Chapter: the First

Summertime, 1941

The River Cam parted vast estates of green, it's banks a glimmering collection of weeds and rushes as it wove it's way through the East Anglian countryside. Everywhere, fields of corn swayed tentatively in the fresh morning sunshine, giving the countryside a warm golden glow, rippling with the wind's every breath. Here and there little brick lined country lanes drove through the landscape, skirting the Bedigraine Forest, splitting into various streams before finally dividing wholesale into two roads; the junction marked by a large clear and finely detailed sign; To the east, "Camford", or alternatively "The North".

Next to this sign and on top a ladder, stood a small blue-rinsed and tweed-clad lady waved at the passing taxi before producing from her held paint pot a small brush, raising it carefully, and with a single stroke darkened the text to a thick matt black.

As the taxi climbed the small rise overlooking the world-famed university town, it resolved itself slowly from a small blur on the horizon bringing many of it's noted sites into focus. Raised in the centre where the city met the river upon a great rise was the remains of grand Fergus Castle, it's ancient glory only dimmed by the surrounding college buildings; amongst them, the magnificence of pious Brakespeare, the dominant St Brendan's, and the unmistakable Pelby College dotting the skyline, colouring the hue of the surrounding town which held some design of all architecture from the fifth century right through to the most-up-to-date of 30's design chique.

Out of the open window, a small fox terrier poked it's white little face, tongue lolling in the breeze as it survey the countryside which passed so quickly before it's small bright eyes.

" - and it turns out, it was supposed to be some sort of youth serum and it were the Professor himself who was going all ape-like!" the driver rambled on in his thick South London accent, to his less than interested, but none the less fully attentive passenger, "How are you doing? He's very quiet, isn't he?" he added, before giving his passenger a chance to respond in the affirmative to the first enquiry.

"Yes. He usually is on short journeys"

The taxi passed through a small village, it's thatched roofed cottages peopled by small, ruddy faces who beamed at the vehicle as it passed through.

"What did you say 'is name was again?"

"Milou".

Milou barked affirmatively.

"Pretty funny name" the taxi driver pondered, "Is it foreign, like? Come to think of it, you said you had one of those funny foreign name's too, dincha? Cuff-key-gee?"

"Kuifje. Augustin van Kuifje"

"Yeah, knew it was something like that. You're a frog then? You have a bit of an accent. Come across with the Little Ships, didya?"

"No. And I'm from Belgium actually." There was a beat before the taxi driver spoke again.

"Ah well. Nobody's perfect, like. Eh?". he laughed.

As the driver leapt into his next spiel about the various ongoing on Camford University Campus, seeming to be very well informed of all unusual and illegal occurrences through to the great and grand, to the minor foibles of overzealous academics, Augustin turned his attention back to the passing English countryside as it whipped it's way slowly passed the window, we was scratching Milou's ear as they passed through the winding cobbled streets and as the vehicle pulled up outside the sprawling St Cedd's College, it's great gate peering out over the ground, the taxi driver concluded relating the events of a murder in the previous decade at nearby St Bernard's College by commenting upon the morals (both medicinal and homicidal) of college dons.

"Trust me," he concluded, "A stolen book ain't the most riveting story the University has produced for the press. Frankly, if you want to find a story, you're better off camping out in Oxford and waiting; it seems like someone is murdered there every-bloody-week."

"Thank you for the advice, kind sir" young Augustin said smilingly to his driver, "I trust you will be able to stay in the area for a while? I have no other way of returning to London once I am finished here."

The driver nodded in the affirmative, and in the brief moments Augustin had before he pulled away from the cobbled curb he examined his reflection flattening his blond quiff to his round, smiling face and adjusting the collar of his blue pullover.

A moment later, his quiff had sprung back upwards. With Milou at his side he began making his way towards the vast wooden door.

The campus was quiet for the time of year. Since the war started, applicants for universities had dropped, so that even a renowned institution such as Camford had trouble reaching a full quota. The lawns were trimmed neatly and here and there the remnants of spring of spring growth could be seen, vainly competing with the luscious blooms of early summertime.

