He retreated, palms in the air, water dripping from his elbows. “As I said, miss, rates have gone up. If you take issue with the amount—which I can only surmise that you do—you’ll have to direct your inquiries to the appeals board, not to me.”
“Very well. I will.” She lifted her chin, refusing to show cowardice though it cost her a face full of raindrops. “When do they next meet?”
“In January.” He swung up into the saddle, leather creaking.
“But that’s after the deadline!”
“So it is. Walk on.” He clicked his tongue.
Leaving her standing agape. In the rain. Alone. Again.
Would God never smile upon her?
2
TrinityCollege,Cambridge
There were two things Bram Webb couldn’t stand. No, make that three. A cheaply made cigar tasting of green tobacco. Spiders. And, worst of all, sitting around waiting for an execution—especially when it was his own neck that would feel the bite of a noose. Irritated beyond measure, he cracked his knuckles, garnering several frowns from the Faculty Misconduct Review Board. The six suits behind the long table at the front of the room couldn’t look more forbidding if they tried.
Yet their expressions were child’s play compared to the cancerous scowl he was sure to receive from ol’ Grimwinkle—if the man ever arrived. For the third time since Bram and his uncle had taken their seats, he flipped open the lid of his silver pocket watch, then frowned. This meeting should have started a quarter of an hour ago. Where was the department head? Was his tardiness some sort of ploy to increase anxiety?
Leaning aside, Bram whispered for his uncle’s ears alone. “What do you suppose I’ve done this time? And why have they dragged you into this?”
Uncle shrugged, wafting an earthy smell of dirt and greenery,and no wonder. The only time Uncle Pendleton wasn’t tending his extensive collection of potted ferns was when occupied by a dig or teaching. “You know Grimwinkle. That man will stab at me any chance he gets, and driving a knife into your side is as good as drawing my blood.”
As if conjured by the mention of his name, a long-legged stork of a man stalked in, his ridiculous shoes clacking on the tile. Wooden clogs, of all things! Professor Algernon Grimwinkle ought to have been born a preening peacock, so fastidious was he about his appearance. Herringbone during the winter months. A pastel suitcoat for spring. Paisley in the summer, and for autumn he adorned himself in rust-and-gold plaid. Every man rose as he approached the center chair. And though Bram despised giving this popinjay such recognition, he stood out of respect for the man’s position of head of the Trinity College history department.
Fabric rustled as Grimwinkle made a great show of enshrining himself in his seat. Once everyone else sat as well—save for Bram and his uncle—Grimwinkle peered down the length of the long table. “Are you ready, Mr. Clem?”
The department secretary blinked, his eyes no bigger than two drops of indigo ink on the broad canvas of his face. He dipped his pen with gusto. “Yes, sir.”
“Very good.” Grimwinkle smacked a gavel against the tabletop, the sharp report of it causing everyone to flinch. “This disciplinary meeting is called to order. We are convened today to address a matter of utmost importance—one concerning the integrity and reputation of this hallowed institution. If the charges brought forth are found to be substantiated, there will be severe and immediate consequences for the involved party. Is that quite clear?”
Bram resisted the urge to tug at his collar, desperately running through all the possible infractions he might’ve committed. There’d been that incident with the pith helmet, but how washe to have known the thing belonged to the headmaster? He should’ve questioned the student who’d brought it in before using it as a prop to demonstrate improper excavation techniques. The helmet had been no match against the pointy end of a steel trowel.
Toga Tuesdays might have been a bad idea as well, especially since he’d allowed the students to go to the pub in such immodest array.
Or perhaps it might’ve been the Roman banquet that’d caused this meeting of the pinch-faced misconduct board. The wine had flowed too freely, leaving the library quite a mess. In hindsight, he ought to have used a different area, but it was one of the few rooms for which he possessed a key.
He rubbed the back of his neck. Indeed, any one of these offenses was foolish and perhaps ill-timed, but none were grounds forsevereand immediate consequences.
“Before proceeding,” Grimwinkle continued, “I would like to remind everyone that all conversation in this room is not only binding but confidential. From here on out, be advised to keep this in mind.” His gaze lingered on Bram.
Pah. As if he’d wish to breathe a word of whatever humiliation he was about to suffer.
“Mr. Clem.” Grimwinkle eyed the secretary. “Kindly outline the nature of the charges if you will.”
Bram stiffened.
Here it came.
Clem riffled through a folder and pulled out a single document. “The first complaint alleges that an archaeological excavation—dated March through August of 1887—was performed on university property without obtaining a duly required permit. Such an unauthorized action is in violation of code A31–72.”
Bram glowered. Of all the petty indictments! “That dig was two years ago,” he huffed, “and you’re just looking into it now?What a bogus waste of time, dragging us in here for such a minor infraction.”
Grimwinkle’s gavel cracked on the tabletop. “Mr. Webb! You were not yet addressed, and I will thank you to hold your tongue until called upon. I should first like to hear from the senior member of your team.” The department head’s malignant gaze drifted from him to his uncle. “Now then, what have you to say about such a dereliction of academic duty?”
Bram’s uncle swiped up his satchel and, with a loud click, opened the latch. Surely his uncle hadn’t been carrying around a two-year-old permit, had he?
