Dooms Day Book

That hadn’t occurred to Dunworthy. If the quarantine had been called before his train reached Oxford, it would have been stopped at the nearest station and the passengers rerouted or sent back to London.

“Ring the station back,” he said, handing her the phone. He told her the number. “Tell them his train left Marble Arch at one. I’ll have Mary phone her niece. Perhaps Colin’s back already.”

He went out in the corridor, intending to ask the nurse to fetch Mary, but she wasn’t there. Mary must have sent her to the station.

There was no one in the corridor. He looked down it at the call box he had used before and then walked rapidly down to it and punched in Balliol’s number. There was an off-chance that Colin had gone to Mary’s rooms after all. He would send Finch round, and if Colin wasn’t there, down to the station. It would very likely take more than one person looking to find Colin in that mess.

“Hi,” a woman said.

Dunworthy frowned at the number in the inset, but he hadn’t misdialed. “I’m trying to reach Mr. Finch at Balliol College.”

“He’s not here right now,” the woman, obviously American, said. “I’m Ms. Taylor. Can I take a message?”

This must be one of the bellringers. She was younger than he’d expected, not much over thirty, and she looked rather delicate to be a bellringer. “Would you have him call Mr. Dunworthy at Infirmary as soon as he returns, please?”

“Mr. Dunworthy.” She wrote it down, and then looked up sharply. “Mr. Dunworthy,” she said in an entirely different tone of voice, “are you the person responsible for our being held prisoner here?”

There was no good answer to that. He should never have phoned the junior common room. He had sent Finch to the bursar’s office.

“The National Health Service issues temp quarantines in cases of an unidentified disease. It’s a precautionary measure. I’m sorry for any inconvenience it’s caused you. I’ve instructed my secretary to make your stay comfortable, and if there’s anything I can do for you—”

“Do? Do?! You can get us to Ely, that’s what you can do. My ringers were supposed to give a handbell concert at the cathedral at eight o’clock, and tomorrow we have to be in Norwich. We’re ringing a peal on Christmas Eve.”

He was not about to be the one to tell her they were not going to be in Norwich tomorrow. “I’m sure that Ely is already aware of the situation, but I will be more than happy to phone the cathedral and explain—”

“Explain! Perhaps you’d like to explain it to me, too. I’m not used to having my civil liberties taken away like this. In America, nobody would dream of telling you where you can or can’t go.”

And over ten million Americans died during the Pandemic as a result of that sort of thinking, he thought. “I assure you, Madam, that the quarantine is solely for your protection and that all of your concert dates will be more than willing to reschedule. In the meantime, Balliol is delighted to have you as our guests. I am looking forward to meeting you in person. Your reputation precedes you.”

And if that were true, he thought, I would have told you Oxford was under quarantine when you wrote for permission to come.

“There is no way to reschedule a Christmas Eve peal. We were to have rung a new peal, the Chicago Surprise Minor. The Norwich Chapter is counting on us to be there, and we intend—”

He hit the disconnect button. Finch was probably in the bursar’s office, looking for Badri’s medical records, but Dunworthy wasn’t going to risk getting another bell ringer. He looked up Regional Transport’s number instead and started to punch it in.

The door at the end of the corridor opened, and Mary came through it.

“I’m trying Regional Transport,” Dunworthy said, punching in the rest of the number and passing her the receiver.

She waved it away, smiling. “It’s all right. I’ve just spoken to Dierdre. Colin’s train was stopped at Barton. The passengers were put on the tube back to London. She’s going down to Marble Arch to meet him.” She sighed. “Dierdre didn’t sound very glad that he’s coming home. She planned to spend Christmas with her new livein’s family, and I think she rather wanted him out of the way, but it can’t be helped. I’m simply glad he’s out of this.”

He could hear the relief in her voice. He put the receiver back. “Is it that bad?”

“We just got the preliminary ident back. It’s definitely a Type A myxovirus. Influenza.”

He had been expecting something worse, some third world fever or a retrovirus. He had had the flu back in the days before antivirals. He had felt terrible, congested, feverish, achy, for a few days and then gotten over it without anything but bedrest and fluids.

“Will they call the quarantine off then?”

“Not until we get Badri’s medical records,” she said. “I keep hoping he skipped his last course of antivirals. If not, then we’ll have to wait till we locate the source.”

“But it’s only the flu.”