Upon reaching and entering the reception hall and taking a moment to adjust to the musty, olde worlde scent of academia, van Kuifja glanced around for some guidance. A small inoffensive man speaking to an older woman looked up as he entered.

"No dogs".

Augustin made to gesture Milou outside, and for a moment it looked as though the man would reassume his conversation with his colleague, but he continued his ocular examination before finally speaking again.

"Were you sent from London?"

Augustin traded a look with Milou before responding slowly and concisely.

"Yes. Are you expecting me?"

"I was told that there would be at least two. Where is your partner".

Augustin shared a look with Milou.

"I am a journalist from The Interceptor: I'm here to cover the theft."

The man's face sank.

"Oh dear. You are obviously not then. I have been told to meet two agents of the crown: I would love to show you to the site - if you want to take pictures perhaps? If you want the address of the doctor, I'd be more than happy to give it to you. Unfortunately I cannot accompany you in person. I am Professor Brian Roberts of the German Studies department, by the way."

"It is a pleasure to meet you. I am Augustin van Kuifja."

"Hmm." Professor Roberts bade his colleague adieu, "I suppose you'll be wanting some background information?"

van Keifja and Milou both nodded

"Indeed. Well, as I am sure you are no doubt aware, early this morning, parties unknown broke into our Department of Anglo-Saxon and absconded with an item of significant historical importance: that is, an 8th or 9th century collection of bound writings up-to-now believed to be untranslatable."

"Untranslatable?!" gasped Augustin with shock.

"Yes. They match no known historical script. The manuscript's history is very interesting, and I'm sure, when you meet the Professor, he will take great delight in filling you in at length. He is very… dedicated to his work."

"Then I look forward to being filled in." ejaculated Augustin. "My editor said that the Germans were suspected to be behind it?"

"Ssssh!" Roberts hissed, "I'm surprised you know this. A telegram was sent to London early this morning, and we heard that agents of the crown were to be dispatched immediately."

"I have some very good contacts" Augustin replied reassuringly. "But how is it you have come to suspect the Germans of involvement? Surely an ordinary burglary might explain these unfortunate events?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. I do not know the full details, although a rather zealous medical student, a Miss Quys has spent the day making enquiries. Apparently some people have seen suspiciously German-looking figures have been seen watching St Cedds for the last couple of days. I'm sure if you speak to the local constable, he may be able to give you a few lines for your article about the situation."

Augustin had not noticed that, whilst Professor Roberts had been talking, he had also been writing directions on a piece of paper, which Augustin now received eagerly from him.

"Good luck - although I doubt you'll be able to get your article published with the current Home Office wartime censorship regulations. Not even in a paper like The Interceptor"

"Thank you, sir," Augustin responded, "My attention is thoroughly captivated now, and, regardless, I must pursue this story until it's conclusion."

Waving, Augustin examined his received directions thoroughly, and began to follow them deeper away from the reception and into the heart of St Cedds.

Professor Brian Roberts appeared to have forgotten the dictum that no dogs should be allowed passageway through it's ancient halls, and whether it was Milou's exceptionally good behaviour or the quirk of academics enamoured with their texts which meant he passed unnoticed through the old halls.

Eventually, they reached the open, yet police-cordoned doorway that marked his destination. It was guarded by one of the faculty staff who, after Augustin explained his identify and from whence he had come (name dropping, of course, Brian Roberts of the the German Studies department) Augustin was granted access to the college room.

It was clearly that of an elder, fastidious don with a clear interest in the documented and linguistic history of the first millennium. Lining his shelves were dozens of history books written in the both the original tongue and modern English translations on Camelot, or Gawain the so-called "Green Knight". A thick bound book on the life and times of Dutch hero Beowulf was left open upon the broad wooden desk, next to a handwritten essay coversheet "The Critics and the Monsters".

Milou sniffed a tin toy dog cautiously. Delighted at the pair, Augustin took a picture and contemplated the name of "Roverandom" upon the collar around it's cold tin neck.

