The Merchant and the Clergyman by Bonnie Dee Page B

tonic
for the problems related to feeblemindedness. Very efficacious. It
contains a derivative of coca and other calming remedies.”
    “What does that mean?” Declan tried to keep
the disgust from his voice, but the doctor might have been reading
from a patent medicine advertisement in any newspaper.
    “It’s very effective.”
    Declan snorted and gave up on diplomacy. “I
was unclear. I meant what the hell is in the stuff?”
    “Unfortunately, the doctor has a proprietary
interest in some ingredients in the tonic.”
    “In other words, you don’t know what you’re
prescribing for her? What kind of—”
    “I—I’d thought conditions such as hers are
gradual events.” Fletcher cast an apologetic smile at Shaw. For his
interruption? Thank goodness the man was here, or Shaw would bite a
hole in his own cheek.
    He nodded encouragingly at Fletcher, who
immediately looked away, wiped a hand over his mouth, then
continued, “Several aged people in the village have problems
similar to hers. I’ve noticed their deterioration is gradual. Mrs.
Darnley’s condition seemed to come upon her so suddenly.”
    “Ah, you’re playing physician again? Such a
man to come to the rescue of the ladies.” The doctor chuckled.
“I’ve observed how the ladies of the village have made you into
their pet, Mr. Fletcher, but even countless conversations or
confessions of their funny little conditions could not turn you
into a doctor.”
    Silence fell for several long seconds. Declan
tamped down his immediate instinct to defend Fletcher and leaned
back in his chair. He suspected the mild-mannered curate might
ignore the smirking doctor, but would wait to see.
    Mr. Fletcher’s smile was charming. “Dr.
Tarkington, I base what I said upon observation . And I
recall, you recently observed that your best weapon in the
fight against diseases you expect to encounter in future patients
is observing the same symptoms in today’s patients.” Shaw
could have sworn he heard the tiniest emphasis on the repeated
word. Nothing obvious. Not as good as a knee in the groin, but he
supposed Fletcher’s response was better than cringing or backing
down.
    Apparently, the doctor didn’t hear Fletcher’s
irritation or he ignored it. He addressed Shaw. “I believe Mrs.
Darnley suffered an apoplectic fit which left her brain
disordered.”
    That was as close to an actual diagnosis the
man had given so far. “Will she make any more of a recovery?”
Declan asked.
    “Impossible to say.” The doctor tilted his
head back, and Declan tried not to stare up the man’s nose.
    Declan pulled out a small notebook and, from
the corner of his eye, noticed the doctor shift uneasily in his
chair. “I’ll just jot a few notes,” Declan said. “The name of that
patent remedy?”
    “It is no such thing. The doctor who produces
it was in school with me.”
    Shaw didn’t want to get into a tedious
argument with the man. “The name,” he repeated.
    “Why?”
    “I shall write to the physician and ask for
the formula.”
    Dr. Tarkington looked as if he wanted to
argue, but he surrendered at last. He gave Declan the doctor’s name
and even his address, but without any enthusiasm.
    Declan tucked his notebook into an inside
pocket and rose to his feet. “Thank you for your time,” he
said.
    The doctor did not say he was welcome. He’d
lost all of his polished manners. “If there’s nothing else, I have
a busy schedule today.” Tarkington opened the door to the sitting
room. Instead of summoning the maidservant, he himself led them
out. They stopped on the stone step outside the house, and the
doctor scolded Declan in a low voice. “Your uncle deserves better
than your suspicion, young man.”
    “Why do you think I suspect my uncle of
anything?”
    Tarkington’s eyes narrowed, and he
practically slammed the front door behind them.
    Declan put his hat on his head and grasped
Fletcher’s elbow before the curate managed to rush away and leave
him behind.