Pestilence

by Ken McClure

  As he waited he smiled at his own naivete. Of course there would be no sounds of children at Palmer’s Green. The apartments here cost the earth. No young families could possibly afford them. They were the prerogative of the well heeled and, in Skelmore, which automatically meant the elderly.

  The doors slid back and Saracen approached the hall desk. “I’d like to see Mr Archer.”

  “Is Mr Archer expecting you sir?”

  “No.”

  “What name please?”

  “Dr Saracen.”

  “One moment.”

  The man picked up a green telephone and Saracen turned away, unwilling to eavesdrop on someone else’s conversation however mundane. He casually examined the large mosaic that occupied an entire wall in the entrance area and recognised Greek helmets, spears and rocks that appeared to have elephants’ trunks protruding from them. Leaning his head first to the right and then to the left he still failed to establish an overall theme and gave up with a slight shrug of the shoulders.

  “Mr Archer will see you sir. Flat number fourteen.” said the caretaker.

  Saracen followed the direction of the man’s outstretched finger and made his way to Archer’s apartment. He knocked gently on the door and it was opened almost immediately. “Come in Doctor. It’s good to see you.”

  Saracen noticed that Archer’s tan had faded a good deal since the last time they had met and his hair was more unkempt than it had been. An open bottle of whisky stood on a small table by the armchair, a half filled glass beside it.

  “Can I fix you one?” asked Archer nodding to the bottle. Saracen agreed and Archer poured a generous measure into a tumbler. “Anything in it?”

  “A little water.”

  Archer went to the kitchen to fetch the water giving Saracen time to appraise his surroundings. There was an impersonal, almost hotel like ambience, about the place with no books, ornaments, photographs or letters lying around. Through an open door he could see a suitcase lying open on the floor and half full of clothes. He guessed that time had been standing still for Archer.

  Archer returned and said, “I’d like to think that this is a social visit Doctor but maybe not?”

  “It’s about your wife,” Saracen began tentatively. “There are some things I think you should know.”

  When Saracen had finished Archer sat forward in his chair and cradled his head in his hands.

  “I’m sorry,” said Saracen softly.

  Archer shook his head and said, “Plague? My wife died of plague?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “But that died out centuries ago,” protested Archer.

  “In Britain but it’s endemic in some areas of the world including parts of Africa.”

  “But I haven’t got it!”

  “No,” agreed Saracen. “But did your wife leave to come to Britain directly?”

  Archer shook his head. “No, she went around the country visiting some of our old friends for a week or so before she left, saying good-bye, that sort of thing.”

  Saracen nodded and said, “Well somewhere along the line she must have come into contact with an infected source.”

  Archer shivered and rubbed his arms briskly. “God, it’s cold in here,” he said and got up. He went over to the heating controls on the wall and fiddled with the dials before complaining that it was no use, the place was always cold.

  Saracen smiled and sympathised. He was relieved that his task was over and Garten had taken it well. “Have you any idea what you will do now?” he asked Archer.

  “I thought I might take one of these sea cruises, get some sun, new places, new faces, start picking up the pieces.”

  “Good idea,” said Saracen.

  “But not just yet,” said Archer. “First I’m going to spend the summer here in Skelmore. I’m going to do all the things Myra and I said we’d do if we came back.”

  Saracen smiled and nodded. He put down his empty tumbler and got to his feet. Archer got up with him and held out his hand. “Thank you for coming; thank you for telling me.”

  There were two police cars parked outside his apartment when Saracen got back. One was a marked Panda car the other a large, black saloon, its identity only betrayed by its communications aerial. There was a third car parked well behind the police vehicles and Saracen thought that he recognised it. As he got nearer the BMA sticker on the windscreen confirmed it; the car belonged to Martin Saithe.

  Saracen entered the building and met his would-be guests coming back down the stairs. Saithe was at their head and saw Saracen. “Ah, James, there you are.”

  Saracen was rather taken aback at Saithe addressing him as James. It inferred a familiarity that had never existed between them.

