September 6: Day Seven

George had indeed begun to stir as William came to spell off Julia in the wee hours, and she had dosed him with some phenacetin, rather than laudanum, before she retired to bed. No more opiates unless he desperately needs them. His condition remained stable, neither improving nor deteriorating, for the rest of the night. William rolled him onto his side at about five o'clock, and once again, he let Julia sleep until she awakened after nine.

Julia's morning examination of their patient revealed little that was new. The phenacetin appeared to be as effective in reducing fever as the willow bark and meadowsweet mixture, and it was easier on his stomach. George's temperature remained above 102˚, although his pulse and blood pressure were at reasonable levels, and his wounded arm continued to heal. His rash looked drier and less florid, and he himself remained lucid, if unusually quiet. He let Julia feed him a pint of water and then another, a few swallows at a time. He still felt terrible.

At nine-thirty, there was a knock on the door. William was so engrossed in his tinkering that the knock startled him enough to drop his screwdriver into the guts of what he was working on. "Damn it!" he spat.

"William! Are you all right?" Julia was shocked to hear him curse. She could count on one hand the number of times she had heard him do so, in the decade and a half that she had known him.

"Oh, I'm fine," he groaned. "I just lost an hour's work, is all. Who is that at the door?"

Julia turned and looked through the front window to see a stooped figure departing. Watts! He waved, and smiled at her, his eyes twinkling. "He didn't," she breathed. "Did he?" She nearly ran to the door, and flung it open.

Sitting on the front porch was a jar of blood. Blood! They found him! They found D'Souza! Julia practically danced with excitement at the sight. She waved back at Watts and shouted "Thank you! Thank you, Detective!" as he reached the street, trying to suppress a squeal of glee. Watts tipped his hat at her, and then he was gone.

"It's blood, William!" She put the jar down gingerly on the dining table, and then ran to hug him. "Blood!"

George managed a feeble laugh. "For all the blood I've seen in our line of work, I can't say as I've ever seen anyone quite so excited by the sight of it before."

"George, you do know what this means, don't you? It means I have a way to try to cure you!"

"That would certainly be welcome news, if it's true," he said slowly. "I'd be quite grateful to feel completely myself again. Much as I like your house, I do miss my own abode."

"Well, I shall do my utmost to get you home as quickly as possible," Julia told him, smiling. "I must get to it!"

While Julia worked in her improvised laboratory, William handled the morning's telephone calls. About twenty minutes after he had dropped off the blood, Watts rang to explain how he and Station House No. 4 had managed to find Mr. D'Souza and convince him of the pressing need.

The Station House had been galvanized to find the frightened man: Constable Crabtree's life was at stake. A comprehensive search of all points south of the Keating Channel had finally turned him up cowering in a warehouse. Watts had given the constables strict instructions that they were not to alarm him, so there were several constables monitoring the exits of the warehouse but none inside when Watts himself had arrived there with the Portuguese-speaking gentleman and Miss Hart.

Mr. D'Souza had nearly cried with relief to hear the translator, a Mr. Brandão, shout "Você está seguro! Seguro!" to him. "You are safe! Safe!" He and Mr. D'Souza had taken some time to adjust to each other's accents and dialects, but when Mr. D'Souza had finally understood the situation, he gladly volunteered to help. He had offered as much blood as he could spare to Miss Hart, and demanded that they keep in touch with him to let him know how Constable Crabtree and the five patients in the hospital would fare.

Watts reported that Mr. D'Souza was quite distressed about the entire situation, and blamed himself for the deaths and illnesses. He had been friendly with Mr. Price, as the other man's mother was Portuguese and the two had some words in common. Mr. D'Souza had been ill briefly when the coal ship was on its way from Pennsylvania – he had had a low-grade fever for a day or so, and when the fever subsided he broke out in an annoying rash that had cleared within about 24 hours. While he was feverish, he had briefly lost his grip on one of the ship's ropes, and the resultant rope burn had drawn blood. What was more, his lost grip had caused Mr. Price to lose his as well, injuring him similarly. After the mishap, to show there were no hard feelings, they shook—bloodied—hands.

"That has to have been it," said Julia. "And perhaps Mr. D'Souza's origins have contributed to his stronger resistance?"

"I was wondering about that," mused Watts. "Perhaps in his country this is a relatively mild illness, while it affects those from here much more strongly because we have never been exposed to it before." He cleared his throat. "The reports from Erie say that no one there has reported similar symptoms, so the illness may have been contained."

"Marvellous!" exclaimed Julia. "I don't believe there's any further risk to anyone as long as no blood is exchanged. There seems to me to be no more reason for the quarantine. But I don't suppose Doctor Morris will hear any of that while there are still people ill."

"Indeed," said Watts. "He does seem a particularly cautious man. Well, I wish you and Detective Murdoch and Constable Crabtree well; their absence at the station house is being keenly felt."

"Thank you, Detective. I must get to work on the antiserum." And so she did.

By ten o'clock, Julia was in the middle of centrifuging a small batch of the blood when Clarence phoned. She looked around for William to ask him to watch the machine while she took the call, but he was nowhere to be found, so she turned it off, to her chagrin. She would have to start the batch again when the telephone call was concluded.

