Dust to Dust E-Book

Ken McClure

• Herausgeber: Birlinn
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: Dr Steven Dunbar Thriller
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Seitenzahl: 339

Beschreibung

The eighth Dr Stephen Dunbar thriller. John Motram, a cell biologist at Newcastle University, firmly believes that Black Death was not caused by bubonic plague but by an unknown virus. He is excited when Oxford University informs him that there might be preserved bodies of Black Death victims hidden under Dryburgh Abbey. Motram launches an excavation but it comes to a disastrous end when he apparently loses his mind after entering the secret tomb. Dr Steven Dunbar is sent to investigate - fearing that a new killer virus has been let loose.

Leseprobe

DUST TO DUST

Ken McClure

For dust thou art and unto dust shalt thou return.

Genesis 3:19

Contents

Title PageEpigraphONETWOTHREEFOURFIVESIXSEVENEIGHTNINETENELEVENTWELVETHIRTEENFOURTEENFIFTEENSIXTEENSEVENTEENEIGHTEENNINETEENTWENTYTWENTY-ONETWENTY-TWOTWENTY-THREETWENTY-FOURTWENTY-FIVETWENTY-SIXTWENTY-SEVENTWENTY-EIGHTTWENTY-NINETHIRTYTHIRTY-ONETHIRTY-TWOTHIRTY-THREETHIRTY-FOURTHIRTY-FIVETHIRTY-SIXTHIRTY-SEVENTHIRTY-EIGHTTHIRTY-NINEFORTYFORTY-ONEAUTHOR’S NOTEAbout the AuthorOther Titles by Ken McClureCopyright

ONE

‘But this is crazy. Are you absolutely sure?’

‘Yes, sir, I’m afraid there’s no doubt. The test results were absolutely crystal clear.’

While clinics and consulting rooms in the public domain tend to look the part, with equipment and medical paraphernalia much in evidence and the smells of antisepsis lingering in the air, those in the private sector strive for the opposite. Sir Laurence Samson’s consulting rooms in Harley Street were very much the model of English town-house furnishing at its best, giving well-heeled patients the assurance that money and privilege would help with medical care as it had in all other areas of their lives.

‘Christ,’ said the young man, sinking down into a leather armchair as if he’d suddenly lost the power of his legs. ‘You’ve just sentenced me to death, Samson.’

Sir Laurence maintained an uneasy silence.

The young man rubbed his forehead, as if subconsciously trying to erase the terrifying implications of the news he had been given. ‘How long have I got?’

Samson attempted a calming gesture with his hands. ‘Let’s not dwell on that, sir. These days, with appropriate drugs and careful monitoring, the onset of major symptoms can be delayed considerably.’

‘But in the end … it’s going to get me, right?’

‘There is no cure, I’m afraid.’

The young man stared into the abyss for fully thirty seconds.

‘Would you like a glass of water, sir?’

‘Fuck water, Samson, I need a drink.’

Sir Laurence thought for a moment, as if wondering whether or not to comply, before getting to his feet and walking over to a writing bureau which he opened to reveal a drinks cabinet. He poured a generous measure of neat malt whisky into a crystal tumbler and handed it to the young man.

‘You’re not joining me?’ asked the young man accusingly. ‘Is this the start of the journey down that long and lonesome road? Your doctor no longer drinks with you?’

‘I still have other patients to see, sir.’

‘Of course you have, Samson,’ the young man conceded. ‘Christ, what’s my father going to say? This could kill him.’ He swirled the contents of his glass one way and then the other. ‘Of all the … Jesus Christ, what rotten luck. You won’t tell him, will you?’

‘I’m duty bound, of course, to keep whatever passes between us confidential, sir. But, if I may offer an opinion, I’d advise you to confide in him as soon as possible. The repercussions for you and your family are … well, I need hardly point that out to you.’

‘Fucking enormous,’ said the young man with an air of resignation, taking a last gulp of the whisky in search of some escape from the accusing arrows flighting into him. ‘What are the chances of you chaps coming up with a cure in the near future?’

‘Not good, sir, I’m afraid. I attended a conference on the subject three months ago and the general consensus was that we are no nearer that today than we were at the outset.’

‘Don’t beat about the bush, will you?’ murmured the young man.

