“Thank goodness you’re still here,” Montoya said, skidding up on a bicycle, spraying water. “I need to find Basingame.”
So do we all, Dunworthy thought, wondering where she had been during all those telephone conversations.
She got off the bike, pushed it up the rack, and keyed the lock. “His secretary said no one knows where he is. Can you believe that?”
“Yes,” Dunworthy said. “I’ve been trying most of today—yesterday—to reach him. He’s on holiday somewhere in Scotland, no one knows exactly where. Fishing, according to his wife.”
“At this time of year?” she said. “Who would go fishing in Scotland in December? Surely his wife knows where he is or has a number where he can be reached or something.”
Dunworthy shook his head.
“This is ridiculous! I go to all the trouble to get the National Health Board to grant me access to my dig, and Basingame’s on vacation!” She reached under her slick and brought out a sheaf of colored papers. “They agreed to give me a waiver if the Head of History would sign an affidavit saying the dig was a project necessary and essential to the welfare of the University. How could he just go off like this without telling anybody?” She slapped the papers against her leg, and raindrops flew everywhere. “I have to get this signed before the whole dig floats away. Where’s Gilchrist?”
“He should be here shortly for his blood tests,” Dunworthy said. “If you manage to find Basingame, tell him he needs to come back immediately. Tell him we’ve got a quarantine here, we don’t know where an historian is, and the tech is too ill to tell us.”
“Fishing,” Montoya said disgustedly, heading for Casualties. “If my dig is ruined, he’s going to have a lot to answer for.”
“Come along,” Dunworthy said to Colin, anxious to be gone before anyone else showed up. He held the umbrella so it would cover Colin, too, and then gave up. Colin walked rapidly ahead, managing to hit nearly every puddle, then dawdled behind to look at shop windows.
There was no one on the streets, though whether that was from the quarantine or the early hour, Dunworthy couldn’t tell. Perhaps they’ll all be asleep, he thought, and we can sneak in and go straight to bed.
“I thought there’d be more going on,” Colin said, sounding disappointed. “Sirens and all that.”
“And dead-carts going through the streets, calling ‘Bring out your dead’?” Dunworthy said. “You should have gone with Kivrin. Quarantines in the Middle Ages were far more exciting than this one’s likely to be, with only four cases and a vaccine on its way from the States.”
“Who is this Kivrin person?” Colin asked. “Your daughter?”
“She’s my pupil. She’s just gone to 1320.”
“Time travel? Apocalyptic!”
They turned the corner of the Broad. “The Middle Ages,” Colin said. “That’s Napoleon, isn’t it? Trafalgar, and all that?”
“It’s the Hundred Years War,” Dunworthy said, and Colin looked blank. What are they teaching children in the schools these days? he thought. “Knights and ladies and castles.”
“The Crusades?”
“The Crusades are a bit earlier.”
“That’s where I’d want to go. The Crusades.”
They were at Balliol’s gate. “Quiet, now,” Dunworthy said. “Everyone will be asleep.”
There was no one at the porter’s gate, and no one in the front quadrangle. Lights were on in the hall, the bell ringers having breakfast probably, but there were no lights in the senior common room, and none in Salvin. If they could get up the stairs without seeing anyone and without Colin’s suddenly announcing he was hungry, they might make it safely to his rooms.
“Shhh,” he said, turning back to caution Colin, who had stopped in the quad to take out his gobstopper and examine its color, which was now a purplish-black. “We don’t want to wake everyone,” he said, his finger to his lips, turned around, and collided with a couple in the doorway.
They were wearing rain slicks and embracing energetically, and the young man seemed oblivious to the collision, but the young woman pulled free and looked frightened. She had short red hair and was wearing a student nurse’s uniform under her slick. The young man was William Gaddson.
“Your behavior is inappropriate to both the time and the place,” Dunworthy said sternly. “Public displays of affection are strictly forbidden in college. It is also ill-advised, since your mother may arrive at any moment.”
