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upstairs to see Anthony and talk to the doctor. Martin trailed the butler into the library where a drink was offered and not refused.
    He slumped into a leather chair, sipped a gin and bitters, and stared morosely at the dusk-tinged windows. He associated the room with Anthony Greville. The silver riding trophies … the decanters of whisky and gin … the myriad leather-bound books, few of which his uncle had ever read … “No time for it, dear lad … no ruddy time for it.” A strong, vital, sporting man. Impossible to think of him struck low.
    â€œMartin Rilke, is it?”
    A slender, gray-haired man entered the room carrying a medical bag which he set on a table by the door.
    â€œYes,” Martin said, half rising from his chair.
    â€œDon’t get up,” the man said, advancing across the room. “Is that pink gin you’re drinking?”
    â€œIt is.”
    â€œAny more about?”
    Martin gestured toward a sideboard. “Any number of bottles over there.”
    â€œOf course there are. I was a fool to ask. Gin’s the perfect sundown drink, wouldn’t you say? Sharpens the appetite for dinner.” He crossed to the sideboard, poured gin into a glass, and added a few drops of Angostura. He then leaned back against the heavy oak table and smiled at Martin. “You wouldn’t remember me, of course. Lord no, but I remember you. Nineteen fourteen … a few months before the war. A supper party to welcome you to England.”
    â€œI remember,” Martin said.
    â€œPerhaps, but not me . Most unlikely. One face in the crowd. The name’s Morton … David Morton, physician and surgeon. Sir David, blowin’ me own horn. County coroner and former M.P. for Crawley. Best slow bowler Surrey ever fielded in ‘eighty-eight. Captain of the eleven when his nibs and I were at school.”
    â€œYou’ve known Anthony that long?”
    â€œLord, yes. Same age to the month. ‘Course I look older. Only natural. Led a harder life.” He swirled the gin and bitters in his glass. “I’m a bloody good doctor in spite of playing cricket and going off to Parliament. Might have snagged a peerage if I hadn’t opposed the war so vocally. But did me duty, though, to put it mildly; cut, sew, and amputate for four bloody years as chief of surgery at Number Seven General Boulogne. Bellowed me rage every second of the time.” He fixed his hard, pale eyes on Martin’s face. “Still bellowing, if it comes to that. Past president of No More War International, Surrey and Sussex chapter, and represented all England at the Brussels conference two years ago. Your books are bibles to me.” He raised his glass. “So this is to you, for your arguments for sanity, past and future, and to your new book.”
    â€œHow did you know there’s a new book?”
    The doctor swallowed his drink and set the glass on the table.
    â€œI’m on Calthorpe and Crofts mailing list. An End to Castles , is that right? Due out in June. Half a crown. Sent my order in right away for a dozen copies, though I dare say I’ll be purchasing more than that. Pass ‘em out like ruddy pills.” He drew a silver watch from his waistcoat and scowled at it. “Must be off. Anthony and his angina have played havoc with my rounds.”
    â€œWill he be all right?”
    â€œLord, yes. Tough as brass, that man. Went into a temporary emotional turmoil and his coronary arteries sent him a message to get his feet back on the ground. Always keep a level head, young man, and you’ll keep a steady heart.” He started for the door as Martin stood up. “Charles told the gaffer you were here. He’d like to see you. Slipped him a stiff sedative so he might not be too coherent. Gave her ladyship one as well and packed her off to bed.” He gripped Martin’s hand and shook it vigorously. “Damn glad to meet you again, Rilke. As