‘I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t see the point of false optimism. There are those who might take a different view, but their motives usually have more to do with the attraction of research funding than anything else.’

‘I suppose I should be thanking you for levelling with me, Samson, but I find myself desperately in need of something other than plain unvarnished truth right now,’ said the young man, swallowing and sniffing – just the once – as he fought with his emotions.

Samson gave a sympathetic nod. ‘We should start you on the drugs I mentioned as soon as possible.’

The young man nodded and put down his glass, declining the offer of another with a shake of the head. ‘I’ll be in touch soon.’

‘And your father, sir?’

‘I’ll inform him … once I’ve had a bit of time to come to terms with it myself.’

FOUR DAYS LATER

Sir Laurence Samson had explained to a female patient that tests had shown that she would be unlikely to conceive in the normal way, and was starting on an explanation of the alternatives when the phone on his desk rang. He picked it up, snapping, ‘I specifically asked not to be disturbed, Eve.’

‘I really think you should take this one, Sir Laurence,’ the receptionist said calmly.

‘Very well,’ said Samson, already regretting having snapped at the woman who had been with him for six years and wouldn’t have dreamt of interrupting without good cause, but he was on edge; he had been for the past four days. He offered an apologetic smile to his patient, then stiffened when he heard the voice. ‘Yes, sir, it is.’ He silently took in what was being said, aware of his patient’s gaze and trying not to betray any emotion. ‘Very well, sir, I take it you’d like me to come there? … Fine. Tell the driver I’ll be at the Harley Street address … I’ll see you at eight this evening.’

8 P.M.

Samson felt nervous, which for a man so used to being in control was an unusual experience, but his surroundings would have been intimidating to most. He felt as if he’d been thrust on to a stage in a starring role without full knowledge of the script or any real desire to be in the performance. He’d even had to wipe his palm free of moisture by surreptitiously reaching into his trouser pocket and scrunching up a tissue before shaking hands with his unsmiling host when he entered.

The formalities were brief; Samson declined the offer of refreshment.

‘I think we should cut to the chase, Sir Laurence. My son has told me everything. God, what a mess.’

‘It is most unfortunate, sir, but I’m afraid viruses are no respecters of …’ Samson was about say wealth and privilege but thought better of it and settled for ‘persons’. The stare he received in reply was not filled with understanding.

‘I’m glad he confided in you at this early stage, sir,’ Samson continued. ‘It couldn’t have been easy for him given the circumstances, but I feel duty bound to remind you at the outset that, as my patient, I’m still not at liberty to …’

‘Yes, well, let’s not bother with all that Hippocratic oath stuff,’ Samson’s host interrupted with a dismissive wave of the hand. ‘It sounds like a tired line from a film. I don’t want to discuss any of the details of the condition. I just want my son cured. I want him well again. I need him to free himself of this … thing and resume the course of his life.’

Samson swallowed, an act made more difficult by the fact his mouth had gone dry, but he was thrown by the unexpected lack of rationale in what his host had just said. He found himself stammering, ‘I’m sorry, sir … while it’s perfectly possible to achieve a considerable period of … remission, if I can put it that way, a cure is simply not possible … at this stage at least … although of course advances in medical science are being made every day …’

‘I’m told that a cure has already been achieved.’

Samson felt that the stare he was being subjected to was some kind of examination and one he was bound to fail. When the silence became unbearable, he decided to blink first. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I don’t think I understand … I appear to be unaware of the advance you refer to …’

‘Since receiving this bloody awful news, I’ve been making enquiries – discreet enquiries – and I’ve been told that a cure for the condition is no longer outside the realms of possibility. There is apparently a valid alternative to simply lying down and accepting one’s fate.’

Alarm bells rang in Samson’s head on hearing the word ‘alternative’. He feared he was about to be drawn into the world of complementary medicine, something he had little time for, believing its so-called ‘therapies’ to be either bogus or, at best, variations on the placebo effect. ‘Really, sir?’

‘As pioneered in Berlin.’

‘Berlin?’ echoed Samson, before suddenly realising what his host was referring to. ‘Ah,’ he said, looking down at his shoes as if not entirely pleased with the direction the conversation was moving in. ‘I think I do recall something about the unique case you’re referring to, sir.’

