Pestilence

Chapter Nine

It was four thirty in the afternoon before the police had finished questioning Saracen. He himself had called them, Mildred being incapable of doing anything other than scream hysterically. Garten’s name and the fact that he was Matthew Glendale’s son in law ensured that the most senior police officers in Skelmore were in attendance, in fact Saracen had noted that officers of junior rank seemed to be markedly absent during the proceedings. This raised a question in his head that might have developed into paranoia had Mildred not already conceded that she had fired the weapon.

The confession however, had been made amidst loud protests that ‘it really hadn’t been her fault,’ that the gun had ‘gone off’, and that ‘if it hadn’t been for that swine,’ meaning Saracen, her husband Nigel would still be alive. Saracen feared that the police might lean towards the welfare of the establishment and so it proved to be. Rest and sedation were prescribed for Mildred while open hostility was the order of the day for him.

As the seemingly endless round of questions proceeded Saracen could sense that the police were determined to interpret Garten’s death as being accidental, the tragic outcome of a domestic accident while he himself was an interloper who had somehow precipitated the whole sorry affair. Saracen found himself becoming more and more annoyed. He would not allow himself to be rail-roaded along that particular path and determinedly stuck to the truth. Mildred Garten had been trying to kill him when the gun had gone off and killed her husband instead. She had been trying to stop him reporting Garten to the police over irregularities in the handling of two deaths at Skelmore General. Saracen was further annoyed that no one seemed to be writing anything down. “I thought that I was making a statement,” he protested.

“All in good time sir,” said the superintendent with a smile that bore no humour.

“Can I ask what you are going to do?” said Saracen.

“We are going to gather all the facts together and then make our report sir,” said the superintendent with a condescension that put Saracen’s teeth on edge.

“I understand that you are presently under suspension from the General Hospital sir?” said one of the other policemen.

“Is that relevant?” snapped Saracen.

“It might be,” replied the policeman. “I further believe that it was Doctor Garten himself who instigated your suspension?”

“Yes it was but that has nothing to do with…”

“Quite so sir.”

The senior policeman present leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his ample stomach. He regarded Saracen with a world weary gaze. “Now then, let’s see if I have got this right,” he said. “This woman, this Myra Archer, was not buried in St Clement’s Churchyard. She was cremated because she died of plague which she caught in Africa before coming here. She gave it to one of her neighbours who also died and he was cremated too. You say that Dr Garten covered up the true nature of these deaths in order to avoid public alarm and loss of business confidence in the area?”

“It’s not just a case of covering up,” replied Saracen, alarmed that the policeman had made it sound so unimportant. “There should have been a full scale epidemiological investigation of the outbreak.”

“Epi..?”

“He should have notified the public health authorities so that one of their teams could have identified the exact source of the outbreak, traced and isolated all the contacts, placed quarantine orders if necessary.”

“But I thought we had established that this Archer woman brought the disease with her from Africa?” said the policeman.

“Well yes but…”

“Then what you are really quibbling about is Dr Garten’s failure to do the paperwork?”

“No I’m not,” retorted Saracen angrily. “We are talking about plague! Black Death! Not influenza! You don’t take anything for granted and you never take chances with it!”

Saracen could see from the glances that passed between the policemen that he had been cast in the role of meddling busybody. He considered for a moment telling them the full story of Cyril Wylie’s involvement in the affair and of Wylie’s attempt to murder him but found that he had no heart for it. There was no point, he decided. What he really wanted was to go home.

Saracen poured himself a large whisky and slumped into a chair facing a window in the flat. He looked up at the sky and the passing clouds and, for once, was glad of the silence; it was exactly what he needed.

As the minutes passed the whisky did its bit in blunting his nerve ends and it was tempting to climb into the bottle for the rest of the evening but there was something else he had to do. He felt he had to go and see Timothy Archer and explain personally about his wife’s death and why she had not been buried where they had always planned. There would be no pleasure in it but then there was no pleasure to be taken in any of it.

Feelings of self recrimination began to arise in Saracen. Perhaps it would have been better all round if he had never thought to interfere in the first place. “Damnation,” he said out loud before throwing back the whisky. How he envied people who could tell right from wrong so easily. Oh for a black and white world instead of the universal greyness that was his. He got up and ran a bath. Too much quiet could be a bad thing.

