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T rinity C ollege , C ambridge

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 was he 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 for severe and 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?

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 Academia is real!” 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 most knew 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.”

A feral light glinted in Grimwinkle’s dark eyes. “With such a tarnished career as yours, Professor Webb, I am astonished by your boldness to suggest how we go about our business here today. I am the one who will decide what needs to be done, and that is immediate termination. All in agreement, say aye.”

“Termination! Don’t be absurd.” Bram paced in front of the long table, clasping his hands behind his back to keep from flailing them in the air. “Members of the board, I beg you to consider the consequences of Professor Grimwinkle’s harsh penalty. My uncle has dedicated his life to the pursuit of knowledge and has been a loyal Trinity servant for decades. To cast him aside now, with only two terms left before his retirement, would be a grave injustice. It would not only be a blot on his legacy but rob him of the pension he’s worked so hard for over the years.”

Bram paused, searching the faces of those who held his uncle’s fate in their hands. “And so I implore this venerated committee to carefully consider the weight of your decision. This is not simply about one man’s career. It’s about a lifetime of dedication to the pursuit of knowledge and a desire to pass that intellectual wealth on to the next generation. I ask that each of you let reason and fairness guide your judgment.”

His uncle dashed up beside him and slapped down a portfolio of papers in front of Grimwinkle. “Take a look at this. Are these documents the sign of a slipped mind? I dare you to find one fault— one —and if you do, I shall resign this instant.”

“Is that so?” Grimwinkle smiled as he picked up the packet. “I look forward to this. Take a seat, gentlemen, while my colleagues and I read over these papers.”

Bram’s shoulders sank as they returned to the smaller table—or the isle of indictment, as he often thought of it. He’d suffered here far too many times to count. Sitting on his hands was the only action that kept him from planting his face in his palms.

Oh , Uncle , what have you done?

After a few deep breaths, he whispered to his uncle, “What did you give him?”

Uncle Pendleton leaned back in his chair, folding his arms over his potbelly. “The first part of my Treatise of Caelum Academia . My finest piece of writing if I do say so myself.”

“Silence!” Grimwinkle glowered as he passed along one of the papers.

Bram folded his arms, working hard to contain a scowl. Here he was again, waiting for an execution, though this time it was his uncle who would swing. Seconds, minutes, what might very well be hours ticked by, though he couldn’t confirm it. In the mood Grimwinkle was in, sliding out his cherished pocket watch just might get him terminated as well.

So there was nothing to do but sit there and sweat as the men digested his uncle’s writings. Would to God it all made sense. But with every raised brow, each huff of astonishment, and not just a few murmurs of disbelief, Bram’s hope flagged.

An eternity later, Grimwinkle handed off the last page, then frowned at Uncle Pendleton. “Impressive work, Professor, yet incomplete. Is there more?”

Uncle met his gaze. “Not yet.”

“Then I’m afraid, sir, your theory of a refuge for Roman Christians is null and void until—as I said earlier—evidence is presented. I warned you before when you lost your lecture notes for the annual fall seminar that I would suffer no more negligent behaviour from you, and I meant it. I’m afraid in this instance there can be no other resolution besides immediate termination, and so, gentlemen, once again I ask for your vote. All in agreement say—”

No! This couldn’t be happening. Not to the man he owed everything. He’d always known there’d been rivalry between Grimwinkle and his uncle, but not to this degree. Bram shot to his feet. “You will have your evidence by the end of the term.”

Grimwinkle’s finely manicured eyebrows lifted to the ceiling. “You’re going to unearth the Holy Grail—something that’s been sought after for millennia—in a mere ten weeks? You’re as mad as your uncle.”

“Even so”—Bram jutted his jaw—“one way or another, my uncle and I will prove that Caelum Academia is real.”

Hushed voices droned so low that Bram couldn’t make out a word. But at least the board was talking amongst themselves instead of rendering an immediate decision. That had to be good, didn’t it? He closed his eyes.

Please , God , make it so.

After a lengthy round of ominous discussion, Grimwinkle folded his hands atop the table and gave them an evil eye only a demon could be proud of. “A decision has been reached.”

Tension hung thick as an October fog.

For a long moment, Grimwinkle said nothing, no doubt enjoying this cat-and-mouse game, then he opened his thin lips. “This board shall reconvene on December thirteenth, at which point irrefutable confirmation will be presented by Professors Webb and Pendleton authenticating the existence of Caelum Academia , the supposed refuge of Roman Christians and artisans. If no such evidence is provided, Professor Pendleton will be deemed unfit as an instructor of excellence in the classroom and immediately dismissed. Is that clear?”

Before Bram could say anything, Uncle Pendleton’s voice rang out loud and clear. “Not only do we understand but we heartily embrace the challenge.”

“Then this meeting is adjourned until the end of Michaelmas Term.” Grimwinkle banged the cursed gavel louder than ever.

Bram flinched, gut twisting. How in the world was he going to find the remains of a settlement that more than likely never existed ... all while keeping his uncle’s increasing bouts of senility a secret?