Clarence told her that he wanted to let her know that the elderly, comatose patient had just passed, and he would be in touch late the following day with the results of the autopsy. The delay was inevitable because Doctor Matthews would need to be recalled from Montreal, and he was unable to leave that city until the 7:30pm train, which would not put him in Toronto until 6:10 the following morning. He put the phone down before Julia could reply.

She was incensed. "The hell with that man!" she exclaimed. "Not that I was going to tell him about the antiserum, but wasn't it just like him to assume I had nothing to say? And Miss Hart is perfectly capable. Three people are already dead. We need the findings from that autopsy. If there is a chance to save others, we simply must. Drat you, Clarence. Why must you make this so difficult?"

"Julia?" William peered out of the bedroom, startled. "What are you on about?"

"Give me a moment, William." She closed her eyes briefly, then picked up the receiver once more. "Yes, could you connect me with the operator in Montreal?"

Fifteen minutes later, Julia telephoned Clarence back. She had asked Doctor Matthews to remain in Montreal, and she was asserting her authority as Chief Coroner of Toronto to demand that Miss Hart be allowed to conduct the autopsy, in the interest of time. Julia trusted Miss Hart's work enough that she would sign the death certificate even without being there to observe. She told him, "As long as the patients in the quarantine ward are alive, they are under your jurisdiction. The moment they die, they come under mine."

Clarence was most taken aback; he had clearly not expected a mere woman to hold any power over him, let alone exert it. She did not wait for him to finish sputtering before she informed him that the morgue wagon would be along shortly to collect the deceased. She thanked him crisply for his cooperation, and hung up. She stood up, smoothed out her trousers (well, William's trousers), and found her husband regarding her with affection and awe.

"I'm almost certainly going to pay for that later, but I dare say I enjoyed it," she smirked mischievously.

"I guess I needn't wonder anymore why you've hung onto your position as coroner," William chuckled. "It seems you enjoy the authority it confers."

"Indeed I do," she replied. "And if Clarence thinks he's furious now, wait until he hears about my work on the antiserum."

"He's not receptive to the idea," said William.

"Not even a little. He is still insisting that we just wait and see, and give up on the antiserum before it's even tried. William, I won't have it." Her eyes flashed with anger. "George needs more help than he's getting. I'm going to keep working on that antiserum, and I'm going to get it right, and I'm going to give it to him. This has gone on long enough."

William gazed at her lovingly: this was the bold, stubborn Julia he'd always adored. "Whenever you look like that, woe betide anyone who stands in your way."

Julia spent the morning working in her makeshift laboratory while William looked after the housekeeping and attending to George. She noticed he left the room every time the centrifuge was working – was he still sensitive to noise? She would have to ask him.

"How is your progress?" William asked as he washed some dishes, and kept an eye on the pot of boiling water on the stove that was getting syringes and thermometers ready to be disinfected with the Cresol. Julia wondered if he was still contemplating his design for a dishwashing cupboard.

"I think I'm close. Your improvised centrifuge is just the thing to spin everything out of the plasma. The main thing I need to understand now is dosage. I want to keep it as low as possible in case it works, so there will be enough to help the other five – oh, dear. I mean four. The other four patients." Her expression darkened. "If that… Clarence will even give it to them."

"Well, he'll have to, won't he? It would look quite poorly on someone tasked with promoting public health to deny treatment to ill patients."

"It would indeed. I'd rather not have to publicize any of this, though. I'm sure Clarence is stung enough by my pulling the rank of the coroner's office. I do have to maintain some sort of professional relationship with the man, after all, and he's very well connected. Perhaps the mere suggestion of poor publicity would be enough to bring him around, but we're getting ahead of ourselves, aren't we? We don't even know yet if this will work." She peered into the microscope. "Just a few platelets and white blood cells left. I'm going to spin this down one more time, and then I suppose we'll find out."

About an hour later, Julia turned off the centrifuge for the final time. She worked over it for a few moments, decanting a yellowish liquid into a phial, and then pulling it up into a freshly sterilised syringe. "It's time, George. Let's all hope this is what is going to cure you and get you back on your feet."

George closed his eyes and uttered a silent prayer as Julia approached him with the needle. He kept them closed as he heard her pull on the gloves, and clenched his teeth and hissed as he felt her pierce his skin and slide the needle into the vein. He was so tired of needles.

Julia pressed the plunger slowly, then withdrew the needle from his arm. George opened one eye.

"What now?" he asked feebly.

"Now, we wait," she replied.

Julia noted the time she administered the antiserum: 11:06am. The rest of the day inched by, Julia checking and recording all of George's vitals every half hour. He was sore and itchy because she had taken him off all the other medications, so that she could judge the effectiveness of the antiserum as accurately as possible.

To pass the time and distract him from the itching, William decided to read some of the day's newspaper aloud. Julia came over at nearly one o'clock to listen in, and feed him lunch. His appetite seemed better: he consumed some junket, two soft-boiled eggs, a half sandwich of cold roast chicken on soft toast, and more than a quart of water. Less than an hour later, he asked for William's help with the bedpan. Positive signs.

