“Visit what sick?” Dunworthy asked.
Colin got up off the floor and went over to his duffel and began rummaging through it. “The vicar asked me last night if I’d run errands for him, check on people, and take them medicine and things.”
He fished a paper bag out of the duffel. “This is your present,” he said, handing it to Dunworthy. “It’s not wrapped,” he added unnecessarily. “Finch said we ought to save paper for the epidemic.”
Dunworthy opened the bag and pulled out a flattish red book.
“It’s an appointment calendar,” Colin said. “It’s so you can mark off the days till your girl gets back.” He opened it to the first page. “See, I made sure to get one that had December.”
“Thank you,” Dunworthy said, opening it. Christmas. The Slaughter of the Innocents. New Year’s. Epiphany. “That was very thoughtful.”
“I wanted to get you this model of Carfax Tower that plays ‘I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day,’ ” Colin said, “but it cost twenty pounds!”
The telephone rang, and Colin and Dunworthy both dived for it. “I’ll bet it’s my mother,” Colin said.
It was Mary, calling from the Infirmary. “How are you feeling?”
“Half-asleep,” Dunworthy said.
Colin grinned at him.
“How’s Latimer?” Dunworthy asked.
“Good,” Mary said. She was still wearing her lab coat, but she’d combed her hair, and she looked cheerful. “He seems to have a very mild case. We’ve established a connection with the South Carolina virus.”
“Latimer was in South Carolina?”
“No. One of the students I had you question last night … good Lord, I mean two nights ago. I’m losing all track of time. One of the ones who’d been at the dance in Headington. He lied at first because he’d skipped off from his college to see a young woman and left a friend to cover for him.”
“Skipped off to South Carolina?”
“No, London. But the young woman was from the States. She’d flown in from Texas and changed planes in Charleston, South Carolina. The CDC’s working to find out what cases were in the airport. Let me speak to Colin. I want to wish him a happy Christmas.”
Dunworthy put him on, and he launched into a recital of his gifts, down to and including the motto in his cracker. “Mr. Dunworthy gave me a book about the Middle Ages.” He held it up to the screen. “Did you know they cut off people’s heads for stealing and stuck them up on London Bridge?”
“Thank her for the muffler, and don’t tell her you’re running errands for the vicar,” Dunworthy whispered, but Colin was already holding the receiver out to him. “She wants to speak to you again.”
“It’s clear you’re taking good care of him,” Mary said. “I’m very grateful. I haven’t been home yet, and I should have hated him to be alone on Christmas. I don’t suppose the promised gifts from his mother have arrived?”
“No,” Dunworthy said cautiously, looking at Colin, who was looking at the pictures in the Middle Ages book.
“Nor telephoned,” she said disgustedly. “The woman hasn’t a drop of maternal blood in her body. For all she knows, Colin might be lying in hospital with a temp of forty degrees, mightn’t he?”
“How is Badri?” Dunworthy asked.
“The fever was down a bit this morning, but there’s still a good deal of lung involvement. We’re putting him on synthamycin. The South Carolina cases have responded very well to it.” She promised to try to come over for Christmas dinner and then rang off.
Colin looked up from his book. “Did you know in the Middle Ages they burned people at the stake?”
Mary didn’t come nor telephone, and neither did Andrews. Dunworthy sent Colin over to hall for breakfast and tried phoning the tech, but all the lines were engaged, “due to the holiday crush,” the computer voice said, obviously not reprogrammed since the beginning of the quarantine. It advised him to delay all nonessential calls until the next day. He tried twice more, with the same result.
Finch came over, bearing a tray. “Are you all right, sir?” he said anxiously. “You’re not feeling ill?”
“I’m not feeling ill. I’m waiting for a trunk call to come through.”
“Oh, thank goodness, sir. When you didn’t come over for breakfast I feared the worst.” He took the rain-spotted cover off the tray. “I’m afraid it’s a poor sort of Christmas breakfast, but we’re nearly out of eggs. I don’t know what sort of Christmas dinner it will be. There isn’t a goose left inside the perimeter.”
It actually seemed to be quite a respectable breakfast, a boiled egg, kippers, muffins with jam.