Saracen decided on a suit and tie for his visit to Timothy Archer; he needed all the props of social nicety to tell the man what he had to. As he straightened his tie in the mirror he wondered how Archer would take the news. He had had time to get over his initial grief but there were more factors to consider than might otherwise be the case. His wife’s death had come at a time of great upheaval and disorientation for them both for they had just given up what had been their life for twenty years in order to come back to Skelmore. That in itself must have been a considerable strain. True, Skelmore had once been home to Archer but twenty years is a long time and seeing gaps where familiar buildings used to stand could not have been comforting. In strange surroundings and with nothing familiar to cling to the tide of grief could come perilously high.

When Saracen turned off the engine in the residents’ car park at Palmer’s Green he was struck by how quiet it was. It was only seven thirty in the evening and the weather was fine but there were no children’s voices to be heard, no sound of balls bouncing on concrete, no jangling bicycle bells. Only the sound of singing birds disturbed the monastic quiet. He got out and walked across the spotless courtyard to the double glazed front doors where he had to wait for the caretaker to open them.

As he waited he smiled at his own naivete. Of course there would be no sounds of children at Palmer’s Green. The apartments here cost the earth. No young families could possibly afford them. They were the prerogative of the well heeled and, in Skelmore, which automatically meant the elderly.

The doors slid back and Saracen approached the hall desk. “I’d like to see Mr Archer.”

“Is Mr Archer expecting you sir?”

“No.”

“What name please?”

“Dr Saracen.”

“One moment.”

The man picked up a green telephone and Saracen turned away, unwilling to eavesdrop on someone else’s conversation however mundane. He casually examined the large mosaic that occupied an entire wall in the entrance area and recognised Greek helmets, spears and rocks that appeared to have elephants’ trunks protruding from them. Leaning his head first to the right and then to the left he still failed to establish an overall theme and gave up with a slight shrug of the shoulders.

“Mr Archer will see you sir. Flat number fourteen.” said the caretaker.

Saracen followed the direction of the man’s outstretched finger and made his way to Archer’s apartment. He knocked gently on the door and it was opened almost immediately. “Come in Doctor. It’s good to see you.”

Saracen noticed that Archer’s tan had faded a good deal since the last time they had met and his hair was more unkempt than it had been. An open bottle of whisky stood on a small table by the armchair, a half filled glass beside it.

“Can I fix you one?” asked Archer nodding to the bottle. Saracen agreed and Archer poured a generous measure into a tumbler. “Anything in it?”

“A little water.”

Archer went to the kitchen to fetch the water giving Saracen time to appraise his surroundings. There was an impersonal, almost hotel like ambience, about the place with no books, ornaments, photographs or letters lying around. Through an open door he could see a suitcase lying open on the floor and half full of clothes. He guessed that time had been standing still for Archer.

Archer returned and said, “I’d like to think that this is a social visit Doctor but maybe not?”

“It’s about your wife,” Saracen began tentatively. “There are some things I think you should know.”

When Saracen had finished Archer sat forward in his chair and cradled his head in his hands.

“I’m sorry,” said Saracen softly.

Archer shook his head and said, “Plague? My wife died of plague?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“But that died out centuries ago,” protested Archer.

“In Britain but it’s endemic in some areas of the world including parts of Africa.”

“But I haven’t got it!”

“No,” agreed Saracen. “But did your wife leave to come to Britain directly?”

Archer shook his head. “No, she went around the country visiting some of our old friends for a week or so before she left, saying good-bye, that sort of thing.”

Saracen nodded and said, “Well somewhere along the line she must have come into contact with an infected source.”

Archer shivered and rubbed his arms briskly. “God, it’s cold in here,” he said and got up. He went over to the heating controls on the wall and fiddled with the dials before complaining that it was no use, the place was always cold.

Saracen smiled and sympathised. He was relieved that his task was over and Garten had taken it well. “Have you any idea what you will do now?” he asked Archer.

“I thought I might take one of these sea cruises, get some sun, new places, new faces, start picking up the pieces.”

“Good idea,” said Saracen.

“But not just yet,” said Archer. “First I’m going to spend the summer here in Skelmore. I’m going to do all the things Myra and I said we’d do if we came back.”

Saracen smiled and nodded. He put down his empty tumbler and got to his feet. Archer got up with him and held out his hand. “Thank you for coming; thank you for telling me.”

There were two police cars parked outside his apartment when Saracen got back. One was a marked Panda car the other a large, black saloon, its identity only betrayed by its communications aerial. There was a third car parked well behind the police vehicles and Saracen thought that he recognised it. As he got nearer the BMA sticker on the windscreen confirmed it; the car belonged to Martin Saithe.

