‘Do you have the Murrays staying here?’ Caleb asked.

The humour drained from Oldroyd’s face and he glanced at the ceiling. ‘Aye. Came in last night. Murray said his wife was too poorly to go on to their home. I’ve not seen hide nor hair of ’em all day. I sent up some food but they told me to leave it at the door.’

‘Where is their home?’

‘They’ve a cottage on a piece of land just north of the Chinese gardens,’ Bowen answered.

‘So why didn’t they go straight home?’

Oldroyd tugged his moustache. ‘Murray had to carry the woman in. She couldn’t have gone any further.’

Caleb nodded. If he was right, and he still hoped he was wrong, the disease had moved quickly.

Oldroyd narrowed his eyes. ‘So what’s wrong with her?’

‘I can’t be sure,’ Caleb replied. ‘I saw her at Shady Creek and thought she was unwell but I put it down to something she ate. That’s probably all it is.’

Oldroyd snorted. ‘I’m not so green as I’m cabbage looking, Hunt. You wouldn’t come after her unless it was something serious. If it is that bad, then I need to know.’

‘Once we’ve seen her, you’ll be the first to know.’ Bowen cast a significant glance at Caleb. ‘Come on, Yorkie, we’re wasting time. Take us up to them.’

At the top of the stairs, Oldroyd rapped on a closed door with a number 3 painted neatly on it.

‘Go away,’ Murray said.

‘It’s Oldroyd. I’ve got the doctor with me.’

‘I didn’t send for a doctor.’

‘Open this door, Murray,’ Bowen said. ‘I heard Mrs Murray wasn’t well. Just wanted to check her over.’

From beyond the door they heard muffled voices and the scrape of furniture. The key turned in the lock and Murray peered around the edge of the door. Seeing Caleb, he frowned.

‘It’s you. What do you want?’

‘Dr Bowen is here to see your wife,’ Caleb said.

‘I didn’t send for him. Mrs Murray’s fine. Just a fever,’ he said.

Caleb pushed open the door, taking care to extricate the key from the lock and place it in his pocket.

‘Here—’ Murray protested as Bowen shut the door on the mystified Oldroyd.

The little family were closeted together in the hotel’s largest room. The sick woman lay in the double bed, lathered in fever.

She raised a hand. ‘Help me,’ she said.

Caleb and Bowen ignored Murray and crossed to the bed. Mrs Murray looked up at them with wide, frightened eyes. Caleb laid a hand on her arm and bent to inspect the rash on her face. Some of the spots had already begun to fill with pus. He looked up at Bowen.

Bowen nodded. ‘No doubt about it.’ He turned to Murray. ‘Your wife has smallpox.’