“I tried for a Christmas pudding, sir, but we’re nearly out of brandy,” Finch said, pulling a plastic envelope out from under the tray and handing it to Dunworthy.
He opened it. On top was an NHS directive headed: “Early Symptoms of Influenza. 1.) Disorientation. 2.) Headache. 3.) Muscle Aches. Avoid contracting it. Wear your NHS regulation face mask at all times.”
“Face mask?” Dunworthy asked.
“The NHS delivered them this morning,” Finch said. “I don’t know how we’re going to manage the washing up. We’re nearly out of soap.”
There were four other directives, all similar in tone, and a note from William Gaddson with a printout of Badri’s credit account for Monday, the twentieth of December, attached. Badri had apparently spent that missing time from noon to half past two Christmas shopping. He had purchased four books, paperback, at Blackwell’s, a muffler, red, and a digital carillon, miniature, at Debenham’s. Wonderful. That meant dozens and dozens more contacts.
Colin came in carrying a napkinful of muffins. He was still wearing his paper crown, which was a good deal the worse for the rain.
“It would reassure everyone, sir,” Finch said, “if after your call comes through, you’d come over to hall. Mrs. Gaddson particularly is convinced you’ve come down with the virus. She said you’d contracted it through poor ventilation in the dormitories.”
“I’ll put in an appearance,” Dunworthy promised.
Finch went to the door and then turned back. “About Mrs. Gaddson, sir. She’s behaving dreadfully, criticizing the college and demanding that she be moved in with her son. She’s completely undermining morale.”
“I’ll say,” Colin said, dumping the muffins on the table. “The Gallstone told me hot breads were bad for my immune system.”
“Isn’t there some sort of volunteer work she could do at Infirmary or something?” Finch asked. “To keep her out of college?”
“We can hardly inflict her on poor helpless flu victims. It might kill them. What about asking the vicar? He was looking for volunteers to run errands.”
“The vicar?” Colin said. “Have a heart, Mr. Dunworthy. I’m working for the vicar.”
“The priest from Holy Re-Formed then,” Dunworthy said. “He’s fond of reciting the Mass in Time of Pestilence for morale. They should get along swimmingly.”
“I’ll phone him straightaway,” Finch said, and left.
Dunworthy ate his breakfast, except for the muffin, which Colin appropriated, and then took the empty tray over to hall, leaving orders for Colin to come get him immediately if the tech rang up. It was still raining, the trees black and dripping and the Christmas tree lights spotted with rain.
Everyone was still at table except for the bell ringers, who stood off to one side in their white gloves, their handbells on the table in front of them. Finch was demonstrating the wearing of the NHS regulation masks, pulling off the tapes at either side and pressing them to his cheeks.
“You don’t look well at all, Mr. Dunworthy,” Mrs. Gaddson said. “And no wonder. The conditions in this college are appalling. It is a wonder to me that there has not been an epidemic before this. Poor ventilation and an extremely uncooperative staff. Your Mr. Finch was quite rude to me when I spoke to him about moving into my son’s rooms. He told me I had chosen to be in Oxford during a quarantine, and that I had to tak
e whatever accommodations I was given.”
Colin came skidding in. “There’s someone on the telephone for you,” he said.
Dunworthy started past her, but she placed herself solidly in his way. “I told Mr. Finch that he might be content to stay at home when his son was in danger, but that I was not.”
“I’m afraid I’m wanted on the telephone,” Dunworthy said.
“I told him no real mother could fail to go when her child was alone and ill in a faraway place.”
“Mr. Dunworthy,” Colin said. “Come along!”
“Of course you clearly have no idea what I’m talking about. Look at this child!” She grabbed Colin by the arm. “Running about in the pouring rain with no coat on!”
Dunworthy took advantage of her shift in position to get past her.
“You obviously care nothing about your boy’s catching the Indian flu,” she said. Colin wrenched free. “Letting him gorge himself on muffins and go about soaked to the skin.”
Dunworthy sprinted across the quad, Colin at his heels.
“I shall not be surprised if this virus turns out to have originated here in Balliol,” Mrs. Gaddson shouted after them. “Sheer negligence, that’s what it is. Sheer negligence!”
