"Who is this Kivrin person?" Colin asked. "Your daughter?"

"She's my pupil. She's just gone to 1320."

"Time travel? Apocalyptic!"

They turned the corner of the Broad. "The Middle Ages?" Colin said. "That's Napoleon, isn't it? Trafalgar, and all that?"

"It's the Hundred Years' War," Dunworthy said, and Colin looked blank. What are they teaching children in the schools these days? he thought. "Knights and ladies and castles."

"The Crusades?"

"The Crusades are a bit earlier."

"That's where I'd want to go. The Crusades."

They were at Balliol's gate. "Quiet, now," Dunworthy said. "Everyone will be asleep."

There was no one at the porter's gate, and no one in the front quadrangle. Lights were on in the hall, the bellringers having breakfast probably, but there were no lights in the senior common room, and none in Salvin. If they could get up the stairs without seeing anyone and without Colin's suddenly announcing he was hungry, they might make it safely to his rooms.

"Shhh," he said, turning back to caution Colin, who had stopped in the quad to take out his gobstopper and examine its color, which was now a purplish-black. "We don't want to wake everyone," he said, his finger to his lips, turned around, and collided with a couple in the doorway.

They were wearing rain slicks and embracing energetically, and the young man seemed oblivious to the collision, but the young woman pulled free and looked frightened. She had short red hair and was wearing a student nurse's uniform under her slick. The young man was William Gaddson.

"Your behavior is inappropriate to both the time and the place," Dunworthy said sternly. "Public displays of affection are strictly forbidden in college. It is also ill-advised, since your mother may arrive at any moment."

"My mother?" he said, looking as dismayed as Dunworthy had when he saw her coming down the corridor with her valise. "Here? In Oxford? What's she doing here? I thought there was a quarantine on."

"There is, but a mother's love knows no bounds. She is concerned about your health, as am I, considering the circumstances." He frowned at William and the young woman, who giggled. "I would suggest you escort your fellow perpetrator home and then make preparations for your mother's arrival."

"Preparations?" he said, looking truly stricken. "You mean she's staying?"

"She has no alternative, I'm afraid. There is a quarantine on."

Lights came on suddenly inside the staircase, and Finch emerged. "Thank goodness you're here, Mr. Dunworthy," he said.

He had a sheaf of colored papers, too, which he waved at Dunworthy. "National Health has just sent over another thirty detainees. I told them we hadn't any room, but they wouldn't listen, and I don't know what to do. We simply do not have the necessary supplies for all these people."

"Lavatory paper," Dunworthy said.

"Yes!" Finch said, brandishing the papers. "And food stores. We went through half the eggs and bacon this morning alone."

"Eggs and bacon?" Colin said. "Are there any left?"

Finch looked enquiringly at Colin and then at Dunworthy.

"He's Dr. Ahrens' nephew," he said, and before Finch could start off again, "he'll stay in my rooms."

"Well, good, because I simply cannot find space for another person."

"We have both been up all night, Mr. Finch, so — "

"Here's the list of supplies as of this morning." He handed Dunworthy a dampish blue paper. "As you can see — "

"Mr. Finch, I appreciate your concern about the supplies, but surely this can wait until after — "

"This is a list of your telephone calls with the ones you need to return marked with asterisks. This is a list of your appointments. The vicar wishes you to be at St. Mary's at a quarter past six to rehearse the Christmas Eve service."

"I will return all these calls, but after I — "

"Dr. Ahrens telephoned twice. She wanted to know what you've found out about the bellringers."

Dunworthy gave up. "Assign the new detainees to Warren and Basevi, three to a room. There are extra cots in the cellar of the hall."

Finch opened his mouth to protest.

"They'll simply have to put up with the paint smell."

He handed Colin Mary's shopping bag and the umbrella. "That building over there with the lights on is the hall," he said, pointing at the door. "Go tell the scouts you want some breakfast and then get one of them to let you into my rooms."

He turned to William, who was doing something with his hands under the student nurse's rain slick. "Mr. Gaddson, find your accomplice a taxi and then find the students who've been here during vac and ask them whether they've been to the States in the past week or had contact with anyone who has. Make a list. You haven't been to the States recently, have you?"

"No, sir," he said, removing his hands from the nurse. "I've been up the whole vac, reading Petrarch."

"Ah, yes, Petrarch," Dunworthy said. "Ask the students what they know about Badri Chaudhuri's activities from Monday on and question the staff. I need to know where he was and who he was with. I want the same sort of report on Kivrin Engle. Do a thorough job, and refrain from further public displays of affection, and I'll arrange for your mother to be assigned a room as far from you as possible."

"Thank you, sir," William said. "That would mean a great deal to me, sir."

"Now, Mr. Finch, if you'll tell me where I might find Ms. Taylor?"

Finch handed him more sheets, with the room assignments on them, but Ms. Taylor wasn't there. She was in the junior common room with her bellringers and, apparently, the still unassigned detainees.

One of them, an imposing woman in a fur coat, grabbed his arm as soon as he came in. "Are you in charge of this place?" she demanded.

Clearly not, Dunworthy thought. "Yes," he said.

"Well, what are you going to do about getting us someplace to sleep. We've been up all night."

"So have I, madam," Dunworthy said, afraid this was Ms. Taylor. She had looked thinner and less dangerous on the telephone, but visuals could be deceiving and the accent and the attitude were unmistakable. "You wouldn't be Ms. Taylor?"

"I'm Ms. Taylor," a woman in one of the wing chairs said. She stood up. She looked even thinner than she had on the telephone and apparently less angry. "I spoke with you on the phone earlier," she said, and the way she said it they might have had a pleasant chat about the intricacies of change ringing. "This is Ms. Piantini, our tenor," she said, indicating the woman in the fur coat.

Ms. Piantini looked like she could yank Great Tom straight off its moorings. She had obviously not had any viruses lately.

"If I could speak with you privately for a moment, Ms. Taylor?" He led her out into the corridor. "Were you able to cancel your concert in Ely?"

"Yes," she said. "And Norwich. They were very understanding." She leaned forward anxiously. "Is it true it's cholera?"

"Cholera?" Dunworthy said blankly.

"One of the women who was down at the station said it was cholera, that someone had brought it from India and people were dropping like flies."

It had apparently not been a good night's sleep, but fear that had worked the change in her manner. If he told her there were only four cases she would very likely demand they be taken to Ely.

"The disease is apparently a myxovirus," he said carefully. "When did your group come to England?"

Her eyes widened. "You think we're the ones who brought it? We haven't been to India."

"There is a possibility it is the same myxovirus as one reported in South Carolina. Are any of your members from South Carolina?"

"No," she said. "We're all from Colorado except Ms. Piantini. She's from Wyoming. And none of us has been sick."

"How long have you been in England?"