Two years earlier, in 1894, he had received an urgent call to attend to a medical emergency at the Barrow farm.
When she arrived, she found one of the twin sisters in an advanced stage of labor.
The delivery had been difficult and dangerous, and required all of her skill to ensure the mother's survival.
What worried him, he explained, was the extraordinary secrecy that had surrounded the event.
During the last kilometer of the approach, he was blindfolded and guided by the other sister, who refused to answer any of his questions.
Supposedly, the father was bedridden in another room, but Cross never saw him.
After the handover, he was paid in cash and, once again, blindfolded for his departure, with strict instructions never to speak about what had happened.
Galloway leaned forward, his instincts suddenly heightened.
Had the doctor seen the child?
Cross shook his head.
The other sister immediately took the baby, wrapped in blankets.
I had heard him cry once, a faint moan, but then nothing more.
He had assumed the child was being looked after in another room, although the absolute silence that followed seemed strange to him.
As a doctor, Cross was subject to certain ethical obligations regarding patient privacy, which is why he remained silent for 2 years.
But the sheriff's previous visit and his questions had aroused their own concerns.
Where was that child now?
If one of the sisters had given birth, why had no one in the community ever seen the baby?
And what about the father?
Who was he and where was he now?
The implications of what Cross was suggesting hung over the room like a physical weight: a child born in secret, a missing cousin, a family living in complete isolation behind walls of silence.
Galloway thanked the doctor and assured him that their conversation would remain confidential.
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