Dunworthy burst into the room and snatched up the phone. There was no picture. “Andrews,” he shouted. “Are you there? I can’t see you.”
“The telephone system’s overbooked,” Montoya said. “They’ve cut the visual. It’s Lupe Montoya. Is Mr. Basingame salmon or trout?”
“What?” Dunworthy said, frowning at the blank screen.
“I’ve been calling fishing guides in Scotland all morning. When I could get through. They say where he’s gone depends on whether he’s salmon or trout. What about friends? Is there someone in the University he goes fishing with who might know?”
“I don’t know,” Dunworthy said. “Ms. Montoya, I’m afraid I’m waiting for a most important—”
“I’ve tried everything else—hotels, inns, boat rentals, even his barber. I tracked his wife down in Torquay, and she said he didn’t tell her where he was going. I hope that doesn’t mean he’s off somewhere with a woman and not really in Scotland at all.”
“I hardly think Mr. Basingame—”
“Yes, well, then, why doesn’t anyone know where he is? And why hasn’t he called in now that the epidemic’s all over the papers and the vids?”
“Ms. Montoya, I—”
“I suppose I’ll have to call both the salmon and trout guides. I’ll let you know if I find him.”
She rang off finally, and Dunworthy put the receiver down and stared at it, certain Andrews had tried to ring while he was on the line with Montoya.
“Didn’t you say there were a lot of epidemics in the Middle Ages?” Colin asked. He was sitting in the window seat with the Middle Ages book on his knees, eating muffins.
“Yes.”
“Well, I can’t find them in this book. How do you spell it?”
“Try Black Death,” Dunworthy said.
Dunworthy waited an anxious quarter of an hour and then tried to ring Andrews again. The lines were still jammed.
“Did you know the Black Death was in Oxford?” Colin said. He had polished off the muffins and was back to the soap tablets. “At Christmas. Just like us!”
“Influenza scarcely compares with the plague,” he said, watching the telephone as if he could will it to ring. “The Black Death killed one third to one half of Europe.”
“I know,” Colin said. “And the plague was a lot more interesting. It was spread by rats, and you got these enormous bobos—”
“Buboes.”
“Buboes under your arms, and they turned black and swelled up till they were enormous and then you died! The flu doesn’t have anything like that,” he said, sounding disappointed.
“No.”
“And the flu’s only one disease. There were three sorts of plague. Bubonic, that’s the one with the buboes, pneumonic,” he said, pronouncing the “p.” “It went in your lungs and you coughed up blood, and sep-tah-keem-ic—”
“Septicemic.”
“Septicemic, which went into your bloodstream and killed you in three hours and your body turned black all over! Isn’t that apocalyptic?”
“Yes,” Dunworthy said.
The telephone rang just after eleven o’clock and Dunworthy snatched it up again, but it was Mary, saying she wouldn’t be able to manage dinner. “We’ve had five new cases this morning.”
“We’ll come to Infirmary as soon as my trunk call has come through,” Dunworthy promised. “I’m waiting for one of my techs to phone. I’m going to have him come and read the fix.”
Mary looked wary. “Have you cleared this with Gilchrist?”
“Gilchrist! He’s busy planning to send Kivrin to the Black Death!”
“Nevertheless, I don’t think you should do this without telling him. He is Acting Head, and there’s no point in antagonizing him. If something has gone wrong, and Andrews needs to abort the drop, you’ll need his cooperation.” She smiled at Dunworthy. “We’ll discuss it when you come. And when you’re here, I want you to have an inoculation.”
“I thought you were waiting for the analogue.”
“I was, but I’m not satisfied with the way the primary cases are responding to Atlanta’s recommended course of treatment. A few of them are showing a slight improvement, but Badri is worse, if anything. I want all high-risk people to have T-cell enchancement.”
Andrews still hadn’t phoned by noon. Dunworthy sent Colin over to Infirmary to be inoculated. He came back looking pained.
“As bad as all that?” Dunworthy asked.
