destroy.”
“Contain and destroy,” repeated Saracen softly. “A whole town?”
“The principle stands.”
“Just how does a government explain the destruction of a whole town to the general public?”
“A tragic accident, some awful consequence of the emergency, a factory explosion, maybe even the gasworks going up through lack of proper maintenance.”
“They’d never believe it.”
“They’ll believe it if they want to,” said MacQuillan.
“What does that mean?”
“Any day now, mark my words, the authorities will start leaking the truth about the situation here in Skelmore. Stories of an incurable plague on his doorstep should put Joe Public in the right frame of mind to accept whatever happens next.”
“You’re a cynical bastard MacQuillan,” said Saracen.
“I’m a realist,” countered MacQuillan. “A blessing in disguise, they’ll say. The ways of the Lord are strange. Some kind of timely miracle. Thanksgiving services and now a look at the weather …”
“You’re drunk,” Saracen accused.
“I am,” agreed MacQuillan, “but that doesn’t alter the fact that Beasdale, this afternoon, reduced the administration staff to a minimum and sealed off the waterworks. No one now leaves or enters. Don’t bother trying to phone anyone either. STD has been suspended, it’s local calls only.”
Saracen had had enough; he got to his car and headed for Claire Tremaine’s flat.
“You look ghastly,” she said.
“I’m just tired,” said Saracen. “Alan thought you should see this.” He handed Claire the medallion.”
Claire took the object and held it closer to the table lamp beside her. “Where on earth did you get this?” she exclaimed and Saracen told her. A sudden look of concern filled her eyes and prompted Saracen to reassure her that the medallion had been disinfected. Claire got up and came back with a book. She showed him an illustration and said, “Same emblem.”
“But it’s what the emblem stands for!” continued Claire, her voice full of excitement. “It’s the crest of Skelmoris Abbey, the monastery we have been looking for!”
“Oh,” said Saracen, with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. This wasn’t good enough for Claire who insisted, “Don’t you see? Don’t you understand how important this is?”
Saracen had to remind himself that Claire had no way of knowing what MacQuillan had predicted for Skelmore, no way of knowing the awful secret that made everything else unimportant to him. “Of course, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not thinking clearly.”
“Can you find out where the boy got this?” asked Claire, her eyes bright with enthusiasm.
“He has plague, Claire,” said Saracen. “He’s close to death.”
Claire pursed her lips in frustration. “Damnation, to be so near and yet so far,” she murmured. She became aware of the disapproving look on Saracen’s face and had the grace to be embarrassed. “I’m sorry, that was unforgivable,” she said. “I know you must think this silly and unimportant and you’re probably right but seeing that emblem …” She held up the medallion. “This is the most exciting moment of my career. It proves the existence of the Skelmoris Abbey beyond doubt.”
Saracen nodded. He respected professional enthusiasm but sometimes it was hard to take.
“Can you stay?” asked Claire softly.
Saracen shook his head. “I’ve got to get some sleep.”
“Then sleep here.”
Saracen started to protest but Claire was already undoing his shoelaces. He sat down on the couch and put his head back on the cushion. He felt his eyelids come together.
“Don’t worry James Saracen,” whispered Claire, “I won’t take advantage of you, even if you don’t realise how much you love her.”
Saracen awoke with a start feeling disoriented for he had no idea at all where he was until Claire said, “Sorry, I woke you. I dropped my book.”
Saracen blinked against the light. He saw that Claire had put a blanket over him. “How long?”
“Four hours.”
“I’d better get back to the hospital.”
“Don’t”, begged Claire. “You need more rest, go back to sleep.”
Saracen declined and sat up with a yawn.
“You’re still dead on your feet.”
“I’ve just had four hours sleep thanks to you,” said Saracen. “I’m grateful.” He got to his feet stiffly and put on his jacket, shrugging the shoulders to make it fit better before moving to the door.
“Any idea what’s wrong with the telephone lines?” asked Claire.
Saracen felt a chill run down his spine. “What do you mean?” he replied.
“I tried to phone London, couldn’t get through.”
“Happens all the time.”
“No, I tried several different numbers,” said Claire.
“Lack of maintenance due to the emergency,” lied Saracen.
“Probably,” agreed Claire.
Chapter Fourteen
Saracen drove back to the hospital through streets that were wet and empty. As he turned into the hospital gate two military ambulances were leaving and he had to give way. He watched them go, their deep-treaded tyres sending up orange tinted spray in the neon street lights, their hooded crews anonymous in white plastic.
Saracen went to A amp;E first and found the staff subdued. “Sister Lindeman died this evening,” said one of the nurses and Saracen nodded in resignation. “She was a fine woman,” he said quietly. The nurse agreed and asked, “When can we expect the antiserum? They seem to be taking their time.”
“Soon,” said Saracen, uncomfortable with the lie. “What’s going on here?” he asked. He was looking at a group of men being attended to in the treatment room.
“They were injured breaking into an off-license,” replied the nurse.
Saracen nodded and did not have to ask why. The pubs in Skelmore had been closed under the quarantine order and, due to an administrative oversight; the off licenses had been included in the non essential shops register. On top of everything else sudden alcohol prohibition had been a recipe for trouble. To Beasdale’s credit the order had been rescinded to allow off licenses to open for two hours a day but the order would not take effect until the following day.
“There’s a message for you on your desk,” said the nurse and Saracen went to look. The paper said, ‘Mrs Updale rang. Call her back’ and gave a number which Saracen dialled. He did not bother to check the time. For him and, he suspected, Mary Updale such considerations were a thing of the past.
“Dr Saracen you asked me to let you know if I remembered anything about Frank’s other job?”
“Yes.”
“Frank entered it in his diary. The customer’s name was a Mr Archer and he lived on Palmer’s Green. Does that help?”
“I think it does,” replied Saracen as calmly as he could under the circumstances.
Once again Archer had come up as the obvious link in the spread of the disease but the revelation raised almost as many questions as it answered. How could Timothy Archer possibly have given Updale the bubonic form of the disease? and then there was the time factor. Saracen hastily scribbled down some dates on the pad in front of him and discovered that for Archer to have given any kind of plague to Updale within the limit imposed by the incubation time Archer himself must have been in the advanced stages of the disease when Updale saw him. Was Updale well enough to confirm this?
