HE WAS LEFT WITH A cutlass, a knife, perhaps a matchlock and some pinches of powder in his sabretache. His few metal pieces had bewitched the Indians. These were his passport and his shield, regarded by the Tupi as creations from another world, totemic, beyond anything in their experience, like the chicken that had astonished two of them in Cabral’s cabin. For his modest collection of iron, Ribeiro was offered brazilwood, beautiful bows and arrows, his choice of woman, anything. A local chieftain took him in. He had a child with one of the chieftain’s daughters. He was feared, respected. How he lost his precious talismans is not known. But a legend passed from tribe to tribe, from visitor to visitor, how the Tupi had expelled him, indifferent to his presence once he was deprived of his iron, until one day a man stumbled into the campsite of some French timber merchants four hundred miles north, another exiled European, with the ribs of his midriff showing between two sections of his shirt pinned with one remaining button. He could babble a few words in Portuguese.

The story of how a young Portuguese sailor survived in Brazil having been cast ashore on a beach south of Bahia was Dyer’s chief distraction on Tuesday, following his return from Lancashire.

Tuesday was the deadline that Dyer had imposed on himself. Yet when he entered the Taylorian and his eyes once again saw Marvar’s post-it note folded inside Madrugada’s book, yellow as virgin sand, untouched, safe, he relaxed. Oxford with its red-brick houses and bus shelters stepped into the sunlight.

Dyer’s relief lulled him into questioning his deadline. He looked around, savouring the silence. Unhurried as before, the couple in the painting went on with their private business undisturbed. The kneeling shepherd continued to hold tenderly in his palm the injured heel of the woman, who gazed down at him with dilated nostrils, swelling breasts, smiling. They looked as if they had all the time in the world to deal with a mere splinter or scratch. Why not take his cue from them, borrow the skills that fishing had taught, and which Dyer’s three days in Lancashire had refreshed. Be patient and still – wasn’t that the way?

Am I being too hasty? Do I need to decide today? The deadline was artificial anyway.

All his previous apprehensions seem suddenly ridiculous to him, like a fear of stone lions.

This is what he is thinking when, hours later, he attempts to renew online the book featuring Afonso Ribeiro that he had started a fortnight before, and was near to finishing, and the library’s Solo system won’t let him.

Puzzled, but with a stab of worry, he went and talked to the peroxide librarian. She consulted her screen. What she said next cramped his chest. ‘I see here someone has requested it.’

The air in the room was unbreathable.

‘Who?’