Chapter 8
For my sister, Marion.
Thanks for being my second pair of eyes!
The fine September morning had dawned that day with a very welcome and concealing mist. Even so, as a figure slipped cautiously into one of the many churchyards that were scattered about the city, it looked around quickly.
The clock in the bell tower was yet to chime six. Unsurprisingly, there was no one else out and about so early, save for the stray milkman or conscientious dog-walker. Yet the figure – who was dressed in a rather disconcertingly ghostly-looking pale-grey mackintosh – nevertheless made sure that the attached hood was up and pulled well forward, thus concealing their face.
A lone blackbird perched on a gravestone gave its familiar chinking alarm but the figure in grey ignored it, making quickly but carefully towards the oldest part of the graveyard. Here the stones were made illegible by lichen and time, and an ancient yew tree survived in defiant and baccate splendour.
The only living inhabitant of the graveyard looked anxiously around, making sure that their next action would remain unseen and forever secret, before reaching out and plucking several choice, wax-like red berries.
These precious berries were quickly picked and thrust into a small brown paper bag, which was then hidden out of sight in one of the mackintosh’s large side pockets.
The anonymous figure in grey paused at the churchyard gate and peered carefully down the deserted small side street in either direction. As expected, nobody else stirred the early morning mist.
A clock in the city of dreaming spires chimed the hour, and the gatherer of berries paused to count them and smiled whimsically. Oxford. Here, in the hallowed halls of academe,