George dozed off in the midafternoon. Neither William nor Julia wanted to leave the room, so they each sat at their respective desks, Julia writing notes for a potential journal article about the illness, and William tinkering with… something. Julia quietly looked forward to hearing all about it when he was ready to present the finished product to her, with his endearing, almost childlike enthusiasm. How she loved him.

Julia gently woke George at five o'clock to examine him.

"What's his temperature?" asked William.

"It's coming down," she answered, almost afraid to contemplate the idea that their collective ordeal might finally be nearing an end.

Just past seven, all three were startled by a knock at the door. Julia went to the window to see who it was. Ruth and Henry Higgins-Newsome stood on their front porch, bearing a colossal white box and beaming. Julia shouted through the door: "Hello, Ruth! Hello, Henry!"

"Well, hello!" Ruth enthused, and waited. Henry waved. Finally she spoke again: "Aren't you going to open the door?"

"Pardon?" shouted Julia.

"The door! Open the door!" Ruth and Henry both cried.

"Ruth! Henry" exclaimed Julia. "I can't! We're under quarantine!"

"Quarantine!" shouted Ruth. "Of course! I should have known you couldn't open the door!" Henry slapped his forehead.

"Now the entire neighbourhood knows," muttered Julia saturninely. "Ruth!" she cried. "Please leave the box and I will telephone you later."

"Telephone? Very well, I shall telephone you later. Ta-ta!" She put the box down and used a handkerchief to wave goodbye. Julia took a deep breath and waited until Ruth and Henry climbed back into the red motorcar and drove away, and then she opened the door.

The box was fastened with a wide, elaborately decorated satin ribbon. Julia brought it into the house, and placed it on the end of the dining table that was still reserved for food. She untied the ribbon, and lifted the lid.

The box contained a lavish assortment of beautiful pastries and cakes, artfully arranged on layers of coloured cardboard held apart by strategically placed wooden dowels. Julia spotted sugar-dusted profiteroles, napoleons, éclairs, and Paris-Brests before she closed it again, and burst out laughing.

"Julia?" asked William, disconcerted.

She tried to answer him between fits of laughter, but could not. She merely gestured at the box, and laughed until the tears came.

William went to the table and opened the box. For a moment he was speechless. George watched him, fascinated. "Sir? I mean William?"

William raised first one eyebrow, and then the other to join it. "French pastries, George. She sent French pastries. Very fine ones, it would appear. I think she may have bought an entire bakery."

Julia managed to collect herself for a moment. "I suppose if we all gorged ourselves constantly on nothing but pastries until the end of the quarantine, we might come close to finishing them." She nearly guffawed, and wiped away a tear. "Oh, Ruth Newsome of the Mimico Newsomes. Thank you. You have given me the best laugh I've had in weeks."

William continued to regard the pastries, baffled. "I had not thought it possible to send less practical food than Mrs. Brackenreid's vol au vents." He smiled slightly and shook his head. "Mrs. Higgins-Newsome's choice is certainly… noteworthy."

William's choice of words sent Julia back into peals of laughter. "Oh, William. I have to sit down."

She took the chair next to George's bed, still giggling, and out of habit she laid a hand on his forehead.

"George!" she whispered, her eyes wide, and reached for the thermometer. "You don't feel warm!"

His eyes widened to match hers as she placed the thermometer in his mouth. "How are you feeling?" she asked. He opened his mouth to speak, and she shook her head quickly. "Just nod yes or no while you have the thermometer. Are you feeling better?"

A nod.

"Any pain?"

He thought for a moment, thin-lipped, and then tilted his head from side to side.

"Some, but not bad," she guessed.

Another nod.

"Joints?"

A shake.

"Muscles."

More head tilting.

"So, a little bit sore, but again, not bad."

"Mm-hmm," said George.

"Skin still itchy?"

Another nod, and a bit of a tilt.

"Any dizziness, or nausea?"

A shake, and a small smile.

A long silence while she studied him intently, peering into his eyes, scrutinizing his rash, checking his pulse and blood pressure for what seemed like the millionth time. She finally withdrew the thermometer from his mouth and read it.

"What does it say?" William asked. Julia had nearly forgotten he was in the room.

"99.4," she declared, and took a deep breath.

"That's the first time it's been below 101 in a week," William managed. "Does…" He paused to collect himself. His voice was thick with emotion. "Does this mean what I think it does?"

"George. Oh, my dear George. I can hardly believe it." Julia put down the thermometer, and squeezed his hands. "It would appear that you're finally on your way out of the woods."

The mood in the household was jubilant. Julia poured a dram of whisky, and impulsively offered it to William; to her surprise, he accepted. She poured herself another, and they drank to George. Although he was still very weak, unable even to lift his head off the pillow, the man himself was all smiles. The crushing lethargy from the fever was nearly gone, the muscle aches and joint pains were down to a dull roar, and the rash—well, it still itched, but he no longer wanted to climb out of his own skin. He was alive, and on the mend.