Samson’s host was clearly annoyed at Samson’s perceptible lack of enthusiasm. ‘What is it about you medical people?’ he demanded. ‘You’re so bloody conservative when it comes to anything new. Well, what do you think? Was a cure achieved or wasn’t it?’

‘I’m not exactly au fait with all the details of the case, sir, although of course I did read the reports. I would, however, say that … sometimes unusual medical procedures are carried out on patients who are believed to be beyond help.’

‘Are you suggesting this patient was used as an experimental animal?’

Samson threw up his hands in horror. ‘Far be it from me to criticise the decisions of European colleagues. As I understand it, it was a one-off, carried out on a patient who was already facing a poor prognosis for other reasons. It was a very risky course of action and could perhaps only be justified by another condition the patient was suffering from. It was a very long way from being a routine procedure; it’s doubtful whether it ever could be.’

‘My son is a very long way from being a routine case, Sir Laurence.’

‘Indeed, sir.’

‘The importance of his being able to father healthy children at some time in the future cannot be overstated.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Can it be done?’

Samson hesitated, clearly unhappy at being unable to dissuade his host from the course he was set on. ‘It’s theoretically possible, I suppose, if a perfect donor were to be found and everything else were to go like clockwork. The conditions, of course, would have to be ideal … but I feel I must stress that the preparations for such a procedure would demand a very great deal of the patient. It has the potential to be a catastrophic undertaking …’

‘And the alternatives to this potentially catastrophic undertaking, Sir Laurence?’

‘Point taken, sir,’ Samson conceded.

‘Then set it up. I’m putting my son’s health in your hands. I want him cured and I want it done in complete secrecy. No one must ever know of this.’

Samson shook his head and gathered himself for one last attempt at changing his host’s mind. ‘I said it was theoretically possible, sir,’ he said. ‘But the practical difficulties involved in setting up such an operation and keeping it a secret are just too …’ Words failed him, and he lapsed into silence.

‘I’m well aware you can’t do this alone, Sir Laurence. I’m not a complete idiot. To that end I have approached a group of trusted friends, people in positions of power and influence. They will provide you with all the resources and help you need. You only have to ask. Well, what do you say?’

‘I think I need time to think it over, sir.’

‘Call me tomorrow.’

TWO

A gold carriage clock on the marble mantelpiece chimed the hour, the only thing to break the prolonged silence in the room apart from the almost imperceptible rumble of London traffic outside the double-glazed windows on a grey day in February.

‘I thought we should all meet with Sir Laurence to discuss exactly what it is we have been asked to do and to make sure we all understand exactly what we are getting into,’ said the owner of the Belgravia house. ‘There will be no official sanction for what we’re doing, no committees or advisory bodies to call upon, no spreading of the blame should things go wrong and no overt rewards if they don’t. We will be and must remain the only people ever to know about this mission, apart, of course, from the man who has called upon our friendship and loyalty.’

The others in the room nodded their understanding.

‘Can we be certain it will work?’ asked a clearly nervous man, whose unease had caused him to break the pencil supplied with the pad in front of him. Like the others, he wore a dark suit, the uniform of the city, although the ties that some wore belied anonymity to varying extents. The question was put to a silver-haired man whose neckwear bore a snake and staff motif, proclaiming his link to the medical profession.

‘No,’ he replied. ‘Sir Laurence and I agree: there can be no guarantees. The main element of the procedure is a risky business at the best of times – without taking into account the reason for it in this case – but, given the circumstances, it’s almost certainly the only chance we have of … rescuing the situation.’

The man at the head of the table – a Cambridge graduate by his tie – gave a slight smile at the euphemism but added, ‘And the only chance we have of preventing a monumental scandal.’

‘Aren’t we jumping the gun here?’ said the nervous man. ‘I mean, we seem to be going for broke before we’ve even considered the alternatives …’

‘There aren’t any,’ said the Cambridge man, adopting an expression that seemed to suggest this was the reaction he’d been expecting from the nervous man. He looked down at the table as if willing the time to pass. Although bound in this instance by a common friendship, the two men had little time for each other, being poles apart in terms of personality and outlook. The Cambridge man was positive and self-confident to the point of arrogance while the nervous man was prone to analyse everything in great detail and was seen as caution personified.