  “James, this is Superintendent Carradyce. We were wondering if we might have a word.”

  “Of course,” replied Saracen. He led the way back up the stairs and invited his visitors inside. The fixed smile on Carradyce’s face and Saithe’s false manner told Saracen that they wanted something from him. He wondered what.

  Carradyce and Saithe sat down facing Saracen and the policeman said, “It’s about this awful business with Dr Garten sir.”

  “I thought I’d told the police all I could about that Superintendent,” said Saracen.

  “A tragedy, an absolute tragedy,” said Saithe as if he were auditioning for the National Theatre, thought Saracen.

  “You were very helpful sir,” said Carradyce, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, “It’s just that I’m sure we would all like to minimise the after effects of this tragic affair. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Minimise?” said Saracen unhelpfully.

  Saithe leaned forward solicitously and said, “We do realise of course that it must have been very unnerving for you James.”

  Saracen had never seen Saithe pretend to be nice to anyone before. It had all the fascination of watching an unnatural act. “But?” he said.

  “Mildred was very upset at the time James and the aftermath for the poor woman, well that doesn’t bear thinking about. She has lost everything, absolutely everything…”

  So that was it, thought Saracen. Matthew Glendale had been pulling strings to get his daughter off the hook and avoid a family scandal.

  “The gun did actually go off by accident sir.” Carradyce reminded him.

  Saithe leaned forward in his seat and said to Saracen, “What the Superintendent is getting at James is…”

  Saracen had had enough of the game. He said, “I know what the Superintendent is getting at. You would like Nigel Garten’s death to be recorded as a tragic accident. You would like there to be no mention of the plague cases and no mention of any attempt on my life by Mildred. Correct?”

  “More or less,” agreed Saithe with a slight air of embarrassment. The policeman looked even more embarrassed.

  “Don’t misunderstand us James. We know that what Mildred tried to do was unforgivable but…”

  “Matthew Glendale could do without the scandal.” said Saracen.

  “The town could do without a scandal James.” Saithe corrected.

  Saracen got up, turned his back on his guests and walked over to the window. He hated to admit it but Saithe was right. A public scandal was not going to do anyone any good and possibly a lot of harm. The affair was best forgotten as quickly as possible. “Very well, I agree,” he said and turned round.

  Saithe and Carradyce were visibly relieved. Saithe gave a genuine smile. It looked quite different from the one he had previously been affecting. He said, “There is of course, the matter of an apology to you James over your unfortunate suspension. I’m sure I will speak for everyone at Skelmore General when I say that the sooner we have you back in harness the better. Indeed I think that I can safely say that when it comes to the matter of selecting a new consultant for A amp;E we won’t have far to look.”

  Saracen felt uncomfortable, even unclean. He felt as if he had just been bought. “If you will excuse me now?” he said.


  “Of course,” said Saithe getting to his feet. He held out his hand and Saracen shook it. The policeman did likewise. Saracen felt even worse.

  “Do you mean she’s getting away with it?” asked an incredulous Jill when she heard the news.

  “It’s for the best,” said Saracen. “The sooner we get back to normal the better.”

  Jill sipped her drink. She seemed angry. Saracen ran his fingers lightly through her hair and she put her hand up to hold his. “It just doesn’t seem right,” said Jill.

  “The main thing is that it is over,” said Saracen.

  “I suppose you’re right,” conceded Jill but her voice still harboured doubts. “About your suspension?” she began.

  “It’s over. I’ll be back on duty tomorrow.”

  Jill smiled for the first time and said, “Well that’s one good thing.”

  “Maybe we should celebrate. Go out to dinner?”

  “Chinese or Indian?” asked Jill.

  “Neither. How about the Station Hotel?”

  Jill’s eyes widened. “Little ol’ me at that big ol’ Station Hotel,” she mimicked. “Won’t I have to dye my hair blue and dress up like a Christmas tree?”

  “It might help,” agreed Saracen. “But if we talk posh they might let us in.”