It did not take much further examination to uncover the mood of theft, the door had clearly been forced open. Augustin began taking stock of his next destination marked very clearly for him on his improvised map whilst taking a mental stock of the name on the door, who was, no doubt, the very man he was being sent to meet: Professor of Anglo-Saxon, Dr A. A. L. Ransom.

As Augustin made his way out from the sprawling maze of corridors and rooms, Milou at his heel, a door sprung open to his right and a diminutive man with white hair and a white beard with small glasses stepped out.

"I've been expected you." he said.

Augustin and Milou exchanged a glance.

"Good afternoon Mister….?"

"Please, call me Reg. Just Reg."

"Good afternoon Mr Reg." Augustin said warmly, shaking his hand, "How have you come to be expecting us?"

"Hmm. Oh right. Yes. Well… No. But I had seen this all happen before, and that what would have transpired has transpired, and that… um… yes… well anyway. I thought there was something I ought to warn you. Can I offer you some tea?"

Augustin and Milou exchanged another glance. It was unclear to them who this man was, or what relevance he had to the dealings at hand. Augustin noticed that as he spoke, he fiddled with a small pocket watch he had produced from his pocket.

"No thank you, sir. I would love to stop and talk with you, but I'm in a bit of a hurray at the moment and don't have the time."

"THAT," thundered Reg, a sudden light in his eyes, "is what I needed to tell you. It is in a state of flux."

Again, Augustin and Milou exchanged a confused glance.

"I'm sorry. What is?"

"Time." Reg replied, "Time is in a state of flux." There was a momentary pause.

"Well, I have passed on your message like you asked," he said suddenly, "And caught you exactly where and when you were supposed to be. I'm afraid if you don't want a cup of tea I shall have to ask you to leave. I'm in the middle of something at the moment and I'm not fond of unwarranted disturbances" And with that, he shut his door, his plaque glimmered in the light.

"What on earth is 'Chronology'" thought Augustin, as he continued his search for the exit, "And what kind of madman would create a Professorship of it anyway?"

*

They exited the musty halls of St Cedd's and took stock of England's sweet, fresh air. The town of Camford spread all about them, and the bustle of people and of their cars and carts, all grinding on the cobbled streets.

Passing the morose cafe "Misery's" at the junction between one stony street to another where all the students appeared to be wearing fancy dress or Halloween outfits, Augustin began his swift trek through the suburbs until finally he found the house for which he was looking.

He rapped firmly upon the green door which was subsequently opened.

"Good morning" Augustin started. The middle-aged tweed clad man looked back out at him, a small wooden pipe between his teeth.

"What do you mean?" he said. "Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on?"

"Er?" began Augustin, exchanging a thoughtful yet confused glance with Milou.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't resist" the man laughed, "How may I help you?"

"Hello sir" responded Augustin, "I'm looking for Doctor Alwin Ransom from the Anglo-Saxon department of Camford."

Doctor Ransom nodded. He was indeed Alwin Ransom.

"I am a journalist from the London Interceptor. I heard that you have a bit of a story to tell."

"Then I suppose," said Alwin Ransom, opening the door further, "that you had better come in"

Augustin and Milou entered, and the green door shut behind them.

"Can I get you some tea?" called Doctor Ransom from the kitchen, "Or maybe something a little stronger?"

"No thank you," responded Augustin, "Although I wouldn't mind a drink of water."

The sitting room into which Augustin found the hall steering him towards reminded him in many ways of St Cedd's. Presently, Dr Ransom returned, carrying a tray on which was his own cup of tea, a glass of water for Augustin, and a small biscuit treat for Milou, who received it thankfully.

Taking his seat in a large moth-eaten chair, Dr Ransom closed his eyes momentarily, deep in thought.

"They've given me the day off, due to the trauma" he began, "Although what trauma that could be, I have no idea. It's not as though as I was in the room at the time."

Dr Ransom petted Milou softly behind his small white ears, and Milou grinned appreciatively.

"Well, I suppose you'd want me to start at the beginning."

