Dooms Day Book полностью

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 bellringers, 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 take 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 far away 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 will not be surprised if this virus turns out to have originated here in college,” 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?”