  “I’ll have to change.”

  “I’ll run you round. But first I’ll phone for a table.” Saracen walked over to the phone but it started to ring before he had reached it. It was Dave Moss at the County Hospital.

  “I know this is going to sound ridiculous but I had to talk to someone,” said Moss.

  “Shoot.”

  “One of my patients died this evening.”

  “Go on.”

  “He died of pneumonia only four hours after admission.”

  “Old people often succumb quickly, you know that,” said Saracen.

  “But he wasn’t old. He was a strong, thirty year old man. I gave him a million units of penicillin on admission and expected him to be stable by this evening but he went downhill like a lead balloon. The cyanosis was something to behold. By the end his skin was almost black.”

  Saracen felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to rise. He had an awful sense of foreboding. “I agree, it’s unusual,” he said slowly.

  “I know it sounds crazy and I know you will laugh but I think he died of…pneumonic plague.”

  Saracen closed his eyes. It wasn’t over after all. Plague was still in Skelmore.

  “James? Are you still there?”

  “I’m here. Did your patient live in Palmer’s Green?”

  “One moment.”

  Saracen heard the receiver being laid down and paper being shuffled.

  “No, he didn’t. Why do you ask?”

  “Where did he live?” asked Saracen.

  “Madox Road. But why?”

  “Christ almighty,” said Saracen softly on hearing an address that was on the other side of town from Palmer’s Green.

  “What are you not telling me?” demanded Moss.

  “Myra Archer and Leonard Cohen both died from plague. Garten covered up the deaths believing that they were isolated cases and that would be the end of it. They lived in the flats on Palmer’s Green. If you have had a case from the other side of Skelmore we could be in real trouble.”

  Moss spluttered in disbelief. “How in God’s name did we come to get plague in Skelmore?” he exclaimed.

  “Myra Archer had newly arrived here from Africa. She must have brought it with her. Cohen was one of her neighbours down at Palmer’s Green.

  “And Garten covered it up?”

  “He thought the press coverage would destroy the Skelmore development plans. He thought the Japs might pull out and his father in law would go bust over his housing investments.”

  “Good old Nigel,” said Moss. “Self, self, self.”

  “Have you told anyone else of your suspicions about your patient?” asked Saracen.

  “I wanted to try it on a friend first.”

  “Lab tests?”

  “I sent them off in the usual way, giving severe pneumonia as the provisional diagnosis.”

  “Maybe you should warn the lab about the specimens?” suggested Saracen.

  “I will do. I’ll arrange for the staff to have cover too. Any idea what the recommended drugs are?”

  “I think it’s streptomycin and tetracycline but we had both better check. All I can remember for sure is that penicillin is no use at all against plague.”

  “That would explain my patient’s failure to respond,” said Moss quietly.

  “You weren’t to know. We would all have gone for penicillin in the circumstances,” said Saracen.

  “Thanks.”

  “Will you notify the health authorities or will I?” asked Saracen.

  “I will. We will have to get to the family quickly.”

  “I’ll inform the powers that be here at the General and then I’ll get back to you.” Saracen put down the phone then picked it up again and called Saithe.

  “And Moss is quite sure?”

  “He doesn’t have the results of the lab tests yet but it sounds like the real thing.”

  “Damnation,” muttered Saithe. “But we must be careful not to cross our bridges until we come to them. We don’t want to cause unnecessary panic.”

  “No sir, but Dr Moss is calling the Public Health people anyway.”

  “I see,” said Saithe distantly as if he were thinking about something else. “I think what we must do,” he said slowly, “Is set up an ad hoc committee to monitor the situation.”

  Saracen raised his eyes to the ceiling. “If you say so.”

  “Now who should we have on it…” continued Saithe as if Saracen were no longer there.

  “An expert on plague,” interrupted Saracen.

  “What was that? What did you say Saracen?”

  “I suggested that we find an expert on plague for your committee. None of us know anything about it bar what we read in our text books years ago.”