Augustin produced his notebook and paper and nodded in agreement.

"I am," Dr Ransom began, "as you no doubt know by now, Professor of Anglo-Saxon at Camford University. I'll spare you the grotesque and burdensome biographic details if you don't mind: I prefer privacy, and thusly think only the essentials need suffice. I joined the faculty several years ago, having been offered tenure after having completed my studies there and having returned from service from the Great War."

Ransom removed his glasses and polished them carefully as he spoke. Augustin noticed the tone in his voice had changed - quite understandably so - when he mentioned the Great War.

"I… I was, I think, a decent teacher," Ransom noted with a wry smile, "Yet it was not the teaching that interested me: I have always been interested in language. Most especially the overlay between the linguistic and phonological and the culture itself. Since I was a young boy, I have… I have had… hmm"

There was a gap again whilst Dr Ransom adjusted his glasses and stroked his nose thoughtfully. He seemed to be considering the implications of his thoughts. When he spoke again, it came out in a quick onslaught of words.

"Since the age of six, I have had recurring dreams or visions in which I have received or have been transmitted words."

Augustin raised an eyebrow.

"I am telling you this," Dr Ransom said quietly, "because this forms the backdrop to how I came to have been recruited. You see, whilst I originally considered these words or fragments to have been the product of my overactive imagination, further research in my field brought me in contact with an old, ancient, and previously unreadable book."

"Unreadable?"

"Yes. All that we know about it is that it was copied by a Mercian man named Aelfwine sometime during the 8th or 9th Century from a text that no longer exists. It was deemed a valuable artefact, a book of lost tales, and kept safe by the Mercians for a long time. Eventually it passed into the keeping of Camford University where it has lain for several generations safe in the secure sections of Camford University Libraries."

"And this is presumably the thing that was stolen?"

"Yes. Nothing else was taken. My room was left exactly as I had left it. The inspector is , quite naturally from his point of view, looking for another motive. After all, who would steal an unreadable book?" Ransom asked rhetorically.

"I suppose that would depend one what it was about?"

"Indeed it would. But then again, as far as I know, only I, aided by God-granted understanding have been able to crack it's secret and thus have some conception of the content contained within: it had been written in an phonemic script, not an orthographic script, you see."

Augustin stopped transcribing notes for a moment, and seeing the confused look upon his face, Dr Ransom smiled.

"The difference is in the semiotics," he explained, "In an orthographic script such as English, French and so forth, the letters may have little to no relation to meaning. A phonemic script, on the other hand, does. Indeed, in this script, it seemed that each letter corresponded with it's arcs and bows to showing specific places of articulation! The sheer elegance! Here was a language that could be savoured!

"Once I began to transcribe the sounds and make sense of what I was seeing, I began to realise that those make-believe words I had been dismissing as the remains of a childhood novelty from my youth were here - on the page before me - yes, a lot of it I still didn't understand, but I found that I had, from those sporadic notebooks I had kept from my youth and in the trenches, my Rosetta's Stone.

"Many people have taken copies of pages, and some have spent their lives tried to decipher it. I had crossed the brink and came closer to a translated copy since the great Johannes Suttle in the Glorianian Age. This is why I was granted the book in full. I am a fool to have lost it!"

"It wasn't your fault. It was stolen," Augustin added reassuringly, "Your door was sealed securely. I saw the lock. It would have taken… a… an… well.. a gorilla of a man to knock it down."

"And such a man has been seen loitering around the town. A huge, bulking man, with blond hair, blue eyes and a firm demeanour. He apparently had been joined on several occasions by a slim lady of notable Indian extraction. Both had been seen watching St Cedd's. From what I have heard from my last visit from the local inspector, they are now nowhere to be found. They are the obvious suspects."

"Indeed," agreed Augustin, "But how do you know that they would be working for a foreign power? Germany, of course seems the logical conclusion. But why exclude the Russians -"

"Because I had been granted access to The Book." Dr Ransom said calmly, "Whilst pages of it have always remained in Camford, the original book had, after Suttle's partial work, and on his recommendation, been entrusted by Queen Gloriana herself into some of the most secure facilities British Intelligence Services have had to offer. Suttle apparently drawn the conclusion that the occultic information he suspected lay within, should be kept from the general public viewing until such time as a full and complete account of what lay within could be ascertained.

