Doomsday Book (Oxford Time Travel, #1) - Connie Willis Page 0,87

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’s 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 tomorrow 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 bell ringers.”

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 bell ringers 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