“Are you going to tell me what you think it might be, doctor, or shall I have to guess?”
“I can’t begin to guess,” he answered. “The only thing I can think of is… well, sir, you’re into your forties now, aren’t you?”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, you may find, sir, that as your body ages, it may not perform as optimally as we all might like it to. So perhaps, if you would be willing to consider…”
“That I’m getting old, doctor?”
The doctor made a face. “Well, I will admit that you seem to be in well-regulated condition, but yes.”
He seemed to be waiting for a response of some kind, hanging on the moment until someone broke it, but for a long couple of moments, nobody did.
“Thank you for your time, doctor,” John Paul said finally.
“Ah—yes,” he answered. “See Mr. Shannon at the desk about the matter of payment.”
“Of course,” answered the Colonel, putting his clothes back on.
He paid on the way out, cringing slightly. The number seemed a little high to him, but he had to admit he didn’t know what the proper amount was.
“Are you sure that man wasn’t a complete quack,” he said as he left, the prescription note in his pocket.
“Not at all, uncle,” Henry said. “Let’s get you to the pharmacy.”
John Paul lay in bed later that night. He had felt better, somewhat, when he’d come home. That, at least had been some consolation, and he was glad for it, even if he didn’t say anything to anyone. He had decided to put on a face as if recovery was what he’d expected entirely, as if he’d seen it coming.
The truth was, when he thought back, the hints were certainly there, but he hadn’t seen it coming. He hadn’t even come close to predicting anything like it. He had been weaker when he’d moved the furniture, but it had seemed like purely a result of growing older.
He had known men, though, several years his elder in the service. Men higher up the pay grade. And he knew that they didn’t fall down spontaneously because of short walks.
It couldn’t simply be old age, and he hadn’t been feeling exceptionally ill. The doctor had said that it could be any of those things, of course. He’d said he didn’t seem especially ill, so it wasn’t likely that it was influenza, and he had been eating fairly well the past few weeks, so it wasn’t a case of malnutrition.
The doctor, ignoring John Paul’s history, had suggested the possibility of it simply being old age deteriorating his body, his muscles. He had sounded dubious, though, even looking just at John Paul half-undressed.
There was little room for doubt, even now that he had started to lose his condition, that he had spent more than a few years developing his body into the peak of physical fitness. Suggesting that he was weak enough to stumble and fall on a simple walk in a park was ludicrous.
That left one simple conclusion, then, John Paul decided. He had been, and likely was still being, poisoned. It was the only thing that made any sense. He could think of no alternative.
Who, then? Who stood to gain from it?
It could be one of the servants, he supposed. They had no reason for it, but if they had perceived some slight… no, he thought. It wasn’t likely at all. He’d been naught but kind to them. They likely had no grudge against him at all, or if they had one, it was quite minor.
Besides that, the only one who had ready access to his food was Thomas. He dismissed the thought out of hand. He had been nothing but kind to the boy, and the boy just as kind in return.
He frowned. It must be, then, someone else with whom he’d spent time. It seemed all of a sudden that the walk he’d taken with his fiancée took on a meaner note. That had been a meeting of everyone he could put on the list.
Who would benefit? Simon had a large debt to be paid. John Paul knew, or at least guessed, that he would never be able to pay it all, but he had swallowed his pride for the sake of marriage.
Henry stood to inherit at least something, certainly. John Paul wondered for a moment if he knew it, but pushed the thought away. More than likely he knew. But his surprise and concern had seemed genuine. He had asked, quite worried, if he was going to be alright after his fall.
Could it be Lydia? He pondered the thought. She would inherit after they married. A short eleven months, now, and then his estate would fall to her. He pushed the thought away. It was quite impossible that it was Lydia, though, he told himself. She was far too kind, too gentle. She wouldn’t.
Only, he thought, that created quite the dilemma.
He had ruled Henry out without a second thought; it simply didn’t fit the facts. He had always been extremely concerned whenever anything had happened, anything that had set John Paul on edge.
He’d been worried for his uncle’s health when he’d fainted at the table; he’d been unaware when he discovered his waning strength the other day, John Paul hoped, though he had said nothing. On the walk, he had rushed over, concerned, and helped him home.