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wager. And do you have any notion as to what might have caused this fog?” he inquired.
    The merchant shrugged. “I did not stop to think, sir. I rode on for my life!”
    The young doctor was sympathetic. “It must have been terrifying.”
    “By heaven, man, it was! I saw laborers in the fields fall, choking.” He lifted the brandy to his lips.
    “And where was this, sir?” Thomas pressed.
    “Just outside Bedford,” replied the merchant, before gulping down his liquor in one go.
    “And that is north of here?”
    “Yes, sir. About eighty miles northeast. I took the road south and I’m pleased to say I was clear of it by Buckingham.” He turned to his companion. “I hope I never encounter such a fog again!”
    “I hope you never do, either,” nodded Thomas. But he had the distinctly uncomfortable feeling that this deadly haze, this mephitic gas, or whatever it was, was moving inexorably closer. Suddenly all the strange phenomena he had encountered over the past three or four days began to make sense. The rise in barometric pressure could explain the arrival of this noxious cloud, the unseasonal flight of the geese, the swarming of rats, the absence of bees, and the low-flying birds. Nature knew instinctively that something extraordinary and potentially deadly was in her midst—and it was heading south. If that was the case, then in the next few days it would threaten the city of Oxford and, of course, the Boughton estate.
     
    From the small viewing room inside the golden orb on top of West Wycombe church, three noblemen were enjoying each other’s company over cards.
    “Sweet Jesu, this has to be one of the best views in Christendom,” cried Sir Montagu Malthus. He was peering out from one of the small windows that offered unparalleled views of the countryside as it flattened out toward the Thames. “Windsor Castle is looking splendid this evening.”
    “We are indeed high up here,” replied Sir John Dashwood-King. “Franklin wanted to affix one of his new-fangled lightning conductors to the roof,” he said, pointing upward and giggling at what he clearly considered a fanciful notion.
    “Full of ridiculous ideas, these Americans,” agreed Sir Montagu.
    The lawyer, who had been the late Lord Crick’s guardian, was a great raven of a man. His tall stature and brooding presence added to his formidable reputation as a ruthless advocate. He had broken his journey between the Inns of Court in London and his country seat near Banbury at West Wycombe Park. The fact that he could play a winning hand and eulogize about the view at the same time spoke volumes to his friends. Not much escaped his prying eyes.
    “Yes, this brings back memories of dear Francis,” he told the jocular baronet, who was seated opposite him. “Oh, the times we had in the caves!”
    Sir John’s broad face beamed. “I can believe that. What was the motto? Do as you please ?”
    Sir Montagu’s great shoulders jumped at the thought. “And we did, by Jove! Ay, Henry?”
    Sir Henry Thorndike was also at the card table, although he seemed less engaged in the game. He had still not fully recovered from the exertion of climbing the dozens of steps leading from the church tower into the globe. He took out his kerchief and dabbed his forehead.
    “Oh, yes. The times we had,” he replied weakly, still struggling for breath.
    Sir Montagu turned to Sir John. “Wouldn’t think so to look at him now,” he said under his breath.
    “So how does he manage that young wife of his?”
    Sir Montagu winked. “He lets others do that for him. I’ll wager any money you like that the next heir to Fetcham Manor won’t be his,” came the whispered reply.
    Both men turned to see the old man wiping the sweat from his top lip.
    Sir John called for more wine and they drank heartily. The talk turned to women and the price of grain, the health of His Majesty King George and the Whigs at Westminster.
    “So you have come straight from London?” queried