Keble MCR were giving a dinner the following week, and for some reason it was in fancy dress.

When most people meet us for the first time they assume it's Rob who works at the cafe, while I am the scientist. He looks like a laid back surfer dude, not a Chemistry DPhil, with a vacant expression that leads some people to believe he has no brain cells at all. I come across as quite on the ball, by comparison. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if we switched jobs for a day - I no more know sulphuric acid from conc H2O than Rob knows a panini from a ciabatta. He'd probably take an order and then disappear into the kitchen for the better part of the day, inventing a new compound out of the mayonnaise and the contents of the fridge. Whereas I would sit in his sunny lab, with its mahogany benches scarred by years of experiments, and read a book, and bide my time.

Quite why the forthcoming dinner was in fancy dress I didn't know. Probably the MCR president thought it debonair. He's the sort of person who describes himself as "a little bit mad" then pulls a silly face. We'd decided on sophisticated, possibly 30's - boaters and blazers, rather than Mr Blobby suits or vampire maidens. And so we wound our way to Unicorn, set into the high walls of Ship Street. There didn't seem to be anyone about, except a lookalike for Rob's housemate, tying a bicycle to a lamp-post.
"Isn't that Eleanor?" I asked Rob, but he just put on his vacant Professor expression and pushed open the door.

A rusty bell jangled above our heads, and a smell of old parties, mothballs and elderly fox furs assailed our nostrils.
"Hello?" I called. No answer. It was hard to move past the rails of clothes all over the shop. I peered into the back. All I could see were mountains of clothes. I imagined the shop owner scrabbling like a terrier, emerging with her chosen garment between her teeth. Where was she now? Buried in a landslide of her own making?

Rob sniffed and looked at me. "Formaldehyde!" he announced significantly.

All around us were outlandish garments carelessly piled. Many were pastel-coloured, or perhaps just faded from years of wear. We started to look for our 30's outfits. Rob pounced on a striped blazer. Suddenly I spotted the corner of an envelope, sticking out of the pocket. On the front, in large letters, it said "ROB AND KATE". I hesitated, but not for long. Inside was a folded note. It read "PITT RIVERS. NOW."

"Who knew we were coming here? Why on Earth didn't they leave this note in your pidge? Is this a joke?" I demanded.
Rob thought for moment. "There must be something here that we need." It sounded like an almost rational suggestion. And it was entirely possible one might find a suit of armour, a diving bell, cricket whites, and equip oneself for anything.
"We need an element of random chance. Let's shut our eyes and grab the first things that come to hand." Rob has spent far too much time reading the Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy.

We span, we grabbed, we opened our eyes, and burst out laughing! Rob held out a yellowing tutu, I'd grabbed a leaf-green fez. It was difficult to see how these might help us on any quest. I imagined the shop owner suddenly reappearing and asking what we were doing, causing my cheeks to redden like a carnation in exam week.

"Try again!" instructed Rob. This time I held a sheepskin coat which looked warm enough for polar climes.

As for Rob, he was nowhere to be seen.

 

Read Chapter 2.

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