“We need more time,” complained Declan.
Ransom put his hat on, lifted his cane, and checked his pocket watch to see that it was indeed nearing 7AM. “Well lads, it has been an adventure. Best be gone before your professor shows up. What time does the professor normally arrive?”
“Eight sharp, ready to cut!” said Declan with an abrupt laugh, and the two young men shook their heads, Thomas slapping Declan on the arm. Ransom realized it was an inside joke they shared about their teacher, and this suspicion was solidified when Declan, fatigue-laden to begin with, began walking in an exaggerated manner, leather-gloved hands snapping at suspenders in mimicking Dr. Bellingham.
While Thomas bent over with laughter—a much needed balm now, Ransom smiled wide, envying the boys their bond of friendship when a sudden, loud pounding all around them silenced the trio, and with guns pointed, police slammed through doors on either side of the operating theater. Constable Ian Reahall entered shouting, “Take them all in—all three, Sergeant! Use your irons!”
Dr. Enoch Bellingham rushed in just behind Reahall, and he stared hard at his two students and asked, “What have you done here? How could you go against my wishes? The wishes of the Dean? To break your vows to me, to ignore our Queensland University code of conduct?”
“But sir!” began Declan.
“You may be interns but you are here at the hospital representing the kind of young men we bring up through Queensland!”
“But Dr. B-Bellingham,” pleaded Declan, “you must examine our findings!”
“We’ve made startling discoveries, sir,” added Thomas.
Dean Goodfriar rushed in now, looking as disheveled as Bellingham, as if both men had thrown on their clothes only moments before. “This is an outrage!” he shouted, looking from one dissected body to the next. “You are looking at expulsion, you… you scamps! You young idiots! I will see to it!”
“The entire place will have to be disinfected,” said Bellingham.
“You’re all under arrest for breaking and entering.” Reahall turned to the dean and the professor, adding, “Your students are now my prisoners. Put the irons on ’em, Sergeant.”
Dr. Bellingham and Dean Goodfriar tried to intervene on behalf of the boys, trying to reason with Reahall. Bellingham insisted, “This is a matter for the hospital and the university to deal with. This so-called detective is one thing,” he shoved a wagging index finger in Alastair’s direction. “But these are my students, and I will see to their punishment, you can be assured.”
“Then you can put up bail for them well enough. Sergeant Quinlan! Do your duty, man. I’ve been up all night, and I’m in no mood for pleasantries among you… you gentry.”
If he weren’t in serious trouble himself, Ransom would have laughed to see the poor sergeant going back and forth at the interns with irons in hand, going forth one step, back two depending on who was speaking. Whenever the dean or Bellingham took exception, he backed off; when Reahall spoke, he stepped to it. In the meantime, the young interns were struggling to get their hands free of the long leather gloves. At the same time, a second uniformed officer clamped irons on Alastair—hands and feet.
“It’s not Mr. Wyland’s doing, Dr. B., Dean Goodfriar, please, I mean… Thomas and I pushed him into this business, but please, whatever you do with us, you must examine our findings. I’ve kept exact notes on our findings, please, sir… please it is a serious disease we’re faced with, one without a name! And we need your help… we all need to work together—as a team, sir—like you always say ‘we men of science must work together’—remember?”
Thomas lifted his hands to Dr. Bellingham, hands in chains now, and said, “Sirs, this disease could be of great importance to you both; in fact, it may even be named after you. Goodfriar’s disease… or Bellinghamitis. Look as interns at the university, Declan and I have no claim to it, and besides, we need your backing, sirs… please.”
Goodfriar considered this argument, tugged at his whiskers as if considering the import of what the boys were saying, but then he took command, saying, “Yes, you’re right, Constable Reahall—shackle them and take them away! After all, we’ve heard the confession. Don’t you agree, Bellingham? We’ve heard enough.”
Ransom saw the old dean’s devious eyes had lit up with this last suggestion coming from Thomas. He could almost see the phrase alight in the man’s mind reading: Goodfriar’s disease. One for the ages. Immortality of a sick kind, literally speaking.
“You can place bail tomorrow at court if you want them back,” Reahall said to Bellingham, “but to get the lesson across, you shouldn’t be rushing to their defense or to place bail without exacting time behind bars—in my humble opinion—sirs.”
Ransom knew that Reahall wanted only him, and that he also wanted to question the lads, especially his paid informant, Thomas, to determine if Ransom had given anything away. The constable now stepped to within inches of Ransom and stared into his steely gray eyes and said, “I don’t suppose anyone will be bailing you out, Detective ahh… Wyland.”
“Constable,” Ransom calmly replied, “tell me you’ve located Tuttle, the Pinkerton agent.”
“That’s naught to do with you now, Mr. Wwwyland.” The exaggeration of Ransom’s alias told him once again that Reahall believed him to be the escapee from the hangman in Chicago. What Reahall hoped to do with that knowledge, Ransom hadn’t a clue, but he knew human nature only too well, and he suspected the constable, up in years himself, was most likely thinking of how he might turn it into ready cash. After all, the Chicago style of politics was born in Ireland.
“Take ’em away, Sergeant, and see that you and your men keep a sharp eye out for this sly fox; I believe he’s escaped justice many times. Take nothing for granted with him; do you understand? If he so much as asks about your health or family, gag the man.”
“But Dr. Belligham, Dean Goodfriar–” cried out Declan—“we’re all in danger of the plague! Not only Belfast but quite possibly Southampton where Titanic’s going next. If this agent is aboard—whether alive or dead—he’ll be spreadin’ the disease!”
“The ship must be quarantined and now!” added Thomas at the top of his lungs.
Ransom joined in as he was led out, “Fools! Damn fools, all of you! You’ve got to listen to the lads!”
“Look at the records I’ve kept, Dr. B, like you’ve taught us—please!” poured forth Declan’s final plea.
Ransom fought his handler, Sergeant Quinlan, long enough to stand before Dr. Bellingham and Goodfriar to add, “This situation needs you men to step up. You’ve a pair of bloody smart doctors in those two lads, and you best heed them! I implore you!”
Reahall had snatched out a bandana, and he now gagged and silenced Ransom. He then gave Ransom a shove and shouted at his subordinates, “Get a-moving, you men!”
In the court yard outside the building Ransom saw the dreaded paddy wagon awaiting him and the young internists, as they made their way down the long walkway past nurses and doctors coming on duty for the morning shift at the hospital proper, many stopping to stare and wonder at the commotion. Ransom took in the last breaths of a breeze, sorry for the boys who must feel the heat of anxiety welling up from within them. Their lives could well be ruined by the night’s work, he imagined. On the other hand, he faced a rope should Reahall discover his true identity.
The two young interns appeared despondent and defeated. But there was a bounce in Constable Reahall’s step as he ushered Ransom along. From just behind Ransom, Reahall whispered in Alastair’s ear, “You’re the bloody fool now aren’t you? Man, you could’ve been away—out of my jurisdiction. Why did you linger?”