‘It would not be easy, of course,’ continued the nervous man, ‘but surely the risks involved in what you are proposing are just too great to contemplate? I think that, with decent PR and sensible management, the storm could be weathered. History suggests—’

‘Times have changed’, interrupted the Cambridge man, ‘and so have people. This includes their perception of many things we might have taken for granted in the past. Had there been a feel-good factor abroad in the country at the moment, well, who knows, but the global recession, rising unemployment, sterling hovering on the brink – even the bloody weather’s been conspiring against us this winter. Something like this coming on top of everything else could trigger a complete collapse of public confidence. It could be the final straw for many when they discover that everything they believed in, trusted or revered is turning to dust, especially when they are left with no jobs, no savings, no prospects and no belief in anything. Sociologists – not that I have any great truck with that lot – are already mooting the prospect of anger turning to anarchy in the none-too-distant future.’

‘You say that no one would know apart from us,’ said the nervous man. ‘But surely others would have to be involved? I mean, it doesn’t sound like something that could be carried out by a single doctor at a secret location.’

‘A number of people will have to be involved along the way,’ agreed the Cambridge man. ‘But, as I understand it, there is nothing particularly unusual about the essential element of the procedure itself. Am I right, Sir Laurence?’

Laurence Samson nodded. ‘It’s not exactly routine but it is something that is carried out almost every day in some part of the country, albeit for other reasons. The difference in this case, of course, is the who and the why. Personnel screening for those engaged at the sharp end of things will have to be of the highest order.’

‘James will see to that,’ said the Cambridge man. He turned to the one man in the room wearing a plain tie. James Monk chose not to respond in any way, but sat coldly staring into the middle distance.

‘James’ job will be to ensure that absolute secrecy is maintained at all times. No one is going to end up selling their story’ – he suffused the phrase with contempt – ‘or enlivening their otherwise forgettable memoirs with the details. This whole affair must be conducted in secret and remain a secret for all time. It is non-negotiable. Absolute silence from all concerned is a sine qua non.’

Laurence Samson looked at James Monk with suspicion in his eyes. ‘I’m not at all sure how you can guarantee something like that,’ he said, making it sound like an accusation.

Monk gave a slight shrug but didn’t see fit to respond, and no one else seemed willing to elaborate. Samson was clearly uncomfortable with the information he was deducing – a clear case of there being some things it was better not to know but unfortunately knowing only too well what they were.

‘We wouldn’t expect you to be involved in … the mechanics of security, Sir Laurence,’ said the Cambridge man, hoping to bring Samson back on board. ‘We are here to assist you in any way we can in achieving our twin goals – a cure for our friend’s son and to make sure that the whole affair remains a secret. You are solely concerned with the former.’

Samson nodded his understanding.

‘What I would suggest’, continued the Cambridge man, ‘is that all of us simply concentrate on the role we each have to play.’

There were nods around the table.

‘Good, then let’s not concern ourselves too deeply with the duties of others. If we all play our individual parts, we must stand a good chance of pulling off something quite remarkable.’

‘And if it should fail?’ asked the nervous man.

‘Let’s not even consider that,’ said the Cambridge man with ice in his voice.

‘Hear hear,’ said a couple of voices in unison, causing the nervous man to retreat into his shell.

‘So, gentlemen, it’s time for the big question. Are we all agreed that we should help our friend in his hour of need?’ The Cambridge man looked around the room. ‘Charles?’

A man wearing an Old Etonian tie nodded.

‘Marcus? Christopher?’

Two more nods.

‘Colonel?’

A man wearing a Guards regimental tie nodded. ‘I’ll certainly do my bit.’

‘Malcolm?’

The nervous man nodded. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Doctor?’

The man wearing the caduceus tie said, ‘Sir Laurence and I have identified the best practitioners in the country and given their details to James’ people for screening after the initial approach.’

‘And the initial approach?’

‘The usual legal firm has agreed to manage things with its customary absolute discretion.’

‘All candidates are currently under surveillance,’ said Monk.

‘Good,’ said the Cambridge man. ‘We don’t want any of them swanning off to conferences on the other side of the world just when we need them most.’

THREE

‘You were very restless last night,’ Cassie Motram said when her husband appeared in the kitchen for breakfast. John Motram wrapped his dressing gown around him and manoeuvred himself up on to one of the new stools that Cassie had bought to accompany a recently installed breakfast bar. He was a little too short for this to be an entirely comfortable procedure and his irritation showed.

