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response, I looked up. I wondered if the man was too ill to reply. Perhaps he wasn’t used to having to reply to servants. I ignored the slight, whether it was intentional or not, and asked him if I could examine him. As with Lord Salisbury, he was indifferent to my request and to my careful removal of the bedcoverings. His body was sadly wasted and showed very much the same effects of poisoning as had my previous patient’s.
    I wanted to ask him many questions. We had much work to do, but for the first time, I became aware of the other people in the room. I looked about me for a sympathetic face, someone I could enlist in my quest for answers, but my gaze was met by stony glares or looks of complete indifference. Two or three of the men, I knew instantly, were doctors like myself. Yet… not like me, for they were…. I suppressed a smile. They were yellow and hunched. I nodded in their direction. I could not blame them for their antipathy. No professional man likes to see another treating his patient. But they had failed. They had little choice but to let me attempt a cure. Besides the doctors, there were men who reminded me of Mme. Costain’s husband, and I thought them similarly ministers or counselors. There were servants, one or two pageboys, and some women and young men less easy to place. I did not know whom to address.
    I was saved from the attempt when a man strode into the room. The ripple his arrival caused led me to believe he was the crown prince—Prince George. I stood up and bowed my head a little. He came close. He was shorter than I, which was to be expected, as I was well over six feet and something of an oddity for it. He was not a bad-looking man, but something soured his features for me. I gave him the benefit of the doubt that he was merely suffering from anxiety for his father. I did wonder, though, whether the heir to any throne could ever truly be said to be keen for the continued good health of his monarch. He would have to be a saint, a man unwilling to assume the privilege of majesty. Europe abounds with such men, does it not?
    Masking my thoughts, I inquired the history of his father’s illness. I had guessed his identity correctly, for he did not find the question odd but looked around the room for a moment before summoning one of the doctors. He was the best-looking of the three, not in terms of beauty but as a professional man who knew his business—despite being unable to cure a king. I bowed once more and wandered to a large window recess, where the chosen doctor joined me. I introduced myself. He did likewise. He was French, Doctor Jules Lyons. I said I had heard of him, which I had, and this pleased him no end. We spoke in French. I had only a bastardized patois learned in the colonies, but we understood each other well enough. He had some English as well, and between these two languages we managed to piece together a history of the king’s sickness.
    He had taken sick upon returning from a holiday to his summer villa some six months previous. It was ironic, everyone said, that he had been so healthy just as ill health had struck him. I asked my usual questions, not outright who would want to harm the king but general ones to build up a picture of his routines, his close associates, and those with whom he had most contact.
    Doctor Lyons was not stupid. Not only did he know that poison was being openly discussed in connection to the king’s health, he immediately saw where my questions were leading. He seemed an honest man and told me candidly that he had considered all this himself but had been unable to come to any conclusion. No one person prepared the king’s meals; they all ate from the same dishes. No one had access to the king alone. It was a mystery. I nodded and pursed my lips, thinking.
    Before I could comment further, there was a commotion near the door. Prince George appeared to be remonstrating with someone in the other room, and some of the counselors had begun to