pulled on his jacket, cold prickles of unease dancing across his shoulders. “How so?”
“Cirrhosis of the liver is not something that can be recovered from. It just isn’t. For a patient in so advanced a decline as yourself, experiencing the attacks that Mr Leighton reported and you yourself described, to be able to present himself with no pain and feeling fine… Frankly, it boggles all belief.”
Cross blinked. Not even when he’d faced his grandfather’s death and his father’s abrupt disappearance, had Mereweather evinced such confusion. “But it’s good—isn’t it?”
Mereweather pressed his lips together. “I should very much like to give you good news, Lord Cross, but I confess, I am very worried. Your liver feels painfully hard, and I am sure it is in a very poor state, yet you say you do not feel any pain.”
“None whatsoever.” Cross rubbed his stomach. “Not since quitting Connaught castle.”
“And your last attack—the one before the banshee’s appearance.”
Cross’s head snapped up. “Who told you about that?” He hadn’t mentioned it to anyone.
“So there was a third attack?” Mereweather watched him steadily, his gaze unblinking.
Cross scowled. “I did not think it worth mentioning. It would only have alarmed Mr Leighton, and he was worried enough.”
What Mereweather thought of that was impossible to tell. He sat in one of the lush armchairs, his delicate hands resting on his knees. “Mr Westaway noticed that your clothing when you followed the banshee to the library was considerably more dishevelled than it had been when he had last seen you, including the disappearance of a button from your vest. He later found the button on the floor of your bedroom. He put the facts together, and concluded you were taken unwell and concealing the fact.”
Bother Julian’s obsession with people’s attire! “He’s right. There was a third attack. More… prolonged than the previous two, but less violent. I didn’t fall, but lowered myself to the ground. When it passed, I was able to get to my feet again. I felt unsteady, but that soon passed. Since then, I’ve not been troubled by my health.”
Mereweather took a memorandum book and pencil from his bag, and sat silently, jotting down notes.
Cross shifted on the sofa, attempting to make himself comfortable. “I feel fine. Better than fine. No trouble breathing, and I do not seem as troubled by aches and pains as I was. I do not tire so quickly, though I must confess, I have very little interest in eating, and I find it hard to fall asleep of nights.”
Mereweather finished the note he was writing and looked up. “All the same, I should very much like to examine you further. Would you return with me to London?
“For what purpose? To be poked and prodded at some more?”
“You have heard, perhaps, of the X-ray? It is a French invention, allowing us to view a photographic impression of a patient’s insides. I would like to see what an x-ray of your liver may tell us.”
Cross’s hand clutched the arm of the sofa. “No need. I feel much better. There is no need to waste your time.”
“But the severity of your previous symptoms is such that—“
“I’m better,” Cross snarled.
Mereweather jerked backwards, almost dropping his pencil.
Cross drew his hand across his face. “That was unmannerly of me. I apologise.”
Mereweather made no move to pick up his pen. “Mr Leighton and Mr Westaway mentioned that your temper has been uncertain of late. Mr Westaway in particular was keen that I knew you were not acting like your usual self.”
“Was he now?” Trust Julian to overcome his grudge against Mereweather at the least opportune moment.
“Are you experiencing any pain? Headaches, for example?”
Cross slumped backwards in his chair. “No. I am out of sorts. I dislike travelling, and being in the company of strangers. This trip has dragged on far too long.” He sighed. “If you must know, I am homesick for Foxwood. I want nothing more than to be back in my house, this nonsense behind us, and getting caught up with my estate.”
Mereweather nodded slowly, weighing Cross’s words. “Travelling does bring many inconveniences, and by all accounts, Foxwood Court is a very pleasant home. I shall not delay you any further, but if I may visit you in Foxwood once you’ve had the chance to settle in from your trip…?”
Cross nodded. “It’s a fool’s errand, but if you insist on making the journey, I won’t turn you away.”
Mereweather gave him a professional nod, and dropped his notebook into his bag. “Much obliged, Lord Cross.”
Had he