Being St Mary’s, we formed several clumps and a rhomboid.
I could hear Markham informing Nurse Hunter he had a septic goose bite.
‘Really? Was the goose septic before or after it bit you?’
‘I think you need to check me out in one of the examination rooms.’
‘No need. You’re septic, but the bite’s fine.’
‘Actually, I think I may have cholera. You really need to check me over. Fast.’
‘Do you actually have any symptoms at all? Of anything? Anything medical?’
‘Yes. Yes, I do. I’ve got that thing that makes you feel funny. You know. All over. Requires immediate and urgent attention.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You know. Four letter word. Begins with L. Ends in E.’
‘Ah, lice! Come with me.’
Schiller appeared. Apparently, she’d already been cleared because she was wearing blues and a worried expression.
‘Max. We have a problem.’
‘Give me a break. We’ve only been back ten minutes.’
‘It’s Professor Rapson. He’s – not himself.’
‘Well, thank God.’
‘No. Max, you really need to come. And Dr Dowson is …’
‘Is he not Professor Rapson, either?’ I said, lightheaded with the anticipation of sausages.
‘He’s – upset.’
I stared at her. ‘What’s going on?’
Her glance flickered to Major Guthrie standing close by and listening.
‘Can you come and have a look?’
I started to ease out of the line.
‘Where are you going?’ said Helen, sharply. I swear she has eyes in the back of her head. ‘You’ve not been cleared yet.’
‘So clear me.’
She sighed and punched up a fresh screen on her scratchpad.
‘How do you feel?’
‘Fine.’
‘Off you go, then.’
‘What? That’s it? What happened to have I been flinging my body fluids around? Or contracted scrofula? Or lost a leg?’
‘Despite Markham’s best efforts to present with cholera, everyone’s fine. Including you. In fact, I’ve never seen you so unscathed. I think this is the first assignment ever when you haven’t returned with some sort of injury. Are you sure you haven’t just been hiding in a cupboard for seven months?’
‘Very funny. I’ll be off, then.’
‘And me,’ said Peterson, always wanting to know what’s going on.
‘And me,’ said Guthrie, also always wanting to know what’s going on, but for different reasons.
‘Oh, there’s no need, Major. You’ll have a lot to do here.’
‘Actually,’ said Schiller, ‘that may not be such a bad idea.’
My plate of sausages would obviously have to wait. We set off on reconnaissance.
‘Where is the professor?’
‘In the stacks.’
‘Has Dr Dowson banned him again? Is that what this is about?’
The stacks are behind the Archive. It’s where we keep details of our older assignments and some of the more obscure stuff. Huge, high racks of shelving contain less-used records. The shelves reach from floor to vaulted ceiling. One of those big library ladder things could be wheeled around to reach the rarefied atmosphere of the top shelves. St Mary’s, however, observing custom and practice rather than health and safety, generally scrambled up and down and swung around the shelves like Tarzan of the Apes, but noisier and more hairy. When I was a trainee, we’d had competitions.
The stacks themselves were in chaos. Not historian chaos – the other kind. A blizzard of papers lay everywhere. Boxes were overturned and their contents scattered. The place looked rather like St Albans after Boudicca had happened to it. Without the severed limbs and mutilated corpses, obviously, but the effect was the same. We picked our way through the devastation.
Overhead, I could hear a voice. Singing. Apparently, Timothy Leary was dead.
No, no, no, no.
On the outside.
Looking in.
Cutting across this tuneless lament, I could hear Dr Dowson shouting. This wouldn’t be good. I’d once come across the two of them in the professor’s office, where a scholarly debate on the sinking of the White Ship had rapidly spiralled out of control and they were facing off and on the verge of breaking out the traditional academic chant of ‘Come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough.’
We rounded a corner, following the noise.
Dr Dowson stood, literally wringing his hands, staring upwards into the gloom.
‘Oh, Max. Thank God. I can’t get the old fool to come down and I just know he’s going to fall. What did he think he was doing? I’ve always said that one day … and now look what he’s done. We must get him down.’
Guthrie slipped past me.
‘What has he done, Doctor?’
I stepped forward to get a better view upwards and skidded on something. ‘Oh, yuk. What have I just trodden in?’
Dr Dowson waved his arms. ‘All of you. Stay back. Don’t touch anything. Put your hands in your pockets.’
‘Why is everything sticky?’ demanded Guthrie. He sniffed his fingers. ‘Is this …?’
Dr Dowson caught his arm. ‘Stop, Major. Don’t lick your –’