Saracen entered the building and met his would-be guests coming back down the stairs. Saithe was at their head and saw Saracen. “Ah, James, there you are.”

Saracen was rather taken aback at Saithe addressing him as James. It inferred a familiarity that had never existed between them.

“James, this is Superintendent Carradyce. We were wondering if we might have a word.”

“Of course,” replied Saracen. He led the way back up the stairs and invited his visitors inside. The fixed smile on Carradyce’s face and Saithe’s false manner told Saracen that they wanted something from him. He wondered what.

Carradyce and Saithe sat down facing Saracen and the policeman said, “It’s about this awful business with Dr Garten sir.”

“I thought I’d told the police all I could about that Superintendent,” said Saracen.

“A tragedy, an absolute tragedy,” said Saithe as if he were auditioning for the National Theatre, thought Saracen.

“You were very helpful sir,” said Carradyce, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, “It’s just that I’m sure we would all like to minimise the after effects of this tragic affair. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Minimise?” said Saracen unhelpfully.

Saithe leaned forward solicitously and said, “We do realise of course that it must have been very unnerving for you James.”

Saracen had never seen Saithe pretend to be nice to anyone before. It had all the fascination of watching an unnatural act. “But?” he said.

“Mildred was very upset at the time James and the aftermath for the poor woman, well that doesn’t bear thinking about. She has lost everything, absolutely everything…”

So that was it, thought Saracen. Matthew Glendale had been pulling strings to get his daughter off the hook and avoid a family scandal.

“The gun did actually go off by accident sir.” Carradyce reminded him.

Saithe leaned forward in his seat and said to Saracen, “What the Superintendent is getting at James is…”

Saracen had had enough of the game. He said, “I know what the Superintendent is getting at. You would like Nigel Garten’s death to be recorded as a tragic accident. You would like there to be no mention of the plague cases and no mention of any attempt on my life by Mildred. Correct?”

“More or less,” agreed Saithe with a slight air of embarrassment. The policeman looked even more embarrassed.

“Don’t misunderstand us James. We know that what Mildred tried to do was unforgivable but…”

“Matthew Glendale could do without the scandal.” said Saracen.

“The town could do without a scandal James.” Saithe corrected.

Saracen got up, turned his back on his guests and walked over to the window. He hated to admit it but Saithe was right. A public scandal was not going to do anyone any good and possibly a lot of harm. The affair was best forgotten as quickly as possible. “Very well, I agree,” he said and turned round.

Saithe and Carradyce were visibly relieved. Saithe gave a genuine smile. It looked quite different from the one he had previously been affecting. He said, “There is of course, the matter of an apology to you James over your unfortunate suspension. I’m sure I will speak for everyone at Skelmore General when I say that the sooner we have you back in harness the better. Indeed I think that I can safely say that when it comes to the matter of selecting a new consultant for A amp;E we won’t have far to look.”

Saracen felt uncomfortable, even unclean. He felt as if he had just been bought. “If you will excuse me now?” he said.

“Of course,” said Saithe getting to his feet. He held out his hand and Saracen shook it. The policeman did likewise. Saracen felt even worse.

“Do you mean she’s getting away with it?” asked an incredulous Jill when she heard the news.

“It’s for the best,” said Saracen. “The sooner we get back to normal the better.”

Jill sipped her drink. She seemed angry. Saracen ran his fingers lightly through her hair and she put her hand up to hold his. “It just doesn’t seem right,” said Jill.

“The main thing is that it is over,” said Saracen.

“I suppose you’re right,” conceded Jill but her voice still harboured doubts. “About your suspension?” she began.

“It’s over. I’ll be back on duty tomorrow.”

Jill smiled for the first time and said, “Well that’s one good thing.”

“Maybe we should celebrate. Go out to dinner?”

“Chinese or Indian?” asked Jill.

“Neither. How about the Station Hotel?”

Jill’s eyes widened. “Little ol’ me at that big ol’ Station Hotel,” she mimicked. “Won’t I have to dye my hair blue and dress up like a Christmas tree?”

“It might help,” agreed Saracen. “But if we talk posh they might let us in.”

“I’ll have to change.”

“I’ll run you round. But first I’ll phone for a table.” Saracen walked over to the phone but it started to ring before he had reached it. It was Dave Moss at the County Hospital.

