friend.”
How had he forgotten? “Ireland.” Some fool of a journalist inherited a castle and the ridiculous banshee legend that went with it. Pip had been on fire to visit.
Thomas sank into his seat. He would wire Pip to return at once. What was the name of the chap? Connaught, that was it—
Barnett coughed. “Your usual?”
“What?”
Barnett inclined his head towards the decanter on the sideboard.
Cross usually had a glass of whiskey at this time of the day. “Yes. No.” His chest tightened. “I’ll have a pot of tea.”