He dressed and went across to the hall, looking for Colin. It was still raining, the sky the same sodden gray as the paving stones and the bark on the beech trees. He hoped that the bellringers and detainees had breakfasted early and gone back to their assigned rooms, but it was a fond hope. He could hear the high hubbub of female voices before he was halfway across the quad.
“Thank goodness you’re up, sir,” Finch said, meeting him at the door. “The NHS just phoned. They want us to take twenty more detainees.”
“Tell them we can’t,” Dunworthy said, looking through the crowd. “We’re under orders to avoid contact with infected persons. Have you seen Dr. Ahrens’ nephew?”
“He was just here,” Finch said, peering over the heads of the women, but Dunworthy had already spotted him. He was standing at the end of the table where the bellringers were sitting, buttering several pieces of toast.
Dunworthy made his way to him. “When Ms. Montoya telephoned, did she tell you where she might be reached?”
“The one with the bicycle?” Colin said, smearing marmalade on the buttered toast.
“Yes.”
“No, she didn’t.”
“Will you have breakfast, sir?” Finch said. “I’m afraid there aren’t any bacon and eggs, and we’re getting very low on marmalade,” he glared at Colin, “but there’s oatmeal and—”
“Just tea,” Dunworthy said. “She didn’t mention where she was phoning from?”
“Do sit down,” Ms. Taylor said. “I’ve been wanting to speak to you about our Chicago Surprise.”
“What exactly did Ms. Montoya say?” Dunworthy said to Colin.
“That nobody cared that her dig was being ruined and an invaluable link with the past was being lost, and what sort of person went fishing in the middle of winter anyway,” Colin said, scraping marmalade off the sides of the bowl.
“We’re nearly out of tea,” Finch said, pouring Dunworthy a very pale cup.
Dunworthy sat down. “Would you like some cocoa, Colin? Or a glass of milk?” Dunworthy asked.
“We’re nearly out of milk,” Finch said.
“I don’t need anything, thanks,” Colin said, slapping the slices of toast jam sides together, “I’m just going to take these with me out to the gate so I can wait for the post.”
“The vicar telephoned,” Finch said. “He said to tell you you needn’t be there to go over the order of worship until half– past six.”
“Are they still holding the Christmas Eve service?” Dunworthy said. “I shouldn’t think anyone would come under the circumstances.”
“He said the Ecumenical Committee had voted to hold it regardless,” Finch said, pouring a quarter-teaspoon of milk in the pallid tea and handing it to him. “He said they felt carrying on as usual will help keep up morale.”
“We’re going to perform several pieces on the handbells,” Ms. Taylor said. “It’s hardly a substitute for a peal, of course, but it’s something. The priest from Holy Re-Formed is going to read from the Mass in Time of Pestilence.”
“Ah,” Dunworthy said. “That should help in keeping up morale.”
“Do I have to go?” Colin said.
“He has no business going out in this weather,” Mrs. Gaddson said, appearing like a harpy with a large bowl of gray oatmeal. She set it in front of Colin. “And no business being exposed to germs in a drafty church. He can stay here with me during the church service.” She pushed a chair up behind him. “Sit down and eat your oatmeal.”
Colin looked beseechingly at Dunworthy.
“Colin, I left Ms. Montoya’s telephone number in my rooms,” Dunworthy said. “Would you fetch it for me?”
“Yes!” Colin said, and was out of his chair like a shot.
“When that child comes down with the Indian flu,” Mrs. Gaddson said, “I hope you will remember that you were the one who encouraged him in his poor eating habits. It is clear to me what led to this epidemic. Poor nutrition and a complete lack of discipline. It’s disgraceful, the way this college is run. I asked to be put in with my son William, but instead I’ve been assigned a room in another building altogether, and—”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to take that up with Finch,” Dunworthy said. He stood up, wrapped Colin’s marmaladed toast in a napkin, and put it in his pocket. “I’m needed at the infirmary,” he said and escaped before Mrs. Gaddson could start off again.
He went back to his rooms and rang up Andrews. The line was engaged. He rang up the dig, on the off-chance that Montoya had obtained her quarantine waiver, but there was no answer. He rang up Andrews again. Amazingly enough, the line was free. It rang three times and then switched to a message service.
“This is Mr. Dunworthy,” he said. He hesitated and then gave the number of his rooms. “I need to speak with you immediately. It’s important.”
He rang off, pocketed the disk, picked up his umbrella and Colin’s toast, and walked out through the quad.
Colin was huddling under the shelter of the gate, looking anxiously down the street toward Carfax.
“I’m going to the infirmary to see my tech and your great– aunt,” Dunworthy said, handing him the napkin-wrapped toast. “Would you like to go with me?”
“No, thanks,” Colin said. “I don’t want to miss the post.”