“My mother?” he said, looking as dismayed as Dunworthy had when he saw her coming down the corridor with her valise. “Here? In Oxford? What’s she doing here? I thought there was a quarantine on.”
“There is, but a mother’s love knows no bounds. She is concerned about your health, as am I, considering the circumstances.” He frowned at William and the young woman, who giggled. “I would suggest you escort your fellow perpetrator home and then make preparations for your mother’s arrival.”
“Preparations?” he said, looking truly stricken. “You mean she’s staying?”
“She has no alternative, I’m afraid. There is a quarantine on.”
Lights came on suddenly inside the staircase, and Finch emerged. “Thank goodness you’re here, Mr. Dunworthy,” he said.
He had a sheaf of colored papers, too, which he waved at Dunworthy. “National Health has just sent over another thirty detainees. I told them we hadn’t any room, but they wouldn’t listen, and I don’t know what to do. We simply do not have the necessary supplies for all these people.”
“Lavatory paper,” Dunworthy said.
“Yes!” Finch said, brandishing the papers. “And food stores. We went through half the eggs and bacon this morning alone.”
“Eggs and bacon?” Colin said. “Are there any left?”
Finch looked enquiringly at Colin and then at Dunworthy.
“He’s Dr. Ahrens’s nephew,” he said, and before Finch could start off again, “he’ll stay in my rooms.”
“Well, good, because I simply cannot find space for another person.”
“We have both been up all night, Mr. Finch, so—”
“Here’s the list of supplies as of this morning.” He handed Dunworthy a dampish blue paper. “As you can see—”
“Mr. Finch, I appreciate your concern about the supplies, but surely this can wait until after—”
“This is a list of your telephone calls with the ones you need to return marked with asterisks. This is a list of your appointments. The vicar wishes you to be at St. Mary’s at a quarter past six tomorrow to rehearse the Christmas Eve service.”
“I will return all these calls, but after I—”
“Dr. Ahrens telephoned twice. She wanted to know what you’ve found out about the bell ringers.”
Dunworthy gave up. “Assign the new detainees to Warren and Basevi, three to a room. There are extra cots in the cellar of the hall.”
Finch opened his mouth to protest.
“They’ll simply have to put up with the paint smell.”
He handed Colin Mary’s shopping bag and the umbrella. “That building over there with the lights on is the hall,” he said, pointing at the door. “Go tell the scouts you want some breakfast and then get one of them to let you into my rooms.”
He turned to William, who was doing something with his hands under the student nurse’s rain slick. “Mr. Gaddson, find your accomplice a taxi and then find the students who’ve been here during vac and ask them whether they’ve been to the States in the past week or had contact with anyone who has. Make a list. You haven’t been to the States recently, have you?”
“No, sir,” he said, removing his hands from the nurse. “I’ve been up the whole vac, reading Petrarch.”
“Ah, yes, Petrarch,” Dunworthy said. “Ask the students what they know about Badri Chaudhuri’s activities from Monday on and question the staff. I need to know where he was and who he was with. I want the same sort of report on Kivrin Engle. Do a thorough job, and refrain from further public dis
plays of affection, and I’ll arrange for your mother to be assigned a room as far from you as possible.”
“Thank you, sir,” William said. “That would mean a great deal to me, sir.”
“Now, Mr. Finch, if you’ll tell me where I might find Ms. Taylor?”
Finch handed him more sheets, with the room assignments on them, but Ms. Taylor wasn’t there. She was in the junior common room with her bell ringers and, apparently, the still-unassigned detainees.
One of them, an imposing woman in a fur coat, grabbed his arm as soon as he came in. “Are you in charge of this place?” she demanded.
Clearly not, Dunworthy thought. “Yes,” he said.
“Well, what are you going to do about getting us someplace to sleep. We’ve been up all night.”
“So have I, madam,” Dunworthy said, afraid this was Ms. Taylor. She had looked thinner and less dangerous on the telephone, but visuals could be deceiving and the accent and the attitude were unmistakable. “You wouldn’t be Ms. Taylor?”