"In answer to your second question, how would we come to the conclusion that it is Germany? Well… I ask you… who else has been showing such an obsession to obscure historical artefacts?"

Augustin agreed. He had seen this first hand.

"When British Military Intelligence were informed, we received back an immediate reply stating that they would be dispatching two of their finest operatives. I met them when they arrived earlier today, and they should be reporting back to me soon. You are welcome to stay until such time as they arrive. I'm sure I could find you something to eat if you'd like."

Milou rolled onto his back and barked in the affirmative.

*

The clackering of typewriters could be deafening, if one stumbled upon it unawares. Being used to the hustle and bustle of an active newsroom, Augustin was not perturbed.

"For Goodness sake!" cried his editor , Bernard Goldman, slamming his door shut, "There's never a moment's peace around here." Augustin stopped vainly attempting flattened his fringe as Goldman turned to him again, holding in his hand a copy of Augustin's finished article. He scanned it through again.

"Hmm" he said finally, scratching his short curly hair, "It's a fairly written. It's a shame we probably won't get a follow-up. I suppose we could run it as a bigger story if we place emphasis the German-spy angle - but then I suppose that would make us no better than the Cane Media Conglomerate.

"We need something big tomorrow, Augustin; the Daily Mail are running a story on Lord Darlington - some nonsense about how the fellow is being used as a scapegoat for the previous government." Goldman smiled, "It won't last. They'll tear him to shreds eventually - and they'll enjoy it too."

"What am I to do with you then?" Goldman asked Augustin, who had remained silent throughout, "You're a talented journalist, no doubt. I read the material you did for Le Vingtième Siècle before the war. Very good. Nice, simple. Lot's of pictures."

"Thank you, sir." Augustin responded.

"None of that "sir" stuff," Goldman said, placing his hand on Augustin's back and steering him towards a seat.

"I just wish, since I employed you, that I can find something better to occupy our time and pages than the street fighting between CumReds and Everard Webley's WhiteShirts: this story is the best thing that has happened in a long time - well, not from a national security perspective, eh? - and it would appear to be a dead end. Oh, Judith! Bubeleh!"

Judith Goldman, Bernard's older sister entered in her flowing blue dress with patched white stars. She smiled at Augustin and handed him a collection of typed articles.

"We've just had a lead on that Black Sapper story," she said, "We've some eyewitness to the event.

Goldman looked over them thoughtfully.

"Judith, be dear would you, and fetch me that Brinkley Court article. You know, the one from 1930? The Wooster business"

"Occultic dealings, and the lay-about classes?" she checked.

"That's the one!," he acknowledged, as Judith swept out of the room turning back to Augustin, "Everyone loves a scandal, eh?"

Augustin nodded.

"Tell me," began Bernard slowly, stroking his chin thoughtfully rereading the articles his sister had just handed to him, "You mentioned government Special Ops?"

"Yes, sir--- er… Bernard?"

"How many where there?"

"Just two. A man and a women

"Hmm. How was he?"

"Oh, I don't know. Tall, blondish. Deep eyes."

"He didn't… seem fond of the musical theatre?" Bernard asked casually.

"No. No not at all. If anything, he seemed to me to be very much to be a er… hunter-gather type."

"Hmm. And you said this women, she was wearing a scarf, right? In the middle of the day?"

"Yes. I thought it was rather odd. It was very warm by the time they had arrived at Doctor Ransom's home."

"Hmmm," Bernard Goldman stroked his chin again. Judith swept back into the room, again with a few pieces of paper in her hand. She handed them to her brother who examined them thoughtfully. He looked out of his window over the evening bustle of Fleet Street. Away to the west, the setting sun illuminated the peaks of the House of Commons and Westminster Clock Tower began to chime six.

" There might be more to this than we thought…" he said.