Death To Palaeography V...

After spending several frustrating hours attempting to (ultimately unsuccessfully) decode an eighteenth century document, I was reminded of an old friend and so imagined a small continuing scene in which our palaeographer finds a streak of heroism...

The voice, as perhaps was expected, belonged to the Professor. She dodged past his crippled figure and ran for the door. She reasoned that a.) nobody would be particularly happy about being whacked around the head by a frying pan, even if it was only compact travelling sized, and b.) that she was heartily sick of the events of the day. She wanted to go home and cocoon herself in her own bed. The one with its springs broken by the energetic couple who had owned it first, the one with her cosiest pyjamas stowed under the pillow, and the one which remained far away from this nightmare.

Of course, as always, fate, ill-luck, or perhaps more likely the fact that in the mayhem she had misplaced her spectacles, conspired against her.

Her scarf caught on the handle of the door.

It pulled tight around her neck and she lost precious seconds fighting to untangle herself. Her fingers trembled with nervous energy and slipped over the woollen threads hindering her attempts. When finally she had worked it free, leaving tufts of wool snagged on the metal, she resumed her flight only to feel his hand gripping her upper arm. She wrenched herself from his grasp and turn to him angrily. She lifted the kitchen-utensil-come-deadly-weapon threateningly, too upset to care that he still held the gun in his hand.

“That’s it! I’ve had enough!” She yelled.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” He interrupted, with equal vehemence, his hand rubbing what would soon be a sizeable lump on his forehead.

“With me? You’re the one who double crossed me!” She gestured violently at him, frying pan in hand, which he eyed with some alarm. “To think I trusted you. That I came to you for help. Was that your plan all along?” She studied him closely for any indication or expression of guilt. Except he didn’t look guilty. He just looked very confused.

“What?” He asked weakly. With sudden doubt she looked at the frying pan, wondering exactly how hard she had hit him.

Good Lord had she brained one of the university’s senior academics? They would never forgive her for that. And who would supervise her after they discovered that she had rendered her Professor a drooling fool. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. There was no sign of drool, yet. Perhaps after all she had not hit him too hard.

But then why did he look so confused? Why was he looking at her as if she had grown a second head with a full complement of green skin and antennae? Could it possibly be because he was innocent? If he was innocent then perhaps he wouldn’t want to hurt her. But maybe he would want to hurt considering the fact she had recently coshed him over the head.

She desperately wanted to believe he was innocent. Her conclusions were hardly based upon firm proof, and besides she had always been quite terrible at Cluedo as a child. But she couldn’t help but wonder whether believing in his innocence was a little like believing in Father Christmas.