Closing the door behind the bursar, he listened until he heard the man’s footsteps on the stairs, then went directly to a chest in the corner. After a few trials, he found the key that worked, unlocked the chest, and opened it. There, amongst some bundled parchments and scrolls, he spied a cloth-wrapped bundle tied with black ribbon. “At last,” he whispered. “I’ve moved heaven and earth to find you.”
He lifted the roll and placed it on the nearby table. There, fingers shaking with suppressed excitement, he untied the ribbon and drew away the cloth to reveal a long, irregular roll of parchment so papery and fine as to be almost translucent. Carefully, carefully, he unrolled a portion of the scroll to reveal a number of bright blue symbols etched on the surface of the scroll.
“How do you do, Grandfather?” he said. “Am I pleased to meet you? You have no idea.”
Then, as if fearing to be overheard, he pulled a roll of heavier parchment from an inside coat pocket and quickly wrapped it, retying the ribbon. Replacing the substituted scroll, he locked the chest, tucked the purloined parchment into the inner pocket, and left the room.
Bursar Cakebread was waiting for him when he emerged from the crypt. “I hope you found everything to your satisfaction, sir.”
“It was nothing less than I expected,” Douglas replied, passing the key back to the bursar. “I will return one day soon. I trust you will keep my visits to yourself-until such time as the announcement of the chair is made public.”
“My lips are sealed, sir.”
“Then I will wish you a good day, Bursar Cakebread.”
“And to you, sir-and to you.”
Upon leaving the college, Flinders-Petrie walked up the road toward Cornmarket Street. As he neared Carfax, he saw that a crowd of people had gathered in the street around a small one-horse chaise. He slowed as he drew near and saw that there had been an accident: a small boy had been hit and knocked down in the street. The little fellow was bleeding from a cut to the side of his face and was crying, but he was sitting up and some of the townsfolk were ministering to him. A little to one side stood another small boy, and it was this lad’s remarkable appearance that piqued Douglas’s interest.
The boy, barefoot and dirty-faced, dressed in filthy rags, had a head two sizes too big for his small sturdy body. That, along with pale flaxen hair and tiny eyes the colour of slate, gave him an almost supernatural appearance. He stood glowering at the injured lad, clearly hating him with every fibre of his little being, for all he could be not more than six or seven years old.
His interest piqued, Douglas stopped. “What’s happened here?”
One of the nearest bystanders replied, “That one there pushed t’other in front o’ t’carriage, the little devil. Like to have killed ’im. Lucky thing t’driver saw ’im an’ pulled up.”
“Is he hurt?”
“Don’t think so. Got a nasty jolt, I reckon.”
Then, even as they were discussing the situation, the odd-looking ruffian stepped forward and kicked his young adversary in the head. The injured boy collapsed, and his attacker kicked him again-and would have gone on kicking him in full view of the bystanders if he had not been roughly pulled away. “Here, you!” shouted the man restraining him. “Stop that! Someone call the bailiff!”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Douglas Flinders-Petrie, pushing through the crowd. “I’ll take responsibility.”
He moved quickly to the smouldering youth, interposing himself between the boy and the crowd. “Listen, you little guttersnipe,” he hissed, bending over him. “Come with me now if you want to stay out of gaol.” Then, taking the boy by the hand, he began leading him away.
“Oi! You there!” called one of the citizens. “You know that boy?”
“Yes,” called Douglas over his shoulder. He kept walking. “It’s all right.”
“Are you his father?” called another onlooker.
“Yes,” he answered, then added under his breath, “I am now.”
