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been going like a dream. I’m pretty sure I know where the burial chamber is and I’ve arranged for a site survey to be done as soon as I get back from London.’
    ‘I hope you’ve informed all the relevant authorities,’ said Cassie.
    ‘I’ve been in touch with Historic Scotland and one of their people will be standing by to come on site,’ Motram assured her. ‘If the geosurvey comes up trumps, we can open negotiations with the officer on site for a start date for the excavation. How was your day?’
    ‘Pretty dull by comparison,’ said Cassie. ‘Not a single case of Black Death.’

SEVEN
     
     
    John Motram smiled as he got out of the taxi and started to walk up the short, semicircular drive through well-tended gardens to the entrance of St Raphael’s. The hospital was in the heart of London but seemed so peaceful that anyone might have been forgiven for thinking it was a country house. Reception too was a far cry from the noise and bustle of NHS facilities where imminent meltdown seemed to be a common theme. But then, there were no accident and emergency facilities in private hospitals, he reminded himself, no drunks, no knife wounds, no road traffic cases, no drug addicts, no bawling relatives, in fact nothing to interfere with the calm, ordered application of top-class medicine.
    ‘Dr Motram, we’ve been expecting you,’ said the receptionist, with a smile that would have put British Airways cabin crew to shame. It even seemed genuine. ‘Kate will show you to the seminar room.’
    As if by magic, another young woman, well coiffured and wearing the same pristine white uniform as the receptionist, materialised and smiled. ‘Welcome to St Raphael’s, doctor. If you’ll just follow me.’
    Motram was led along a corridor smelling of fresh flowers and furniture polish and shown into a bright, well-equipped seminar room where a number of people were waiting – four men and two women. Their dress suggested well-heeled professionals. When greetings had been exchanged, Motram asked, ‘So who’s the ringmaster?’
    The others smiled and a tall man with a Mediterranean tan and a light grey suit to accentuate it, said, ‘I think we all thought you were when you came in.’
    ‘Does anyone know why we’re here?’ Motram asked.
    ‘Not yet,’ replied one of the women. ‘I’m Sheila Barnes, by the way: I’m a radiologist.’
    This was the cue for the rest to introduce themselves.
    ‘Mark Limond, haematologist.’
    ‘Susie Bruce, nursing director.’
    ‘George Simpson, immunologist.’
    ‘Jonathan Porter-Brown, transplant surgeon,’ said the man with the tan.
    ‘Tom Little, biochemist.’
    Motram completed the introductions. ‘John Motram, cell biologist.’
    ‘John Motram the surface receptor man?’ Little asked.
    ‘I suppose,’ said Motram modestly. ‘That’s my specialty.’
    ‘I read your paper last month in the Journal of Cell Biology . Brilliant!’
    The conversation was interrupted by the door opening and another well-dressed man entered, using his elbow on the door handle. He carried a briefcase in one hand and a pile of papers that seemed destined for independent flight under his other arm. ‘So sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘Bloody traffic. I’m Laurence Samson, by the way. Have you all met? … Good, but I’m sure you must all be wondering why you’re here.’ The comment received nothing other than blank looks in return. His audience were not for responding to the obvious: they were not TV quiz show material.
    Samson accepted the fact graciously and moved on. ‘You are all recipients of support from the Hotspur Foundation. As such, you have agreed to contribute your expertise when called upon. Ladies and gentlemen, the call has come; that’s why you’re here. We need your participation in the treatment of a patient … a VIP patient … whom we will refer to and continue to refer to with stultifying unoriginality as Patient X. Some of you may discover his true identity