‘I feel like I’m in an American film,’ he complained. ‘What in God’s name was wrong with a table and chairs?’

‘We’re moving with the times,’ Cassie insisted, dismissing his complaint. ‘Now, as I was saying …’

‘Bad dreams.’

‘Mmm. You’ve been having a lot of these lately. What’s on your mind?’

Her husband gave her a sideways glance, as if deciding whether or not to come clean, before saying, ‘I don’t think they’re going to renew my research grant for the historical stuff.’

‘They always have in the past. Why should this time be any different? Or are they using the credit crunch as an excuse like everyone else in this country?’

‘It’s not just that; the university’s changing,’ said John. ‘Scholarship’s becoming a thing of the past. The pursuit of knowledge is no longer good enough for the suits in the corridors of power: there has to be an “end product”, something the bean counters can patent, something they can sell. There has to be “economic justification” for what you do.’

‘And researching fourteenth-century plagues doesn’t fit the bill?’

‘They couldn’t have put it better themselves,’ John agreed. ‘Although, of course, they didn’t, preferring instead to go all round the houses using that funny language they speak these days about “moving forward” and being “proactive in the need for networking” as we “embrace the twenty-first century”. Where did they come up with all that junk?’

‘These people are everywhere,’ Cassie said sympathetically. ‘A woman turned up at the WI the other day, giving a talk about detoxifying the system, as she put it. I asked her what toxins she would be removing and she got quite snippy, demanded to know if I was a qualified nutritionist. I said no, I was a bloody doctor and would she please answer the question, and of course she couldn’t. Just what the hell is a qualified nutritionist when it’s at home?’

‘There’s been some kind of fusion between science and fashion which means that pseudo-scientists are popping up everywhere, spouting their baloney.’

‘Maybe we should go for a change of career.’ Cassie accepted the milk jug.

‘I may have to if any more grant money dries up. You know …’ John paused for a moment while he struggled with the marmalade jar. ‘I think I’m going to retrain as a celebrity nail technician.’

Cassie almost choked on her cornflakes. ‘Where on earth did you come up with that one?’ she gasped.

‘I heard some woman on breakfast TV being introduced as that and I thought that’s for me … John Motram, celebrity nail technician. To hell with higher education, let’s do something really important and start polishing the fingernails of the rich and famous. How about you?’

‘International hair colourist, I think,’ said Cassie, after a moment’s thought. ‘Same source.’

‘That’s us sorted then,’ said John. ‘A new life awaits.’

‘It’s just a pity we’re in our fifties,’ said Cassie. ‘And I have a full surgery waiting for me.’

‘And I have a second-year class in medical microbiology to fill with awe if not shock,’ said John. ‘Such a pity. I was looking forward to jetting off to LA or wherever these people go at the weekend.’

The letter box clattered and the sound of mail hitting the floor caused Cassie to swing her legs round on her stool and pad off to the porch in her stockinged feet. She reappeared, head to one side as she shuffled her way through a bunch of envelopes, giving impromptu predictions of their contents. ‘Bill … bill … junk … junk … postcard from Bill and Janet in Barcelona – we must go there: we’ve been talking about it for ages – and one for you from … the University of Oxford, Balliol College no less.’

‘Really?’ John accepted the letter and opened it untidily with his thumb, taking thirty seconds or so to read it before saying, ‘Good Lord.’

‘Well? Don’t be so mysterious.’

‘It’s from the Master of Balliol. He wants to see me next week.’

‘What about?’

‘Doesn’t say.’ John handed the letter over.

‘How odd. Will you go?’

‘What’s to lose?’

‘Maybe he’s heard you’re thinking of a career change and offering you a chair in celebrity nail technology?’

‘Could well be.’ John nodded sagely. ‘But I’ll only accept if you’re given a research fellowship in international hair colouring.’

‘Deal,’ said Cassie, slipping on her shoes. ‘Meanwhile I have coughs to cure and bums to jab … Have a nice day, as we international hair colourists say.’

