Chapter 1887: Chapter 137: Dragging Everyone Down

Could something have really happened?

Arthur frowned, even forgetting how to breathe, his heart nearly stopping in shock.

There was a loud noise.

The door swung open, and John Snow stood there, coat open, with one button of his shirt collar undone.

He looked around the room first, as if to confirm that there were no outsiders, then closed the door.

"Sir, the Princess..."

"The Princess?" Arthur’s eyes widened: "Is it really her?"

Snow’s Adam’s apple moved. He hadn’t fully cooled down from Conroy’s rough treatment, but eventually, he forced himself to stay calm and replied, "Her condition is worse than I expected."

Upon hearing this, Arthur couldn’t help but raise his hand to cover his mouth: "John, please don’t tell me..."

The long-absent Red Devil, Agares, sat gleefully on his desk, slapping his thigh, trying to stifle laughter but still pretending to console: "Ah, Arthur, young people are bound to make mistakes."

"If I had known, I would’ve let Hutter and Colly be harsher!" Arthur suddenly thought of Elphinstone, and in his anger, he slammed his fist on the desk: "India? Madras Governor? He got off easy! I want him sent to Tasmania! I’m going to report to His Majesty the King, the Duke of Wellington, Sir Robert Peel, Viscount Melbourne... I’ll report to the Privy Council!"

Agares laughed until he nearly fell off the desk but still tried to control himself: "Oh dear, my dear Arthur, why concern yourself with others? They just want to flee far away to the open sea. Why burden yourself? Look at you, you weren’t even this anxious when your pigs in York ate someone else’s vegetables."

Arthur glared at him but quickly remembered it wasn’t the time to quarrel with the Red Devil. He turned, pulled out a sheet of paper from the desk, and started writing with a quill: "John, tell me, and I’ll write!"

Snow was shaken by his sudden anger but quickly pressed his lips together, as if worried he might also lose his temper: "The Princess is gravely ill, hasn’t eaten properly in three days, is physically weak, and needs assistance to get up. If not treated promptly, typhoid will soon claim her life."

"Hmm? Typhoid?" Arthur’s writing hand paused abruptly, he was dumbfounded for a moment, then quickly turned his head: "Isn’t she pregnant?"

Snow was also stunned by his question, like he’d been doused with ice water: "Pregnant? My God, Sir, who told you such nonsense? Her symptoms—high fever, night sweats, joint pain—are all typical of typhoid."

"But... the prescription?"

"That’s exactly what I’m talking about." Snow cursed angrily: "Laudanum, benzoin tincture, valerian, lemon balm, and ergot wine! Mixing these isn’t treating typhoid; it’s gambling with the patient’s life!"

Arthur blinked several times, his mind spinning like skidding wheels, took a moment to steady: "So... not pregnant?"

Snow’s tone was a bit sharp with offense: "Of course not!"

Arthur collapsed back against the chair like a deflating balloon, exhaling deeply.

Snow continued: "If pregnancy caused someone to have a high fever and lose consciousness along with gastrointestinal distress, then humans wouldn’t exist."

"Well, you never know." Arthur smiled, even managed to joke: "Worst case, we start all over, and I know such examples around me."

Agares looked at the fellow disdainfully: "Look at you, acting like Baal is eating filth."

Arthur ignored the Red Devil’s sarcasm and asked: "But previously, that prescription... Dr. Clark has been sent back to London, if it wasn’t his, whose was it?"

Snow’s face was cold, clearly enraged: "Sir, I believe you already have the answer. The prescription wasn’t even signed by a doctor. So, either a big shot from Kensington Palace decided, or they found a quack who just nods and says ’yes.’ But if there were such a quack, he’s smart enough not to sign this prescription. If the Medical Association found out he prescribed this for typhoid, he’d lose his license!"

Arthur pulled out the medication list from his pocket, his mood darkening instantly: "How is the Princess now?"

Snow gathered his thoughts and sighed: "When I went in, she was half-reclining, her face pale, lips dark, eyes vacant. She tried to speak, but her voice was barely audible. Her forehead was scalding, hands and feet cold. I felt her pulse; it was weak and fast, almost without force."

He paused, pressed his lips as if holding in anger: "I requested to change her medication, to give fluids and lower the fever, but Conroy, that Grand Steward, burst in, suggesting the young lady’s frailty was just sensitivity, implying I shouldn’t exaggerate her condition. When I insisted on my medical instructions, he had the servant lock my medical kit, saying they’d already consulted someone and had a prescription, so my guidance wasn’t needed."

Arthur raised an eyebrow: "So you didn’t administer any treatment?"

"I could only use my own small amount of medicine to barely reduce her fever, but it’s not a long-term solution. Typhoid requires sustained targeted treatment and nutritional support, and she can’t even drink soup now. Combined with those random medicines, laudanum will make her drowsy, benzoin and valerian will slow her response, and ergot wine could cause seizures. It’s pushing her into the grave!"

Snow couldn’t help but look up, directly at Arthur: "Sir, I must be blunt, we can’t let them continue this. Otherwise, the Princess could lose her life at any moment!"

Since becoming the Dean of Academic Affairs at the University of London, Arthur had quite a few interactions with Snow.

He must admit, it was the first time he saw this mild-mannered young doctor so enraged.

Of course, Snow had every reason to be angry, not only at Conroy for doubting his skills but also at their reckless medication risking lives.

However, Arthur could somewhat understand why Conroy would rather drive Snow away than admit a mistake.

Admitting Victoria was critically ill would mean acknowledging a failure by him and the Duchess of Kent, causing a stir throughout the Great Britain and Ireland United Kingdom and leading to public doubt over Kensington Palace’s ability to care for Victoria. Consequently, the Duchess of Kent’s regency would be at risk, along with Conroy’s power dreams.

Arthur could understand Conroy’s thinking, but his reckless self-interest was like sinking a ship with one punch.

If it reached that point, Arthur, as a "drowning ghost," would be sure to strangle him with kelp.

Seeing Arthur’s uncertain demeanor, Snow suddenly stood and handed over a letter: "Sir, when I left Albion Villa, the Princess’s governess asked me to deliver this to you."

"Hmm?" Arthur took the letter, examined it seriously, then rechecked it, stunned, eyes wide with anger, slamming the table: "Outrageous! Is he planning a rebellion!"

"Sir?" Snow was startled: "What’s in the letter?"

Arthur glanced out the window, Albion Villa’s lights still on across the street.

Pacing the room, he hesitated, then decisively said: "The pharmacies should still be open. Go buy the medicine for treating typhoid. We’ll meet outside the inn later."

Snow was puzzled, not understanding Arthur’s intent: "But Albion Villa isn’t accepting visitors now..."

"Whether they accept visitors or not isn’t up to them." Arthur took a deep breath, opened the door, and shouted: "Thomas, gather your men, no time to sleep tonight!"