Sheffield frowned. “The young lady is refined, tenderhearted, and innocent of true malice—”
“Excuse me, we are talking about MissVanityTunnicliffe?” Caleb interjected again. “The woman who flirted with me for days, no doubt trying to get information, then kidnapped me and threatened to shoot me?”
“She is perhaps a little misguided in her ways.”
Amelia did not roll her eyes, but it must be said that her pleasure in the compliments the sergeant had given her disintegrated as it now became clear what a lousy judge of character he was.
“Actually, Vanity has a very definite guide,” Caleb retorted in a bitter tone, “and it’s aimed right at Dervorguilla of Galloway’s brooch, in Balliol College.”
Sheffield’s frown shifted to a more professional angle. “Brooch?”
“An extremely dangerous brooch,” Amelia told him. “Vanity doesn’t appreciate just how dangerous—”
“Of course she doesn’t,” Sheffield interjected solemnly. “Such a sweet and pretty lass, she’s clearly been corrupted by some fiend.”
“I’m beginning to see what Lady Ruperta meant about the Home Office being useless,” Caleb murmured to Amelia.
“Hm,” she replied dourly. She considered demanding whetherSheffield would be so forgiving about a male thief but decided there was no point. The man had obviously fallen under the thrall of the wicked teaspoon thief at some stage during their time at Ravenscroft Manor. No doubt all that giggling had done the trick. Amelia couldn’t help but wonder if she herself could get Ottersock and Throckmorton to like her more if she tried the same thing. The thought was so dreadful, it brought her back to her senses within half a second.
“We need to stop Vanity from using my teaspoon to break through the brooch’s protective case and steal it,” she told Sheffield. “A collision of two such intense magical energy sources could cause tremendous damage…and hurt poor Miss Tunnicliffe,” she added cleverly, causing Sheffield’s eyes to widen.
Just then, Ottersock appeared, panting from exertion. “There you are! Why did you disappear in the crowd like that? And why are you just standing around chatting now? Didn’t you drag me through the night across half of England so you could protect Balliol from some girl?”
“Professors Tarrant and Sterling have been acting in the interests of national security,” Sheffield intoned sternly.
“Who are you, the police?” Ottersock jeered.
“Home Office,” Sheffield snapped, holding up his wallet.
Blanching, Ottersock came to attention at once. The fact of the Material History faculty being authorized by said Home Office to deal in thaumaturgic objects was pretty much all that elevated his staff from being a bunch of weird people who fussed over old knickknacks, like Sir Nigel was, into estimable academics. “Lead on,” he said, gesturing with deference to the sergeant.
“No, after you,” the sergeant replied, gesturing in turn.
“No, no, I insist.”
“No,Iinsist,” Sheffield, er, insisted. “I don’t know the bloody way.”
—
They elected tocatch a tram to Broad Street, thereby halving the journey’s time. However, this also placed the fate of Balliol College in the hands of Oxford’s public transport schedule, and after several achingly long minutes of waiting at the tram stop…double-checking thetimetable…fidgeting…pacing…frowningalong the road as if doing so would magically make the tram appear, it became clear that they had made the wrong choice. And yet there also existed the terrible possibility that, the very minute they gave up and started to walk, the tram would arrive. As a result, they dared not move.
When at last the tram did come, pulled by a horse whose miserable expression suggested that it had given up all dreams of frolicking in green pastures, there was The Queue to be endured. No British person worth their tea and crumpets was going to let anyone jump ahead of them, Home Office badge or not. Consequently, by the time they arrived at last on Broad Street, they could have run there in far shorter time. Nerves were stretched so tight that even Amelia was on the verge of losing her calm.
“The brooch is kept on display in the Hall,” Caleb told Sergeant Sheffield as they ran into the college’s Front Quadrangle. “That’s where the members dine.”
“Thankfully, breakfast will be finished by now,” Amelia said.
“You go ahead,” Ottersock urged breathlessly, waving them on. “I’ll let the proctors know what’s happening.”
He turned away, and the others ran through to the GardenQuadrangle. There, students were milling about, chatting, dozing on the grass, and generally doing all they could to avoid being educated. They watched with only vague interest as the historians and Sergeant Sheffield raced along the path, for this was Oxford: if they were to be agog every time someone had to save the city from an impending magical explosion, they’d soon develop eye strain.
At the far end of the Quad stood the Hall, a magnificent building of pale silver-and-gold-hued stone, with tall arched windows and a gabled roof that sported a single ornate steeple at its center. Although it had been built just fourteen years earlier, Amelia usually felt like she was entering a grand old church as she climbed its wide granite stairs, passing beneath the archway halfway up, inhaling the dusty shadows. But this morning her only sense was aggravation at having to run up those stairs in a long skirt.
Arriving at the upper landing, they discovered the dining chamber’s double-sided door was closed. Screaming and crashes could be heard through the wooden panels. “Open it, hurry!” Sheffield urged Caleb, who was rattling and tugging at the door’s handle without effect.
“It’s locked,” Caleb told him.
“Stand back.” Pushing Caleb aside, Sheffield grabbed hold of the door handle with his massive hand and rattled and tugged without effect.
