Death to Palaeography III...

In which our heroine gets into yet another hairy situation...

She gawped at the gun hanging ineffectively off her little finger. She couldn’t have been more surprised if the Professor had handed her an essay with glowing praise nestled within its margins.

“Wait - ” She mumbled incoherently to his retreating back. Left alone fear gripped her hard and fast, squeezing at her bladder until she began to fidget, hopping from foot to foot like a toddler. Did he ever tell her where the bathroom was? It was not something the situation called for, she was hardly a guest. And intrepid heroines of bestselling thrillers never felt the call of nature. But she was far from intrepid, a hopeless heroine, and in rather desperate need of the bathroom.

Resignedly she crept to the doorway and tentatively stuck her head around the corner. Nothing. It was utterly black so really she was unable to tell if there was something, but fervently she hoped that there was nothing. Attempting to engage the logical part of her brain she rationalised that such an old and big house was bound to have a downstairs cloakroom. Feeling a smidgen braver with every shuffling socked step she took, she edged towards the back of the house.

Feeling around in the gloom her hand grasped the first door knob she came across. She pushed. Nothing happened. Frowning to herself she pushed again. The door opened with a less than silent click that seemed to echo forever in the darkness. Edging around the door she stepped into the newly discovered room. It wasn’t a bathroom, but the thought of having to continue her search in the dark and the men waiting outside, made her rapidly decide that perhaps after all she wasn’t quite so desperate for that cloakroom.

Her gaze wandered in interest from one framed photograph to the next which hung neatly across the walls. It was the Professor. But a young Professor. Well not a professor at all back then, but just another young student in the union bar with aspirations of changing the world. Yet there was something in the photographs which caught her eye, something which she couldn’t explain, yet was akin to the niggling of the memory when asked a particularly challenging but also quite obvious pub quiz question.

Her perusal of these photographs was so consuming that she almost didn’t hear the noise. The breathing, or was it snuffling? And was that a shifting of weight on the old floorboards? Eyes wide with fear she backed away into the corner of the room clutching the gun to her chest like a beloved rag-doll. And then she was falling, the floorboards spiralling, and her chin catching the corner cabinet. She grunted with pain and as she felt something brush past her legs she let out a scream.

Two eyes looked at her dolefully in the gloom and as the adrenalin dispersed through her body she felt herself tremble with laughter. It was a dog. A rather cute bundle of white fur that continued to study her as if thinking to itself – what on earth is that crazy woman doing? The crazy woman rubbed her bashed chin and then held out a hand as if in greeting. Perhaps a foolish gesture but seemingly the dog proffered its own small paw and was very soon settled contentedly in her lap.

Stroking the soft fur and feeling its warm presence she began to feel steadier. The whole day had left her reeling and she wondered perhaps if she had imagined it all. She thought she had read somewhere about people who didn’t have breakfast and then began to hallucinate by lunchtime. And she had skipped breakfast in a last ditch attempt to banish the few extra pounds she had gained over an indulgent Christmas. It was much more likely that the lack of nourishment had induced some half-crazed daydreams rather than that there was a half-crazed murderer after her.

Suddenly an all too-real-and-not-at-all-imagined hand brushed her shoulder and as she gulped in the breath to scream it clamped over her mouth.

“Quiet you fool.” Hissed the familiar deep voice of the Professor. “Now I’m going to remove my hand and I want you to remain silent for once in your life. Can you do that at least?” She gave a swift jerky nod and took a loud breath once he had released her. She could feel, if not see in the dim light, the sharp look that he gave her. “There are three men at the door. And from the look of them I don’t think they’re here to collect for charity. It’s dark and if we can stay quiet,” he paused for emphasis, “they might think we’re out. But just in case they decide to come and take an uninvited look around, I say that we should leave from the back of the house and wait it out elsewhere.” In the face of such organised and practical instruction she felt it unnecessary to do anything except to continue nodding her agreement. “I see you met my dog. Well he better come too I suppose. Damn nuisance.” She was not quite certain whether he was referring to herself or the dog, but as she had no intention of letting go off the comforting bundle of fur she decided it wasn’t the best time to question him.

Snatching her hand he escorted her out of the room and into the kitchen in as much time as it had taken her to search the first room in the long hall. Clearly the Professor ate his carrots for he did not stumble or curse once on the weaving journey. Without further ado he shoved her feet into an old pair of wellingtons and meekly she allowed him to wrap a badly knitted scarf about her neck just as he wrapped a collar and lead around the dog. Pulling back the bolts he lead the way out and as the back door clattered behind her she jumped guiltily as the Professor turned back,

“Good God girl can’t you do anything!?” He would have exploded if only he hadn’t needed to be quiet.

“Actually I’m rather a good harpist.” She said with wounded pride. His stern mouth twitched at the corners with amusement and when he took her hand again there was less tension in his grasp. Though he did not show it as readily as she did, the Professor was scared, and that thought was a rather peculiar reassurance.

When she saw where the Professor was leading her she dug her heels into the boggy ground like a stubborn mule. She loathed walking up hills, especially muddy hills, and most especially muddy hills in the immense darkness that enveloped the countryside. However she was given little choice as she was soon dragged unceremoniously across the treacherously slippery ground, her free hand frantically trying to catch the tangled ribbons of hair that were blown across her face.

It seemed to her a long time before they entered an old outbuilding which sat on the outlying reaches of the grounds surrounding the Professor’s sprawling home. Hands reddened by the biting wind the Professor turned to her and asked solemnly,

“I suppose you better tell me now what it said.”

“I cannot remember,” she said apologetically, “it was written in Latin you see.” He leaned his head against the wall tiredly. “I did write down though.” He looked up in new interest.

“Well when were you going to show it to me?” She held out her empty hands and was almost in tears when she eventually replied,

“I can’t. I left it in my handbag. And that’s back in your car.”