After an excessive amount of pawing through papers, his uncle snapped the bag shut and planted it at his feet, having accomplished exactly nothing. “There you have it.”
Bram tensed. His uncle made no sense whatsoever, which was exactly what he’d been trying to conceal the past year or two.
Grimwinkle’s brow bunched as he looked from the satchel to his uncle. “Have what?”
The six other men behind the table wore the same wrinkled brow of confusion as Grimwinkle. A few whispered behind raised hands.
Uncle Pendleton merely adjusted the spectacles on the bridge of his nose. “I don’t appear to have that paperwork.”
“I didn’t expect you would.” A satisfied smile rippled across Grimwinkle’s thin lips. “Therefore, Professor, you are hereby found guilty of—”
“Guilt?” His uncle flourished his hand in the air. “Nothing of the sort. I deferred the acquisition of a permit to my nephew.” He slapped Bram on the back, knocking him off-kilter. “So all is well.”
Bram sucked in a breath. Uncle Pendleton had never asked him to file any paperwork.
“Well, Professor Webb?” Grimwinkle’s dark eyes narrowed on him. “Can you produce verification of a permit application?”
Blast. What to do? Take the fall—once again—for a slip of his uncle’s mind or refute what the man had just told the entire history faculty? Granted, this charge was far less serious than the last time, when he’d been indicted for theft of an artifact, but that didn’t make the accusation any less bitter.
He cleared his throat, thinking fast. “That, em, paperwork must’ve gotten lost in the shuffle. We all know how it is with the longnecks in administration. No offense, Mr. Clem.”
Clem shifted on his seat, the wooden chair creaking in protest. “None taken, Professor Webb.”
Grimwinkle toyed with the gavel. “An insufficient excuse, Professor. That being the case, as a disciplinary action, you are hereby placed on academic probation until the end of the term. I will personally take over your classes for the rest of the year, and during this time, I suggest you rethink not only this oversight but all your recent displays of questionable judgment.”
“Now see here!” Bram squared his shoulders, ready for battle. “That dig, while admittedly not yielding any artifacts of real value, gave the students hands-on experience, training them in the techniques of relic recovery right here in our own backyard. It was my ingenuity that saved the college hundreds of pounds in travel and other sundry expenses. You cannot suspend me for what was clearly beneficial to the school.”
“I can and I am. Now then, Mr. Clem, on to the next allegation.”
Bram’s hands clenched into fists as the secretary once again rose.
“The second complaint asserts that false and improper classroom instruction has been committed in violation of code A31–17. Furthermore, said teaching is indicative of a mind in decline, which is in direct opposition to the standards of excellence required for this institution.”
What a load of claptrap. Bram stifled a snort. His methods were innovative, not false and improper!
Uncle Pendleton hitched his thumbs in his lapels, puffing out his chest. “My nephew has done no such thing, Professor Grimwinkle.”
“The accusation is against you, sir.” Grimwinkle aimed the end of the gavel at his uncle as if he might fire off a shot. “You are the one charged with spouting nonsense in the classroom. Your theory positing a supposed settlement hereabouts of a Roman intellectual and spiritual refuge is nothing but the meanderings of forty years of wishful thinking. You’ve been warned before to stop teaching such make-believe nonsense until evidence is presented.” Grimwinkle leaned forward, teeth bared like the wolf he was. “There is no such evidence, and yet I have it on good authority that you lectured last Thursday on the fabled settlement of Caelum Academia as if it were a real place.”
“Caelum Academiaisreal!” Uncle jammed his forefinger and thumb in the air, holding them a breath apart. “I’m this close to finding it, and you know it.”
“I admit no such thing. There never has been—nor I suspect will there ever be—proof of this mythical Roman refuge for persecuted Christians and artisans. Yours is the mind that is slipping, not mine!”
Grimwinkle’s sharp words sliced through the air, cutting holes in the thin screen Bram had desperately constructed to hide his uncle’s increasingly erratic behaviour. Whispers swirled amongst the men flanking the department head.
Uncle Pendleton rose to his toes, impervious to the accusation. “You’re just jealous because you’ll be toppled from your department throne when I find the Holy Grail.”
The committee gasped in unison.
Grimwinkle tossed down his gavel as he threw back his head, laughter shaking the plaid fabric at his shoulders.
Bram clenched his fists all the tighter. Everyone had their quirks of faith. Silly beliefs such as fairies or leprechauns—or that the Queen was secretly bald and only wore wigs. But mostknew not to speak of such things aloud. Apparently his uncle hadn’t gotten that memorandum.
“The Holy Grail itself? You see, gentlemen?” Grimwinkle’s belly laughs turned to a mere chuckle. “We all know the grail is nothing but a literary and historical subject for mere speculation, not a tangible item to be acquired. Need I say more to make my case against the intellectual capacity of this man?”
With a swift, furious grasp, Uncle Pendleton swiped up his satchel and rummaged in it like a mad man.
“Steady on, Uncle.” Bram squeezed his arm, then stepped forward, a moot—yet unstoppable—attempt to shield his uncle. “Professor Grimwinkle and other esteemed members of the board, clearly there’s been some sort of misunderstanding here. Like myself, my uncle teaches nothing but classic yet innovative archaeological techniques and solid Roman history. Even so, I am certain this entire matter can be easily corrected by a simple change in my uncle’s curriculum. Surely that’s all that need be done.”