  “Good point,” said Saithe. “There can’t be too many experts on plague around.”

  “And certainly not in Skelmore,” added Saracen.

  Two hours later Saithe called back to say that an emergency committee had been decided on. Saracen was invited to join. The committee was to comprise Saithe himself, Braithwaite, the medical officer for the county, Chief Superintendent Carradyce, David Moss, John Laird, the medical superintendent at the County Hospital, the hospital secretaries of both the General and County Hospitals and their senior nursing officers. In addition, and more importantly to Saracen’s way of thinking, a man named MacQuillan would be coming up to Skelmore from the government’s research establishment at Porton Down. He was due to arrive in the town at around eight fifteen. The first meeting of the committee was scheduled for nine pm. Saracen said that he would be there.

  At ten minutes to nine Saracen left A amp;E where he had called in to see Alan Tremaine and inform him that he would be coming back on duty in the morning. He was thinking about Tremaine as he pulled his collar up against the drizzling rain and waited for an ambulance to pass before crossing the quadrangle to the East wing of the hospital. Tremaine was looking tired, too tired thought Saracen, unless anything came up at the meeting to prevent it he would go back to A amp;E and work the night shift. Tremaine could go home and get some sleep. Saithe had said something about getting locum housemen for A amp;E; Saracen made a mental note to remind him; the matter was now urgent.

  Dave Moss was getting out of his car as Saracen reached the East door. He held it open for him and asked, “How are things?”

  “Not good. The dead man’s wife has been admitted.”

  “Same thing?”

  “Looks like it.”

  Saracen cursed softly.

  “It gets worse,” said Moss. “She worked as a cook at Maxton Primary School.”

  They had reached the East Lecture Theatre where the meeting was being held. Moss opened
the door and allowed Saracen to enter first.

  “Good evening,” said Martin Saithe, looking over his glasses and then at his watch. “I think we are all here now.” He exaggerated the act of looking at everyone present to confirm it.

  Saracen disliked the lecture theatres in the General for there never seemed to be enough light in them, especially at night when single bulbs hanging beneath metal shades seemed to provoke more shadow than illumination. Apart from the installation of projection equipment no concession at all appeared to have been made to the modern era. The dark, wooden bench seating rose steeply to the ceiling and curved in a hemisphere round a central podium as it had done when Victorian medical students had filled it. Saithe was standing behind a table that had, in its time, witnessed a continual stream of embarrassed and hapless people, there to display their afflictions for the education of the ‘young gentlemen’.

  Saithe said, “I must apologise for our surroundings this evening but Dr MacQuillan has some slides for us; we need the projector.”

  A small, balding man with a dense black moustache and wearing a tweed suit took this as his cue and got to his feet. He joined Saithe behind the table and picked up an automatic slide changer. Saracen thought he recognised a slightly aggressive air about the man, in the way he stood with his feet well apart and the way he held the slide changer at a distance from his body.

  Saithe said, “Dr MacQuillan is an expert on Yersinia pestis, the organism that causes plague. He has kindly agreed to fill in the gaps in our knowledge.”

  MacQuillan gave a little grunt of acknowledgement and took the floor from Saithe. He picked up a pointer from the table and clicked on the first slide. “First the culprit.”

  MacQuillan’s Scottish accent and clipped words matched his stance, thought Saracen, who had now classified him as a pugnacious, no nonsense Scotsman. Good, he thought, the absence of bullshit should speed things up considerably.

  MacQuillan slapped the pointer against the screen and said, “This is Yersinia pestis, a rod shaped bacterium less than two thousandths of a millimetre long. It looks like any other bacterium you might say and you would be right but, in the fourteenth century, this little fellow wiped out one quarter of the entire population of Europe.” MacQuillan paused but found his audience too sophisticated to gasp out loud. “Ironically,” he continued, “Man is infected as an unwitting interloper between infected rats and their fleas. An infected rat dies, its fleas look for a new host. A human being is nearby, Bingo, he gets plague.