[ Goodsir's jaw drops a little in surprise. ]

I ... yes. I—it was John Hartnell. He ...

[ He scrubs his hand over his face, thoughts whirling. ]

Sir John ordered it. He wanted to know if it was scurvy or perhaps consumption, particularly as young Torrington had succumbed to the latter. It was neither for Hartnell, as far as I could tell. The poor lad had a weak constitution and simply could not survive the winter.