‘You too. Maybe I’ll have a think outside the box about all this …’

‘Absolutely … Push the boundaries …’

Cassie left for the surgery and John cleared away the breakfast things, still feeling curious about the letter from Oxford. As a senior lecturer in cell biology at Newcastle University, he hadn’t had much to with Oxbridge although he had visited both Oxford and Cambridge for various conferences and meetings over the years and liked them both. It had been almost inevitable that he would: he was a born academic and scholarship was so obviously cherished at both universities. It had been one of the regrets of his earlier life that he had been unable to take up a place at Cambridge after leaving school, but reading science at a university nearer home had made more sense at the time and enabled him to contribute to the family income through part-time work – a not insignificant consideration for the son of a mother who provided for her family by cleaning the homes of the well-off and a father who had been invalided out of mining thanks to the damage that thirty years underground had done to his lungs.

Although both his parents had been dead now for a long time, someone wheezing in the street could still trigger memories of the sound of his father’s laboured breathing. His parents had lived to see him graduate with first class honours from Durham, although his father had died before he completed his PhD and never shared the pride his mother took in calling her son ‘doctor’.

Not going up to Cambridge proved to be no drawback for Motram. His sheer ability had taken him through a couple of successful post-doctoral fellowships at prestigious American universities where he had established himself as a researcher of international repute in the mechanics of viral infection. His particular interest lay in the epidemiology of plagues of past times, although this generally had to take a back seat to the study of more modern problems for which it was easier to attract funding.

John had met Cassie shortly after getting a lectureship at the University of Newcastle, where she had been in her final year of a medical degree, and had decided very quickly that she was the girl for him – a choice not entirely applauded by Cassie’s parents, who’d held higher social aspirations for their clever daughter. However, their love had survived the slings and arrows of outraged parents and they had married six months later.

The marriage had been successful from the outset, surviving the strain of the first few years of the demanding work that goes with being very new in their chosen professions, particularly for Cassie who, as a junior doctor in a busy hospital, seemed to be on call every hour of the day and night. Life had got easier with Cassie’s move into general practice and John’s growing academic reputation, which had made it easier for him to obtain research funding.

Two children had come along and the Motrams had been in a position to give them the best possible start in life. Their daughter, Chloe, was currently a translator with the European Commission in Brussels, and their son had followed his mother into medicine and was establishing a career in surgery. There were no grandchildren as yet but the possibility was a warming thought for both of them, and Cassie, who had an eye for décor, kept an eye out for possible changes to one of the upstairs rooms in their cottage which she felt might be ‘nice for little people’.

FOUR

John Motram took his time on the walk through the streets of Oxford, savouring the undoubted charm of the place and letting its history seep into his bones. He smiled as he realised that his affection for its dreaming spires was not entirely born of academic regard; being an avid fan of Inspector Morse was certainly playing its part. He found himself keeping an eye out for a Mark Two Jaguar.

Nothing disappointed him about the interior of Balliol College either. Everything just got better.

‘The Master will see you now,’ said a suitably deferential woman who looked as if she might have been a pillar of her church guild, sensibly dressed from her high collar with the cameo brooch to her polished brogues.

Motram was shown into a large office that couldn’t fail to impress. Minimalist it was not; metal and plastic pointedly failed to make an appearance. Wood – old polished wood – reigned supreme, comfortable in the light that came in through a series of tall, leaded windows that also admitted the sound of chimes and bells, confirming Motram’s arrival at the appointed hour of eleven a.m.

A tall, patrician man rose from behind his desk and smiled. ‘Dr Motram, good of you to come. I’m Andrew Harvey, Master of Balliol. Please come and sit down. You must be wondering what all this is about.’

It wasn’t a question, but Motram, who’d been thinking about little else for the past week, said, ‘I think I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t intrigued.’

‘Quite so,’ said Harvey. ‘I’m afraid microbiology isn’t exactly my field, but I understand that you are an expert on both the viruses of today and the epidemics of the past, shall we say?’

‘That’s a fair enough description.’

‘What is it that intrigues you about past plagues, doctor?’

‘Their cause. What many people don’t realise is that microbiology is a very young science. Bacteria weren’t discovered until the late 1800s and viruses even later, so the identification of the causes of the great epidemics of the past has been based largely on guesswork … or presumption.’

Harvey smiled at the acid emphasis Motram had put on the last word. ‘I understand there is … something of a disagreement between you and your academic colleagues over the origin of the Black Death. Am I right?’

‘You are.’

‘Tell me about it.’