“I know this is going to sound ridiculous but I had to talk to someone,” said Moss.

“Shoot.”

“One of my patients died this evening.”

“Go on.”

“He died of pneumonia only four hours after admission.”

“Old people often succumb quickly, you know that,” said Saracen.

“But he wasn’t old. He was a strong, thirty year old man. I gave him a million units of penicillin on admission and expected him to be stable by this evening but he went downhill like a lead balloon. The cyanosis was something to behold. By the end his skin was almost black.”

Saracen felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to rise. He had an awful sense of foreboding. “I agree, it’s unusual,” he said slowly.

“I know it sounds crazy and I know you will laugh but I think he died of…pneumonic plague.”

Saracen closed his eyes. It wasn’t over after all. Plague was still in Skelmore.

“James? Are you still there?”

“I’m here. Did your patient live in Palmer’s Green?”

“One moment.”

Saracen heard the receiver being laid down and paper being shuffled.

“No, he didn’t. Why do you ask?”

“Where did he live?” asked Saracen.

“Madox Road. But why?”

“Christ almighty,” said Saracen softly on hearing an address that was on the other side of town from Palmer’s Green.

“What are you not telling me?” demanded Moss.

“Myra Archer and Leonard Cohen both died from plague. Garten covered up the deaths believing that they were isolated cases and that would be the end of it. They lived in the flats on Palmer’s Green. If you have had a case from the other side of Skelmore we could be in real trouble.”

Moss spluttered in disbelief. “How in God’s name did we come to get plague in Skelmore?” he exclaimed.

“Myra Archer had newly arrived here from Africa. She must have brought it with her. Cohen was one of her neighbours down at Palmer’s Green.

“And Garten covered it up?”

“He thought the press coverage would destroy the Skelmore development plans. He thought the Japs might pull out and his father in law would go bust over his housing investments.”

“Good old Nigel,” said Moss. “Self, self, self.”

“Have you told anyone else of your suspicions about your patient?” asked Saracen.

“I wanted to try it on a friend first.”

“Lab tests?”

“I sent them off in the usual way, giving severe pneumonia as the provisional diagnosis.”

“Maybe you should warn the lab about the specimens?” suggested Saracen.

“I will do. I’ll arrange for the staff to have cover too. Any idea what the recommended drugs are?”

“I think it’s streptomycin and tetracycline but we had both better check. All I can remember for sure is that penicillin is no use at all against plague.”

“That would explain my patient’s failure to respond,” said Moss quietly.

“You weren’t to know. We would all have gone for penicillin in the circumstances,” said Saracen.

“Thanks.”

“Will you notify the health authorities or will I?” asked Saracen.

“I will. We will have to get to the family quickly.”

“I’ll inform the powers that be here at the General and then I’ll get back to you.” Saracen put down the phone then picked it up again and called Saithe.

“And Moss is quite sure?”

“He doesn’t have the results of the lab tests yet but it sounds like the real thing.”

“Damnation,” muttered Saithe. “But we must be careful not to cross our bridges until we come to them. We don’t want to cause unnecessary panic.”

“No sir, but Dr Moss is calling the Public Health people anyway.”

“I see,” said Saithe distantly as if he were thinking about something else. “I think what we must do,” he said slowly, “Is set up an ad hoc committee to monitor the situation.”

Saracen raised his eyes to the ceiling. “If you say so.”

“Now who should we have on it…” continued Saithe as if Saracen were no longer there.

“An expert on plague,” interrupted Saracen.

“What was that? What did you say Saracen?”

“I suggested that we find an expert on plague for your committee. None of us know anything about it bar what we read in our text books years ago.”

“Good point,” said Saithe. “There can’t be too many experts on plague around.”

“And certainly not in Skelmore,” added Saracen.

Two hours later Saithe called back to say that an emergency committee had been decided on. Saracen was invited to join. The committee was to comprise Saithe himself, Braithwaite, the medical officer for the county, Chief Superintendent Carradyce, David Moss, John Laird, the medical superintendent at the County Hospital, the hospital secretaries of both the General and County Hospitals and their senior nursing officers. In addition, and more importantly to Saracen’s way of thinking, a man named MacQuillan would be coming up to Skelmore from the government’s research establishment at Porton Down. He was due to arrive in the town at around eight fifteen. The first meeting of the committee was scheduled for nine pm. Saracen said that he would be there.

