I was alone. It wasn't just that I couldn't see Rob, but the air had a solidly undisturbed feel, like a dust haze in a shaft of sunlight. I said, called, shouted his name. I could hear my voice rising from is-this-a-joke questioning to high-pitched hysteria. Rob never plays practical jokes - that kind of mischief doesn't go with his vacant academic persona. I thought simultaneously of a hundred unlikely possibilities, and for a few seconds felt hot, cold, faint, sick and desperate for the loo. I rushed out of the shop, in my haste dislodging a rack of shoes which scudded accross the floor. I yanked the door, and the jangle of the bell woke me up. There was no way Rob could have left through this door silently. I went back in. There was really nowhere to hide, without burrowing under piles of clothes. I clambered over the pile, and at the back was a kitchen, and a small door. It was locked.

At least I had a rational explanation as to how he'd gone. Now I just needed to know where. The Pitt Rivers seemed obvious, so I set off. When I arrived at the museum a small bird was using one of the dinosaur footprints as a birdbath. I rushed through the airy Natural History Museum, ignored the stuffed cheetah and headed through to the Pitt Rivers. At first glance I couldn't see anyone else there at all. I bent down to look for legs. It was hard to see through the gloom. I felt like running around madly but my mother always says you can't find things unless you look carefully, so I calmed myself down.

Then I saw Dexter, the Keble MCR president. He was the last person I wanted to talk to, and before I could stop myself I'd darted round the far side of a case. The only thing I know about Dexter is that he seduces fair maidens by accosting them in libraries, appearing to be sensitive because he's a vegetarian, and then playing Belinda Carlisle at them. He's never seen with the same girl twice and it's rumoured he really does make notches on his bedpost. Since he lives in rented accommodation this strikes me as foolhardy as well as unsavoury. I was not surprised when he dropped a piece of paper as he passed me: he has never struck me as a careful man.

My inner Good Citizen wrestled with my desire not to speak to Dexter. But in the end I went out and picked up his litter. It turned out not to be a piece of paper, but an envelope, with Rob's name on. It was the same handwriting as the one in Unicorn, but addressed only to Rob this time. Why? My head was full of whys, and no becauses.

I opened the envelope. Inside was a brass key, mortice-type, with a long narrow shaft. I held it in my hand, cold and heavy, and wondered just how many keyholes there were in Oxford.

 

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