“I’m Ms. Taylor,” a woman in one of the wing chairs said. She stood up. She looked even thinner than she had on the telephone and apparently less angry. “I spoke with you on the phone earlier,” she said, and the way she said it they might have had a pleasant chat about the intricacies of change ringing. “This is Ms. Piantini, our tenor,” she said, indicating the woman in the fur coat.
Ms. Piantini looked like she could yank Great Tom straight off its moorings. She had obviously not had any viruses lately.
“If I could speak with you privately for a moment, Ms. Taylor?” He led her out into the corridor. “Were you able to cancel your concert in Ely?”
“Yes,” she said. “And Norwich. They were very understanding.” She leaned forward anxiously. “Is it true it’s cholera?”
“Cholera?” Dunworthy said blankly.
“One of the women who had been down at the station said it was cholera, that someone had brought it from India and people were dropping like flies.”
It had apparently not been a good night’s sleep but fear that had worked the change in her manner. If he told her there were only four cases she would very likely demand they be taken to Ely.
“The disease is apparently a myxovirus,” he said carefully. “When did your group come to England?”
Her eyes widened. “You think we’re the ones who brought it? We haven’t been to India.”
“There is a possibility it is the same myxovirus as one reported in South Carolina. Are any of your members from South Carolina?”
“No,” she said. “We’re all from Colorado except Ms. Piantini. She’s from Wyoming. And none of us has been sick.”
“How long have you been in England?”
“Three weeks. We’ve been visiting all the Traditional Council chapters and doing handbell concerts. We rang a Boston Treble Bob at St. Katherine’s and Post Office Caters with three of the Bury St. Edmund’s chapter ringers, but of course neither of those was a new peal. A Chicago Surprise Minor—”
“And you all arrived in Oxford yesterday morning?”
“Yes.”
“None of your group came early, to see the sights or visit friends?”
“No,” she said, sounding shocked. “We’re on tour, Mr. Dunworthy, not on vacation.”
“And you said that none of you had been ill?”
She shook her head. “We can’t afford to get sick. There are only six of us.”
“Thank you for your help,” Dunworthy said and sent her back down to the common room.
He rang up Mary, who couldn’t be found, left a message, and started down Finch’s asterisks. He rang up Andrews, Jesus College, Mr. Basingame’s secretary, and St. Mary’s without getting through. He rang off, waited a five-minute interval and tried again. During one of the intervals, Mary phoned.
“Why aren’t you in bed yet?” she demanded. “You look exhausted.”
“I’ve been interrogating the bell ringers,” he said. “They’ve been here in England for three weeks. None of them came to Oxford before yesterday afternoon and none of them are ill. Do you want me to come back and question Badri?”
“It won’t do any good, I’m afraid. He’s not coherent.”
“I’m trying to get through to Jesus to see what they know of his comings and goings.”
“Good,” she said. “Ask his landlady, too. And get some sleep. I don’t want you getting this.” She paused. “We’ve got six more cases.”
“Any from South Carolina?”
“No,” she said, “and none who couldn’t have had contact with Badri. So he’s still the index case. Is Colin all right?”
“He’s having breakfast,” he said. “He’s all right. Don’t worry about him.”
He didn’t get to bed until after one-thirty in the afternoon. It took him two hours to get through to all the starred names on Finch’s list, and another hour to discover where Badri lived. His landlady wasn’t at home, and when Dunworthy got back, Finch insisted on going over the complete inventory of supplies.
Dunworthy finally got away from him by promising to telephone the NHS and demand additional lavatory paper. He let himself into his rooms.
Colin had curled up on the window seat, his head on his pack and a crocheted laprobe over him. It didn’t reach as far as his feet. Dunworthy took a blanket from the foot of the bed and covered him up, and sat down in the Chesterfield opposite to take off his shoes.
