Sometimes you hear reports of churches burning down. I've never understood that. It's not that they ought to be protected by God, it's just they're made of stone. Granted there may be wooden rafters and a few mouldy hymn books, but even if they have candles in I just don't understand how they can be that flammable.

The Bodleian is a different matter. Dry, dusty books, temperature controlled atmosphere. They can't possibly fit sprinklers! No, I can see how that would burn.

By the time I got to Radcliffe Square there was already a cordon in place, and a great audience had gathered. The rumours had obviously spread quicker than the fire: the only trace we could see of what was happening was a thin column of dirty yellow smoke from the book stack vent beside the Rad Cam. The sky was grey and threatening but no helpful rain descended. I hurried along the middle of the High, past the crowds spilling off the pavements, past the cars stopped to gawp. It was eerily quiet - so many people but all talking in whispers.

The stacks under the Bodleian stretch far and wide. No-one seems to know for sure: even if you've been down in them you lose all sense of direction in the labyrinth. They rabbit warren under Broad Street, connecting the Old and New Bods like the Bridge of Sighs connects Hertford. But how far West do they go? Turl Street was closed, and a subdued and confused procession of students was being evacuated. I heard muttered jokes about burnt toast, but not for long.

I reread the note still squashed in my hand:
"Meet in The Flanders & Swann! Usual time!"
For some reason The Flanders & Swann is Rob's name for the Museum of the History of Science. He says that's who the heads on the doorpost look like.

It was clear I wasn't going to be able to meet him. But it was also clear he wouldn't be able to get to the rendez-vous either. Where was he now? I turned and came face to face with Dexter. I gave an involuntary wince but fortunately he seemed too anxious to notice. In fact he didn't seem to notice me at all.
"Hello," I said, against my better judgement.
He glanced at me with total incomprehension on his face. No shark grin or cockroach leer. For once he was more interested in the surroundings than in a female!

Then I understood why. The noise of the crowd swelled. I caught the words "trapped", "Exeter", "Staircase 6". We hadn't seen many fire officers, who were busy in the shadows. But now a small and well equipped gang rushed in. There was no smoke from Exeter, as far as we could tell, but shortly the team reappeared with a body. To the crowd's disappointment he was not covered with a blanket, but hobbling, supported by two hefty firemen. Beside me I felt Dexter stiffen and turn.

Now the crowd he'd pushed his way through were preventing his escape. I took the opportunity to dig my heel hard into his toes in the crush.

The firemen and their charge made their way towards us. I felt my eyes widen in disbelief. Towards us, looking dishevelled but unmistakably sleazy, came Dexter. I whirled round but the Dexter I had been standing beside had escaped.

Read Chapter 7

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