At ten minutes to nine Saracen left A amp;E where he had called in to see Alan Tremaine and inform him that he would be coming back on duty in the morning. He was thinking about Tremaine as he pulled his collar up against the drizzling rain and waited for an ambulance to pass before crossing the quadrangle to the East wing of the hospital. Tremaine was looking tired, too tired thought Saracen, unless anything came up at the meeting to prevent it he would go back to A amp;E and work the night shift. Tremaine could go home and get some sleep. Saithe had said something about getting locum housemen for A amp;E; Saracen made a mental note to remind him; the matter was now urgent.

Dave Moss was getting out of his car as Saracen reached the East door. He held it open for him and asked, “How are things?”

“Not good. The dead man’s wife has been admitted.”

“Same thing?”

“Looks like it.”

Saracen cursed softly.

“It gets worse,” said Moss. “She worked as a cook at Maxton Primary School.”

They had reached the East Lecture Theatre where the meeting was being held. Moss opened the door and allowed Saracen to enter first.

“Good evening,” said Martin Saithe, looking over his glasses and then at his watch. “I think we are all here now.” He exaggerated the act of looking at everyone present to confirm it.

Saracen disliked the lecture theatres in the General for there never seemed to be enough light in them, especially at night when single bulbs hanging beneath metal shades seemed to provoke more shadow than illumination. Apart from the installation of projection equipment no concession at all appeared to have been made to the modern era. The dark, wooden bench seating rose steeply to the ceiling and curved in a hemisphere round a central podium as it had done when Victorian medical students had filled it. Saithe was standing behind a table that had, in its time, witnessed a continual stream of embarrassed and hapless people, there to display their afflictions for the education of the ‘young gentlemen’.

Saithe said, “I must apologise for our surroundings this evening but Dr MacQuillan has some slides for us; we need the projector.”

A small, balding man with a dense black moustache and wearing a tweed suit took this as his cue and got to his feet. He joined Saithe behind the table and picked up an automatic slide changer. Saracen thought he recognised a slightly aggressive air about the man, in the way he stood with his feet well apart and the way he held the slide changer at a distance from his body.

Saithe said, “Dr MacQuillan is an expert on Yersinia pestis, the organism that causes plague. He has kindly agreed to fill in the gaps in our knowledge.”

MacQuillan gave a little grunt of acknowledgement and took the floor from Saithe. He picked up a pointer from the table and clicked on the first slide. “First the culprit.”

MacQuillan’s Scottish accent and clipped words matched his stance, thought Saracen, who had now classified him as a pugnacious, no nonsense Scotsman. Good, he thought, the absence of bullshit should speed things up considerably.

MacQuillan slapped the pointer against the screen and said, “This is Yersinia pestis, a rod shaped bacterium less than two thousandths of a millimetre long. It looks like any other bacterium you might say and you would be right but, in the fourteenth century, this little fellow wiped out one quarter of the entire population of Europe.” MacQuillan paused but found his audience too sophisticated to gasp out loud. “Ironically,” he continued, “Man is infected as an unwitting interloper between infected rats and their fleas. An infected rat dies, its fleas look for a new host. A human being is nearby, Bingo, he gets plague.

MacQuillan clicked the slide changer and a monster from science fiction leapt on to the screen. “Xenopsylla cheopis,” said MacQuillan, “The rat flea. The cycle is as follows. Flea bites infected rat and picks up the organism. The bacteria multiply inside the insect’s gut. It regurgitates them and, mixed with its saliva, it passes on the disease to its next victim, usually another rat…but not always.”

“But surely plague can be transmitted in other ways,” said Phoebe Kendal, the General’s senior nursing officer.

“Indeed it can,” replied MacQuillan. “The process I have described is for the transmission of bubonic plague. There is another form of the disease termed, pneumonic plague which is what we are seeing here in Skelmore. In advanced stages of the illness the patient produces copious amounts of bloody, frothing sputum containing myriads of plague bacteria. This gives rise to highly infectious aerosols produced when the patient coughs or sneezes. People in the vicinity inhale the infected particles and contract pneumonic plague.”

“Thank you Doctor,” said Phoebe Kendal.

MacQuillan changed the slide. “The bubonic form,” he said. “The patient shown here is close to death. Note the swollen lymph glands and here,” he slapped the pointer once more against the screen, “in the inguinal region is the primary bubo, the most common site for it.” Another click of the changer and a different patient appeared. “This man has pneumonic plague; he is about three hours from death. Note the skin colour; he’s almost black, hence the nickname, Black Death.”