He was almost too tired to do that, though he knew he would regret it if he went to bed in his clothes. That was the province of the young and nonarthritic. Colin would wake refreshed in spite of digging buttons and constricting sleeves. Kivrin could wrap up in her too-thin white cloak and rest her head on a tree stump none the worse for wear, but if he so much as omitted a pillow or left his shirt on, he would wake stiff and cramped. And if he sat here with his shoes in his hand, he would not get to bed at all.
He heaved himself out of the chair, still holding the shoes, switched the light off, and went into the bedroom. He put on his pajamas and turned back the bed. It looked impossibly inviting.
I shall be asleep before my head hits the pillow, he thought, taking off his spectacles. He got into bed and pulled the covers up. Before I’ve even switched off the light, he thought, and switched off the light.
There was scarcely any light from the window, only a dull gray showing through the tangle of darker gray vines. The rain beat faintly against the leathery leaves. I should have drawn the curtains, he thought, but he was too tired to get up again.
At least Kivrin wouldn’t have to contend with rain. It was the Little Ice Age. It would be snow if anything. The contemps had slept huddled together by the hearth until it had finally occurred to someone to invent the chimney and the fireplace, and that hadn’t been extant in Oxfordshire villages till the mid-fifteenth century. But Kivrin wouldn’t care. She would curl up like Colin and sleep the easy, the unappreciated sleep of the young.
He wondered if it had stopped raining. He couldn’t hear the patter of it on the window. Perhaps it had slowed to a drizzle or was getting ready to rain again. It was so dark, and too early for the afternoon to be drawing in. He drew his hand out from under the covers and looked at the illuminated numbers on his digital. Only two o’clock. It would be six in the evening where Kivrin was. He needed to phone Andrews again when he woke up and have him read the fix so they would know exactly where and when she was.
Badri had told Gilchrist there was minimal slippage, that he’d double-checked the first-year apprentice’s coordinates and they were correct, but he wanted to make certain. Gilchrist had taken no precautions and even with precautions, things could go wrong. Today had proved that.
Badri had had the full course of antivirale. Colin’s mother had seen him safely onto the tube and given him extra money. The first time Dunworthy had gone to London he had almost not made it back, and they had taken endless precautions.
It had been a simple there-and-back-again to test the on-sit
e net. Only thirty years. Dunworthy was to go through to Trafalgar Square, take the tube from Charing Cross to Paddington and the 10:48 train to Oxford where the main net would be open. They had allowed plenty of time, checked and rechecked the net, researched the ABC and the tube schedules, double-checked the dates on the money. And when he had got to Charing Cross the tube station was closed. The lights in the ticket kiosks had been off, and an iron gate had been pulled across the entrance, in front of the wooden turnstiles.
He pulled the blankets up over his shoulder. Any number of things could have gone wrong with the drop, things no one had even thought of. It had probably never occurred to Colin’s mother that Colin’s train would be stopped at Barton. It had not occurred to any of them that Badri would suddenly fall forward into the console.
Mary’s right, he thought, you’ve a dreadful streak of Mrs. Gaddsonitis. Kivrin overcame any number of obstacles to get to the Middle Ages. Even if something goes wrong, she can handle it. Colin hadn’t let a little thing like a quarantine stop him. And Dunworthy had made it safely back from London.
He had banged on the shut gate and then run back up the stairs to read the signs again, thinking that perhaps he had come in the wrong way. He hadn’t. He had looked for a clock. Perhaps there had been more slippage than the checks indicated, he’d thought, and the underground was shut down for the night. But the clock above the entrance said nine-fifteen.
“Accident,” a disreputable-looking man in a filthy cap said. “They’ve shut down till they can get it cleaned up.”
“B-but I must take the Bakerloo line,” he stammered, but the man shuffled off.
He stood there staring into the darkened station, unable to think what to do. He hadn’t brought enough money for a taxi, and Paddington was all the way across London. He’d never make the 10:48.
“Whah ya gan, mite?” a young man with a black leather jacket and green hair like a cockscomb said. Dunworthy could scarcely understand him. Punker, he thought. The young man moved menacingly closer.
“Paddington,” he said, and it came out as little more than a squeak.
The Doomsday Book Page 22
