Monday, 9 February 2015

The Haunted Typewriter (part 2)

"Where's Derren, Professor?" Asked one of the second years, looking curiously at the empty seat Derren had sat in.
Applade swept her hair from her eyes. It was a good question, because Applade didn't know herself. Doctor Danton had carried Banks to Jenkin's office, the University Master in question coming to visit her. "Get on with your next lesson, Professor." He'd said. "We'll call Banks' parents and the ambulance service. I imagine the doctors will want to observe him. Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Professor Applade."
Applade snapped back to the present. "I'm sorry to say, I'm unsure, however I am under the impression he may be with Professor Jenkins."
Nightingale shot her a questioning eye from the back of the class, to which she replied with a look that said, "Don't get me started."
When the class ended and the steady stream of pupils had dissipated out of the door, Jim switched on a kettle on the right of the room and turned to Applade. "Where is Derren?"
"I returned here at lunch and found him unconscious next to his typewriter." She said, taking cups from beneath the right wall worktop.
"God." Nightingale breathed. "This is like Professor Albin and the Umbrella Affair last term."
"My thoughts entirely." Applade replied. "God, Jim. Do you reckon this university is cursed or something?"
"Probably." Nightingale laughed, as the kettle began to whistle. "Still, a terrible affair. And almost certainly reason for Bella to have more of a go at me."
"True, very true." Applade laughed, as she began to make her way around the gratified desk, searching for left over pens and pencils.
"Ah yes, the famous typewriter." Applade said, coming to Banks' abandoned desk. "I had a look at it after Danton and I took Banks' to  Jenkins' office. Olympia Deluxe Typewriter made in Western Germany. British Racing Green, I suppose you could describe it as. I've no idea where he could get the ink ribbons from."
"I always wanted a typewriter." Nightingale smiled. "Although, if I ever get one, I plan not to bring it anywhere near here."
Applade laughed. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to have a little play with it. And I'm sure Derren would like us to type up the lesson's notes for him."
Nightingale sat down, passing a mug of tea to Applade. "You dictate, I shall type."
"The Celts of England were, of course, best known for," Applade began, but was interrupted by a thumping on the door. "Come in!" She cried, with the same irritated tone she reserved for when a student interrupted her class during a brilliant lecture.
The door swung open and Professor Vivien rolled in, the metal wheels of his chair allowing him to glide across the stone floor of the classroom. "I do apologise if I'm interrupting you, but you're the only friendly looking people in the university."
"Thank you." Nightingale said. "However, I should warn you that we're certainly the most dangerous people you'll ever meet! She was nearly killed by an umbrella last term." He added, stabbing a thumb towards Applade.
"And I believed that my sister led an exciting life." He laughed. "Nice typewriter."
"Not so much." Nightingale laughed. "One of our students got knocked unconscious by it."
Vivian wheeled himself around to look at it. "Very nice piece of kit."
"'Piece of kit.'" Applade repeated with a laugh. "Very masculine."
"How offensive!" Vivien replied, grinning. "No, I joke, Professor Applade. That was strangely masculine for me."
"Please call me Susan." Applade smiled, offering her hand.
He accepted her hand. "And me Angus."
"You can all call me Mr Nightingale." Nightingale laughed.
Their laughter was interrupted by the sudden tickering of the typewriter as the keys bounced, but when the three turned to study it, they realised nobody was sat in Banks' seat. There was a fantastic ding as the bell of the typewriter rung and Applade took that as an opportunity to wind out the paper and read the printed sentence. "One has fallen, and he shall not be the last."

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