“Worse,” Colin, said, flinging himself down on the window seat. “Mrs. Gaddson caught me coming in. I was rubbing my arm, and she demanded to know where I’d been and why I was getting inoculated instead of William.” He looked reproachfully at Dunworthy. “Well, it hurts! She said if anyone was high-risk it was poor Willy and it was absolute necrophilia for me to be jabbed instead of him.”
“Nepotism.”
“Nepotism. I hope the priest finds her an absolutely cadaverous job.”
“How was your great-aunt Mary?”
“I didn’t see her. They were awfully busy, beds in the corridor and everything.”
Colin and Dunworthy took turns going over to hall for Christmas dinner. Colin was back in something less than fifteen minutes. “The bell ringers started to play,” he said. “Mr. Finch said to tell you we’re out of sugar and butter and nearly out of cream.” He pulled a jelly tart out of his jacket pocket. “Why is it they never run out of Brussels sprouts?”
Dunworthy gave him orders to come tell him at once if Andrews phoned and to take down any other messages, and went over. The bell ringers were in full cry, jangling away at a Mozart canon.
Finch handed Dunworthy a plate that seemed to be mostly Brussels sprouts. “We’re nearly out of turkey, I’m afraid, sir,” he said. “I’m glad you’ve come. It’s almost time for the queen’s Christmas message.”
The bell ringers finished the Mozart to enthusiastic applause, and Ms. Taylor came over, still wearing her white gloves. “There you are, Mr. Dunworthy,” she said. “I missed you at breakfast, and Mr. Finch said you were the one to talk to. We need a practice room.”
He was tempted to say, “I’d no idea you practiced.” He ate a Brussels sprout.
“A practice room?”
“Yes. So we can practice our Chicago Surprise Minor. I’ve arranged with the dean of Christ Church to ring our peal here on New Year’s Day, but we have to have somewhere to practice. I told Mr. Finch the big room in Beard would be perfect—”
“The senior common room.”
“But Mr. Finch said it was being used as a storeroom for supplies.”
What supplies? he thought. According to Finch, they were either out or nearly out of everything save Brussels sprouts.
“And he said the lecture rooms were being kept to use as
an infirmary. We have to have a quiet place where we can focus. The Chicago Surprise Minor is very complicated. The in- and out-of-course changes and the lead end alterations require complete concentration. And of course there’s the extra dodging.”
“Of course,” Dunworthy said.
“The room doesn’t have to be large, but it does need to be secluded. We’ve been practicing here in the dining room, but there are people in and out all the time, and the tenor keeps losing her place.”
“I’m sure we can find something.”
“Of course with seven bells, we should be doing Triples, but the North American Council rang Philadelphia Triples here last year, and did a very sloppy job of it, too, as I understand. The tenor a full count behind and absolutely terrible stroking. Which is another reason we’ve got to have a good practice room. Stroking is so important.”
“Of course,” Dunworthy said.
Mrs. Gaddson appeared in the far doorway, looking fierce and maternal. “I’m afraid I have an important trunk call coming in,” he said, standing up so that Ms. Taylor was between him and Mrs. Gaddson.
“Trunk call?” Ms. Taylor said, shaking her head. “You English! I don’t understand what you’re saying half the time.”
Dunworthy escaped out the buttery door, promising to find a practice room so that they could perfect their snapping leads, and went back up to his rooms. Andrews hadn’t phoned. There was one message, from Montoya. “She said to tell you ‘never mind,’ ” Colin said.
“That’s all? She didn’t say anything else?”
“No. She said, ‘Tell Mr. Dunworthy never mind.’ ”
He wondered if she had by some miracle located Basingame and obtained his signature or if she had merely found out whether he was “salmon” or “trout.” He debated ringing her back, but he was afraid the lines would choose that moment to unjam and Andrews would phone.
He didn’t, or they didn’t, until nearly four. “I’m terribly sorry I didn’t ring you sooner,” Andrews said.
There was still no picture, but Dunworthy could hear music and talk in the background. “I was away till last night, and I’ve had a good deal of trouble getting through to you,” Andrews said. “The lines have been engaged, the holiday crush, you know. I’ve been trying every—”
The Doomsday Book Page 30