“What’s the mortality rate?” asked Moss.

“In untreated cases of pneumonic plague mortality is almost one hundred percent. In untreated bubonic cases, between fifty and seventy-five.”

“You said ‘untreated’,” said Saracen.

“Yes, the use of modern antibiotics can alter things dramatically. Tetracycline therapy will reduce bubonic plague fatality to around one percent. It is also extremely effective against the pneumonic form if the time factor is right.”

“Time factor?”

“After twelve hours nothing will save you.”

Saithe asked about incubation time for the disease.

“One to six days depending on the infecting dose,” said MacQuillan.

Saracen was beginning to wonder why Braithwaite, the county medical officer was saying nothing, and was about to say so to Moss, when MacQuillan answered his question for him.

“I have spoken to Dr Braithwaite and his people are currently taking appropriate action to contain the outbreak. I don’t think I am being too optimistic when I say that this should all be over in the very near future.”

“Can I ask what ‘appropriate action’ means?” said Moss.

“Over to Dr Braithwaite,” said MacQuillan and sat down.

Braithwaite got to his feet with the usual difficulty of a very fat person and turned to face his audience. He wrinkled up his nose and eyes as if he had suddenly been exposed to light and thrust his hands deep into the voluminous pockets of his trousers. “Well, basically,” he began, pausing to clear his throat unnecessarily; “It’s a question of tracing contacts quickly and treating them.”

“With what?”

“Tetracycline.”

“And if they are children?” asked Moss.

“I know what you are getting at Doctor but, in this case, I think we have to overlook the deposition of the drug in growing bones and teeth and give the children tetracycline too.”

No one chose to disagree.

“What about protection for hospital staff?”

“Anti-plague vaccine and serum is on its way,” replied Braithwaite.

“For my men too?” asked Carradyce.

“Of course.”

“But not the public?” asked Saracen.

Braithwaite screwed up his face still further. “No, not at this stage,” he said. “We don’t want to encourage any unnecessary panic and I feel that this unfortunate incident can be adequately contained without mass vaccination.”

“Then you have established the link between the man who died at the County Hospital and either Archer or Cohen?” said Saracen.

Braithwaite shifted uncomfortably on his feet and cleared his throat once more. “I think we have come as close as we can,” he said. “The man was employed on the development at Palmer’s Green. I think it reasonable to suppose that he must have come into contact with either Mrs Archer or Mr Cohen.”

“It would have to have been Cohen,” said Saracen.

Braithwaite looked bemused; MacQuillan stepped in to save him. “By the incubation time, yes you are quite right Doctor. Mrs Archer has been dead too long for it to have been her who infected the man. The deceased must have been infected within the last six days; that makes it Cohen.”

“Are you taking steps to prove it?” asked Saracen.

Braithwaite was dismissive. “Enquiries will be made but it is purely academic,” he said.

Moss said, “Am I right in thinking that what we are aiming for is six clear days without a case of plague?”

“Better say eight to be absolutely sure,” said MacQuillan. “Eight days without a case and Skelmore will be in the clear.”

“Assuming all the presumptions are right,” said Saracen.

“I don’t think I understand,” said Braithwaite coldly.

“I said assuming all the presumptions are correct and A gave it to B who gave it to C etc.”

“Do you have a better idea Doctor?”

“The point I am trying to make is that we must take nothing for granted with something as dangerous as plague. Every detail must be checked.”

“Very commendable I’m sure,” said Braithwaite. “After only thirty years in the profession I am grateful for your advice.”

Saracen was aware of one of the senior nurses hiding a smile behind her hand and felt embarrassed and annoyed at the put-down.

“What was that all about?” whispered Moss as one of the hospital secretaries changed the subject to ask about ward accommodation.

“I don’t know myself,” confessed Saracen. “I just think they are taking it a bit too lightly. There’s something wrong somewhere.”

“But what?”

Saracen shrugged. “I don’t know. I wish I did.”

“Finally,” announced Saithe. “The Press.” He paused to allow time for groans and head shaking. “I think we must insist that no one outside of our official spokesmen should say anything at all to the newspapers.” There was a murmur of agreement and Moss asked who the spokesmen were to be.

“Both hospital secretaries and Dr Braithwaite as medical officer for the county,” replied Saithe. “But the less we say the better. If we can stall all questions for a week, or eight days to be precise,” Saithe looked at MacQuillan. “We can speak about all this in the past tense.