Caleb swore. Murray had installed his family in a hotel right in the middle of Maiden’s Creek.

At the profanity, Amos looked up. ‘Something wrong?’

‘Yes. I hope I’m wrong, but just in case I’m not, Amos, you have to scrub out your coach—every inch—with carbolic. Trust me.’

Amos blinked and opened his mouth. He closed it again and nodded.

‘And your clothes, Amos. Burn them.’

Now it was Amos’s turn to swear. ‘You think I’m made of money? I think I should ’ave some sort of explanation.’

‘You’ll understand why you need to do this after I’ve spoken with Bowen.’ Caleb fondled Mac’s soft ears. ‘And you get better, old fellow. We may need you soon.’ He stepped out of the stall. ‘Where can I find Bowen?’

Amos gave a snort of laughter that made the horses start. ‘At ’ome, I dare say. Up to ’is ears in a whiskey bottle.’

Caleb set out for the doctor’s cottage on the hillside above the Britannia Hotel. His leg hurt like the very devil but he ignored it as he climbed the path to the small cottage sitting on an excavated plot of land. A wobbly handmade notice on the door read, BOWEN MD. KNOCK.

Caleb knocked and when he got no answer, he tried the handle. The door opened to a gloomy room that appeared to serve as parlour, kitchen and consulting room. A fug of alcohol and tobacco hung in the air. Bowen sat slumped in front of a dwindling fire, a whiskey bottle in one hand and a glass in the other. He looked up without interest.

‘Thought you were heading for Melbourne?’

Caleb took the whiskey bottle and glass from the doctor’s hand and pulled him to his feet by his shirt front. ‘I need you sober, Bowen. I need you to tell me I’m wrong because if I’m right, we have a medical emergency of monumental proportions.’

Bowen’s lip curled. ‘The mine? Didn’t hear the bell …’

‘Worse,’ Caleb said. ‘Smallpox.’

Bowen stared at him. The glazed look fell from his eyes. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph—’

‘We’re going to need all three.’ Caleb explained the situation and his suspicions.

Bowen nodded. ‘I fear you might be right. Give me a minute to wash my face and change my shirt.’

At the Britannia Hotel, business went on as usual. In the front bar, the proprietor—a cheerful Yorkshireman, introduced to Caleb by Bowen as ‘Yorkie’ Oldroyd—came out from behind the counter, wiping his hands on a cloth.

He shook Caleb’s hand with hearty goodwill. ‘Heard what you did for Geordie Holdway,’ he said. ‘Have a drink on me.’

‘We’re not here to drink,’ Caleb said. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk privately?’

Oldroyd ushered them into a small, dusty office. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked with a nervous laugh.