"The sarco," he explains. "The syphilis set it off. Can’t treat it properly until the antibiotics work, and they’re taking their own sweet time. Well, I say that. To be honest we’re bang on schedule, but I’m not enjoying it. Doctors make the worst patients. We don’t like being at the pointy end, you see, and we tend to squirm on the hook. My self-diagnosis was that I’d inhaled a whiff of the stuff I use on the aphids. I prescribed plenty of water, some controlled dieting and medicinal Scotch. The sexual angle didn’t really occur to me at the time, and now I’m not allowed to drown my romantic sorrows because of course that would interfere with the antibiotics, which adds insult. Barbara...well, Barbara will come round. I imagine she’s ashamed at the moment, but we’ll work it out." Something gravelly turns over in him on the last word, phlegm or something worse in his lungs. "So now you know. Charming as it is, I can’t imagine it’s remotely interesting to a full Inspector. What can I do for you?"