The shock upon entering was considerable. Wren, a short, neat man with flowing locks and a not unpleasing countenance, looked annoyed as I walked into the room and stopped, staring, at the sight which I beheld. Locke had a kind of smirk on his face, like a child caught in some prank, glad to have his naughtiness known to the world. My friend, my very good friend, Richard Lower, at least had the goodness to be discountenanced and embarrassed to have his deceit so exposed that there was no possibility of any doubt about what was taking place.

For on a wide deal table in the middle of the room, a dog was strapped, whining piteously, and rolling its eyes in distress as it struggled to free itself. Next to it was another, more resigned to the torture it was being forced to endure. A long thin tube ran from the neck of one to that of the other, and blood from the incisions made in the necks of each had splattered onto Locke’s apron and onto the floor.

They were transfusing blood. Repeating my experiment in secret. Concealing their deeds from me, the person who had best right to be informed of what they were doing. I could not believe I had been so betrayed.

Lower recovered first. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said without even having the courtesy to present me to Wren. “I must absent myself for a while.”

He took off his apron, and threw it onto the floor, then asked me to accompany him into the garden. I dragged my eyes from the scene that so assaulted my spirits, and followed angrily down the stairs.

We walked around the gardens, criss-crossing the box hedges and patches of grass at random for several moments while I kept silent, waiting for him to explain himself.

“Not my fault, Cola,” he said after a very long while had passed. “Please accept my apologies. It was unforgivable of me to behave in such a way.”

The shock had still not passed, and I could find no words.

“Locke, you see, told Wren of the experiment we—you—had devised for Mrs. Blundy, and he was so excited that he insisted on repeating it. It detracts not a whit from your own achievement, you know. We merely plod along in your footsteps, emulating the master.”

He grinned sheepishly, and turned to see how his apology was being received. I was resolved to remain cold.

“The barest courtesy demanded that you inform me, even if you could not bring yourself to invite my attendance.”

A grimace replaced the smile. “True,” he said. “And I am properly sorry for it. I did look for you, but didn’t know where you were. And Wren wants to go back to London this afternoon, you see…”

“So you betray one friend to accommodate another,” I interrupted coldly.

This justified comment disconcerted him considerably, and he pretended to become angry. “What betrayal? Once an idea is conceived, it does not remain the property of the person who imagined it first. We do not deny your achievement, nor did we plan to keep it a secret from you. You were not there; that is all there is to the matter. I did not know that Wren was so keen to try it out until I encountered him this morning.”

His tone was so insistent that I felt my doubts ebbing away. I so very much wanted to believe him, and to think of him as my friend still, that I could not hold on to my conviction that I was betrayed. But then I remembered the look of shocked exposure on his face as I walked into that room, a more sure confession of guilt than anything I had seen on the face of Sarah Blundy.

“We do not intend to publish this to the world without your knowledge and permission,” he continued when he saw he had still not breached my defenses. “And you must admit, it is a better way of doing it. If we—you—make an account of your discovery in a fashion which admits the transfusion was first attempted on a woman, you will be dismissed as reckless and dangerous. If, however, you preface it with accounts of transfusion between dogs, then the disapprobation will be greatly lessened.”

“And that is what you were doing?”

“Of course it was,” he said, encouraged by the soothing of my anger. “I have told you of my fears if this becomes generally known too quickly. It has to be done in this fashion, and the sooner the better. I am sorry—truly sorry—that you were not there. Please accept my most humble apologies. And, on their behalf, I offer those of Locke and Wren as well, as they never intended any discourtesy.”

He bowed low and, as he had no hat on, swept off his wig as he did so. My face cracked with a faint smile at the absurdity, but I was determined this time not to give way because of such a device.

“Come now,” he said, discouraged by my reaction. “Do you forgive me?”

I nodded. “Very well,” I said flatly, although it was one of the biggest lies I have ever told. But I still needed his good offices and had no alternative, beggar in friendship as I now was, to maintaining at least the appearance of cordiality. “Let us talk no more on this matter, otherwise we will quarrel once again.”

“Where were you, anyway?” he asked. “We really did look.”

“With Mrs. Blundy, who is sick and getting sicker. And with her daughter.”

“In the castle?”

I nodded. “I did not wish to go, but the mother begged me. And it reassured me greatly. If ever a soul was capable of murder, it is that girl. I have no doubts, even though I suspect she will deny the deed, and I would be easier still if she confessed to it freely. But it seems clear to me now that she asked Grove for money to aid her mother that morning in Tillyard’s and was rejected. So she took it anyway, murdering him and stealing from his room. It is dreadful that duty to a parent can be so corrupted and twisted.”

Lower nodded. “She told you this?”

“Not she,” I said. “She will not admit anything. But she does want to do one good deed still, perhaps out of remorse, because I can think of no other reason for it.”

Quickly, I told Lower of the offer of her corpse, in return for his agreeing to treat and care for the mother. Lower looked surprised, and—I hate to say it—positively eager that he should benefit in this fashion.

“How does the mother?”

“I doubt you will find her a lengthy burden on your pocket,” I said. “That is something else I need to talk to you about. She is failing, and if the girl dies, I believe that the extinction of the spirit in one will have fatal results on the other.”

He looked thoughtful as I told him of my fears, and of the only remedy I believed might salvage the situation. “She must have more blood, Lower,” I said. “And from a different person, one strong enough and healthy enough to counteract the girl’s spirit. Quickly, as well. If Sarah is tried tomorrow, she will die the day after. There is little time.”

“You are convinced of this?”

“Totally. She has already declined along with the girl’s spirits, the signs are obvious to see. There can be no other cause that I can imagine.”

He grunted. “You mean you want to do it today.”

“Yes. For her sake, and for that of our friendship, I would beg a final assistance from you.”

We walked around the garden again in a similitude of friendship as he pondered my reasoning.

“You might be right,” he said at last. “Unless there is something we do not know.”

“If we do not know it, we cannot take account of it,” I pointed out.

Another grunt, then he took one of those deep breaths which indicated he had taken a decision. “Very well,” he said. “This evening. I will bring one of the gardeners from the college who can be relied on to keep quiet.”

“Why not this afternoon?”

“Because I want to see the girl. If I am to have her, I will need a properly signed and witnessed letter to that effect. It will take time, and must be done before the trial begins. You know she will burn?”

“The magistrate told me.”

“The chances of her being much use are small, unless I can persuade Sir John to intervene with the judge.” He bowed. “But don’t worry. We’ll get it done in time. Meet me at the Angel after dinner. Then we’ll take care of the mother.”