The single survivor, John Clyn, had left a record: “And lest things which should be remembered perish with time and vanish from the memory of those who are to come after us,” he had written, “I, seeing so many evils and the whole world, as it were, placed within the grasp of the Evil One, being myself as if among the dead, I, waiting for death, have put into writing all the things that I have witnessed.”
He had written it all down, a true historian, and then died himself, all alone. His words trailed off, and below them, in another hand, someone had written, “Here, it seems, the author died.”
Someone knocked on the door. It was Finch in his bathrobe, looking bleary-eyed and distraught. “Another one of the detainees, sir,” he said.
Dunworthy put his fingers to his lips and stepped outside the door with him. “Have you telephoned Infirmary?”
“Yes, sir, and they said it would be several hours before they can dispatch an ambulance. They said to isolate her, and give her dimantadine and orange juice.”
“Which I suppose we’re nearly out of,” Dunworthy said irritably.
“Yes, sir, but that’s not the problem. She won’t cooperate.”
Dunworthy made Finch wait outside the door while he dressed and found his face mask, and they went across to Salvin. A huddle of detainees were standing by the door, dressed in an odd assortment of underthings, coats, and blankets. Only a few of them were wearing their face masks. By day after tomorrow they’ll all be down with it, Dunworthy thought.
“Thank goodness you’re here,” one of the detainees said fervently. “We can’t do a thing with her.”
Finch led him over to the detainee, who was sitting upright in bed. She was an elderly woman with sparse white hair, and she had the same fever-bright eyes, the same frenetic alertness Badri had had that first night.
“Go away!” she said when she saw Finch and made a slapping motion at him. She turned her burning eyes on Dunworthy. “Daddy!” she cried, and then stuck her lower lip out in a pout. “I was very naughty,” she said in a childish voice. “I ate all the birthday cake, and now I have a stomachache.”
“Do you see what I mean, sir?” Finch put in.
“Are the Indians coming, Daddy?” she asked. “I don’t like Indians. They have bows and arrows.”
It took them until morning to get her onto a cot in one of the lecture rooms. Dunworthy eventually had to resort to saying, “Your daddy wants his good girl to lie down now,” and just after they had her quieted down, the ambulance came. “Daddy!” she wailed when they shut the doors. “Don’t leave me here all alone!”
“Oh, dear,” Finch said when the ambulance drove off. “It’s past breakfast time. I do hope they haven’t eaten all the bacon.”
He went off to ration supplies, and Dunworthy went back to his rooms to wait for Andrews’ call. Colin was halfway down the staircase, eating a piece of toast and pulling on his jacket. “The vicar wants me to help collect clothes for the detainees,” he said with his mouth full of toast. “Aunt Mary telephoned. You’re to ring her back.”
“But not Andrews?”
“No.”
“Has the visual been restored?”
“No.”
“Wear your regulation face mask!” Dunworthy called after him, “and your muffler!”
He rang up Mary and waited impatiently for nearly five minutes until she came to the telephone.
“James?” Mary’s voice said. “It’s Badri. He’s asking for you.”
“He’s better, then?”
“No. His fever’s still very high, and he’s become quite agitated, keeps calling your name, insists he has something to tell you. He’s working himself into a very bad state. If you could come and speak with him, it might calm him down.”
“Has he said anything about the plague?” he asked.
“The
“No,” Dunworthy said. It’s Badri. Last night he said, ‘It killed half of Europe,’ and ‘It must have been the rats.’”
“He’s delirious, James. It’s the fever. It doesn’t mean anything.”
She’s right, he told himself. The detainee ranted on about Indians with bows and arrows, and you didn’t begin looking for Sioux warriors. She had conjured up too much birthday cake as an explanation for her being ill, and Badri had conjured up the plague. It didn’t mean anything.
Nevertheless, he said he would be there immediately and went to find Finch. Andrews hadn’t specified what time he would call, but Dunworthy couldn’t risk leaving the phone unattended. He wished he’d made Colin stay while he spoke to Mary.
Finch would very likely be in hall, guarding the bacon with his life. He took the receiver off the hook so the phone would sound engaged and went across the quad to the hall.
Ms. Taylor met him at the door. “I was just coming to look for you,” she said. “I heard some of the detainees came down with the virus last night.”
“Yes,” he said, scanning the hall for Finch.
“Oh, dear. So I suppose we’ve all been exposed.”
He couldn’t see Finch anywhere.