Motram frowned slightly. He didn’t quite see where all this was leading, but he continued, ‘There’s a general assumption among the public and indeed some of my colleagues that the fourteenth-century pandemic generally called the Black Death, which wiped out a third of the population of Europe, was caused by an outbreak of bubonic plague.’

‘I’m afraid I have to admit to being one of the public who subscribe to that view,’ said Harvey. ‘Wasn’t it?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Then what?’

‘I’m convinced it was caused by a virus.’

Harvey looked slightly bemused and Motram smiled, recognising the problem. ‘There is a very big difference between bacteria and viruses,’ he said. ‘They are completely different entities but, for some reason that escapes me, people appear reluctant to take this on board.’

‘Ah, educating the public,’ sighed Harvey, relaxing into his chair with a slightly amused expression on his face. ‘Never an easy business. But in what way are they different, doctor?’ He managed to endow the question with the unspoken rider, And does it matter?

‘Bacteria can exist independently,’ Motram explained. ‘They are living entities in their own right. They have all they need to grow and divide provided they can find suitable nutriment. Viruses can only exist inside living cells. In fact, there is a longstanding argument over whether they should actually be regarded as living things at all.’

Harvey nodded. ‘I see.’

‘Another major and more practical difference is that you can treat bacterial infections with antibiotics: antibiotics are useless against viruses.’

‘So what makes you think Black Death was caused by a virus and not plague – which presumably, in the light of what you’ve just said, is a bacterium?’

Motram nodded. ‘A rod-shaped bacterium called Yersinia pestis, named after a Russian microbiologist called Yersin who worked with Louis Pasteur. It was originally called Pasteurella pestis after his boss, but in the end justice prevailed.’

Harvey gave a slightly pained smile that suggested too much information and Motram cut short the lecture. ‘I suppose I began to wonder about ten years ago when I was studying the rate of spread of Black Death in Europe. It was all wrong for a bacterial infection like plague and it didn’t show the seasonal differences you would expect.’

‘Was the spread faster or slower than you expected?’

‘Much faster. Plague is primarily a disease of rats. Human beings get it from fleas, but Black Death spread like wildfire, as if it were an airborne infection like flu.’

‘Are you alone in your suspicions?’

‘Not any more,’ said Motram. ‘Scientists have been working on a genetic mutation in human beings which confers resistance to certain virus infections. It’s called Delta 32: basically it leads to the absence of a receptor on the surface of certain cells in the body, which denies viruses access to the cells they would normally infect.’

Harvey nodded, then said, ‘I’m sorry, I must seem terribly dense but … where does the connection with Black Death come in?’

‘Before Black Death swept over Europe, we estimate that the Delta 32 mutation was present in the general population at a frequency of about one in forty thousand.

‘And after?’ asked Harvey.

‘About one in seven.’

Harvey let out his breath in a low, silent whistle. ‘Now I see,’ he said. ‘So people without the mutation were much more susceptible to Black Death than those few at the time who had it.’

‘Precisely. It was clearly an enormous advantage to have the Delta 32 mutation,’ said Motram. ‘What, of course, is absolutely crucial from my point of view is that the mutation stops viruses from entering cells, not bacteria. Bacteria don’t need to enter cells. It makes absolutely no difference to them whether you have the Delta 32 mutation or not.’

‘So there we have it,’ said Harvey. ‘Game, set and match to you, it would appear. Black Death was caused by a virus, not a bacterium.’

‘I believe so.’

Harvey picked up on Motram’s guarded response. ‘So shouldn’t that be an end to the argument?’ he asked.

‘I’m afraid not. The old guard still insist Black Death was caused by plague and see the new findings as academic stuff and nonsense – Disraeli’s third kind of lie, if you like.’

‘Statistics.’ Harvey smiled.

‘Even those who’ve moved to the virus camp are now falling out over which virus it might have been. Smallpox is one of the favourites and it’s been shown that that could have exerted the selective pressure necessary for such a dramatic genetic shift in the population while plague certainly couldn’t. There are others who propose it could have been due to a combination of infections, and there is of course one other intriguing possibility, that it could have been caused by a completely different virus altogether – something that existed then but is unknown to us today.’

‘A killer from the past,’ said Harvey, raising his eyebrows. ‘Do pardon my ignorance, but isn’t it possible to find out what caused it simply by … digging up the past, so to speak?’

