News of the new measures would be given on local radio at eleven thirty after which the radio station would be used exclusively for advice and information on the emergency. The public would be invited to telephone the station with questions which would be dealt with by a panel comprising an army officer, three civilian administrators and the medical superintendent of the County Hospital. “Are there any questions?”
“Have your men been told that their vaccination against plague was ineffectual?” asked Saracen.
“Not in so many words,” replied Beasdale. “But I will have to reverse my original decision about their wearing protective clothing. They will now wear it for all duties in the town. The public will be told that they are trying out the suits as part of an exercise.”
“Let’s hope they are dumb enough to believe it,” said MacQuillan.
“You don’t believe that they will?” asked Beasdale.
“Would you?” retorted MacQuillan.
“Perhaps not,” conceded Beasdale evenly. “But that’s the way it’s going to be.”
Saracen smiled at having discovered that the velvet glove was not empty.
“Now gentlemen,” continued Beasdale. “You have presented me with facts and figures. What I need now is an explanation. Twenty eight people all die together and eight new cases appear during the night. What’s going on?”
MacQuillan said, “The deaths at Palmer’s Green were… unexpected in an epidemiological sense in that they do not fit into the expected pattern of events. I think we have to treat it as a tragic, one-off occurrence. I would think that the Archers were almost certainly to blame but the exact mechanism of the infection is for the moment unknown and, for that matter, academic. Our main concern must lie in the fact that four of the new cases were not on our list of contacts. This means that we can expect yet more cases.”
“Is the situation out of control?” asked Beasdale directly.
“No,” replied MacQuillan.
“Is it under control?” asked Beasdale.
“No.”
“Then things are still in the balance?”
“Very much so.”
“Thank you gentlemen. Keep me informed and tell me when the General is ready to admit plague cases will you?”
“Of course,” said Saithe.
Saracen inspected the newly completed reception area at two o’clock. He was accompanied by Jenkins, the hospital secretary. It was clean and functional, thought Saracen and the whole area was bedecked with warning signs forbidding entry to the unauthorised. He examined the restored access to the stairs leading to the ward above and saw that Jenkins had been right. There was plenty of room for stretchers.
“It seems fine,” said Saracen.
“Then the General can go on line?” asked the secretary.
“We can go on line.” said Saracen.
When Jenkins had left Saracen phoned Moss at the County Hospital to tell him personally.
“About bloody time,” said Moss.
“Knew you’d be pleased,” said Saracen. “How are things going?”
“Three more this morning.”
“Known contacts?”
“Not on Braithwaite’s list.”
“Not good.”
“To say the least.”
“You’ve heard about the vaccine?”
Moss said that he had.
At four in the afternoon, with the town stunned into enforced idleness, Saracen received the first plague alert for the General. An ambulance was on its way with a forty-five year old male suspect. Saracen checked the name against Braithwaite’s list. It was not there. He swore under his breath.
Saracen donned his protective clothing and headed for the new reception area. One nurse accompanied him, also in full protective gear. They familiarised themselves with the details of the patients while they waited. The man was married with two children and worked for the Water and Drainage Department of the Council. He had no known contact with the Maxton Estate. The sound of a siren in the distance said his arrival was imminent. When the siren stopped Saracen put on his face mask. There was a hospital rule about turning off sirens within a quarter of a mile of the hospital.
The ambulance pulled up outside and its two volunteer attendants, clumsy in plastic suiting, unloaded their patient on to a trolley and brought him inside. The stood by while Saracen examined the man. It did not take long. Saracen’s fear that he might be presented with an atypical case and have trouble reaching a firm diagnosis did not materialise. The patient presented as a classical, text book pneumonic plague.
Saracen nodded to the attendants who, in contravention of normal working practice, had agreed to take all confirmed cases up to the isolation ward. This obviated the need for volunteer porters who would normally have done the job. In a way Saracen was glad that the patient was too ill to realise what was going on around him. Gowns and visors, gloves and scarlet danger signs would not have reassured him. By eight in the evening the General had admitted six patients to Ward Twenty, the County Hospital had taken in another two.
The next day was Friday and at nine thirty, when the medical committee met, there were fourteen patients in Ward Twenty and twenty two in the County’s isolation unit. Saracen phoned to find out how Jill was just before leaving for the meeting but Sister Lindeman, who answered, said that she had gone off duty and was probably asleep.
“Don’t you ever sleep Sister?” asked Saracen.
“When I have to Doctor.”
MacQuillan was rattled. “I don’t understand it, I just don’t understand it,” he complained. “So many people not on Braithwaite’s list. It’s as if there was a spread of random contacts all over the town that we know nothing at all about.”
“Where is Dr Braithwaite this morning?” asked Saithe, looking at his watch.
“I understand he is not too well,” said MacQuillan. Eyebrows were raised around the room prompting MacQuillan to add, “No, no, just been overworking I think.”
“We have to decide what to tell Col. Beasdale,” said Saithe. “There is no doubt that the situation has worsened.”
No one thought to disagree.
“With the volunteer force as it stands our capacity to cope stands at one hundred and ten patients between the County Hospital and ourselves. It seems certain that we will reach this figure within three days.” said Saithe.
“There is the turn-over factor of course,” said Saracen.
Jenkins started to ask what Saracen meant when Saithe interrupted him. “What Dr Saracen means is that nearly all of the patients admitted will be dead within three days. This helps keep the numbers down.”
“Are the dead going to be a problem?” asked Olive Riley, the senior nursing officer.
“If they are Matron it’s not ours,” said Saithe. “If the crematorium can’t cope I dare say Col. Beasdale has contingency plans.” Saithe repeated that they would have to agree on what to report to Col. Beasdale.
“Tell him that the situation is worse but not yet out of control,” said MacQuillan.
“Is everyone agreed on that?” asked Saithe. There were no dissenting voices.
“If only I knew where these damned wild cards are coming from,” muttered MacQuillan as he entered the latest details on his chart. He shook his head and Saracen noticed that his hands were trembling slightly as he wrote.
Saithe made his report to Beasdale and was asked for a prediction. “Impossible to say,” replied Saithe. “Things may get even worse before they get better.”
“How long before they start to get better?”
“I can’t say.”
“How is everything else Colonel?” asked MacQuillan to get Saithe off the hook, thought Saracen.
“There was a sudden increase in the number of people trying to leave Skelmore yesterday after the quarantine announcement. My men turned them back of course but things got a bit nasty for a time. We lost a lot of good will but I’m afraid that was unavoidable; people are getting scared. It’s a small town and word gets around fast. Tales of horrific deaths and mass funerals are now commonplace.”