‘It’s been tried on a number of occasions,’ said Motram. ‘But we’re talking about seven hundred years ago. Mortal remains tend not to last that long.’

Harvey rested his elbows on his desk and formed a steeple with his fingertips as he appeared to gaze off into the middle distance. ‘You know, I seem to remember reading something about a group of workers claiming to have recovered plague from Black Death victims … somewhere in Europe, I think.’

Motram nodded. ‘France. They found plague bacilli in the dental pulp of an exhumed corpse. Trouble is, no one else has been able to reproduce their findings. Everyone else has drawn a blank.’

‘So the French findings are … doubtful?’

‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ said Motram. ‘There seems little doubt that the body they examined was a plague victim, but without wholesale corroboration you can’t really say that plague caused Black Death, only that plague caused the death of the body they were examining.’

Harvey nodded thoughtfully. ‘So, it would help enormously if you were to come across a number of victims of Black Death preserved in good condition?’

‘Indeed it would,’ said Motram, ‘but after seven hundred years the chances of that are—’

‘That’s really why I asked you here, Dr Motram.’

FIVE

The door opened and tea was brought in on a silver tray, leaving Motram to wonder if Harvey had a button behind his desk to press at an appropriate moment.

‘Milk or lemon?’

‘Neither,’ replied Motram. ‘Just as it comes please.’

‘Good man. A decent Darjeeling needs no assistance.’

Motram accepted the china cup and saucer from the pourer – the woman who had shown him in – and reflected on how long it had been since he had held a cup and saucer in his hands. A mug in need of some interior scrubbing sat on his own desk up north.

‘How much do you know about Balliol, doctor?’

‘I understand it’s probably the oldest college in Oxford.’

‘So old that the foundation date is uncertain but generally taken as about 1263.’

Motram smiled. ‘Even before Black Death.’

‘Indeed, even before that,’ Harvey agreed. ‘Our co-founders were John Balliol, a wealthy man with estates in both France and England, and his wife Devorgilla, the daughter of a Scottish nobleman and a truly remarkable woman in her own right. Their offspring, also John Balliol, became King of Scotland, although a completely unremarkable one it has to be said and perhaps best forgotten. Devorgilla, however, is well remembered. Apart from co-founding this college and giving it its first seal, which we still have today, she endowed a new Cistercian abbey in Dumfries and Galloway – a daughter house of Dundrennan Abbey. It was to be called New Abbey but, for reasons some people find macabre, it ended up bearing the name of Sweetheart Abbey.’

Harvey paused to take a sip of his tea. Motram reflected that the man knew exactly the right place to pause in a story.

‘When Devorgilla’s husband died in 1269, she was beside herself with grief. She had his heart removed and embalmed so that she might carry it with her in an ivory and silver casket wherever she went.’ Seeing the expression that appeared on Motram‘s face, Harvey said, ‘I see you are experiencing the same mixture of admiration and revulsion that many feel on hearing this tale.’

Motram smiled and said, ‘Sorry. Please, go on.’

‘When she had the abbey built in his memory in 1273, the monks decided to call it Dulce Cor – sweet heart – instead of New Abbey as had been originally intended, and so it has remained for well over seven hundred years. She and her husband lie buried there today, the casket clutched to her chest.’

‘Quite a story,’ said Motram, giving no indication that he was wondering what on earth it had to do with him.

‘Recently, the college has come into possession of something which adds a little more to the tale,’ said Harvey. ‘Some old papers rescued from a house in the Scottish Borders have shed light on the family responsible for the embalming of John Balliol’s heart, the Le Clerks. Apparently, they were renowned for their expertise in the preservation of the dead and passed down their skills through generations of the family. When Black Death …’ Harvey paused to enjoy the flicker of interest in Motram’s eyes when he seemed to be coming to the point, ‘affected England in 1346, the Scots were left largely untouched at first and, with ever an eye to the main chance, thought they saw an opportunity to invade. An army was raised and encamped in the forests around Selkirk awaiting the order to advance. It never came: Black Death arrived first. Men died in their hundreds in the woods of the Scottish Borders.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Motram, and he could. The image of Black Death breaking out in a hugely crowded military camp in the forest, turning it into a hell of squalor, filth and infection, filled his mind. Deserters would be running off in all directions but would only spread the infection