With Kensy, Curtis and Tippie dispatched to the helipad on the roof of the Beacon, Max and Autumn headed to their history class. They were deliberately early, hoping to speak to Mr Reffell before the other students arrived.

‘What do you think we’re studying this half of the term?’ Autumn asked. Though school should have been the furthest thing from her mind, she couldn’t help pondering. Reff’s classes were always so entertaining – the man was practically a walking history book.

The pair’s eyes widened as they entered the room. The entire space had been transformed from a regular classroom into a village square. Around the walls were shopfronts and market stalls, and taking centre stage was a real fountain spraying water into the air. Beside it, on a plinth, sat an extremely lifelike guillotine. There were dummies dressed in costume too – mostly peasant men, women and children, although there was one gentleman resplendent in full court attire with a peacock blue coat, white stockings, black shoes and a tall wig of cream curls.

‘French Revolution?’ Max offered.

Autumn grinned then jumped when the aristocratic mannequin walked towards them.

‘Oh, hello, you two,’ the man said. ‘What do you think? Is it not trés magnifique?’

‘Amazing, sir,’ Max said. ‘And your costume is incredible.’

‘Yes, I think I’ve outdone myself on this one. Though I have no idea where anyone is going to sit for lessons. I really didn’t think that through, did I?’ Monty Reffell bit his lip.

‘Sir, I was wondering if we could ask you something – about history?’ Max began.

‘Of course,’ the man replied. ‘You know there’s nothing I love more than talking about the past – there’s so much to learn from those who came before us. What is it that’s intriguing you, Max? The Romans? The Greeks? Perhaps it’s the Portuguese – they were an interesting lot. But if it’s the French then I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait until we start the lesson. I’m not giving anything away early.’

‘Sir, I want to know about the significance of scarab beetles,’ Max said.

Monty Reffell frowned. His powdered face suddenly looked even paler.

‘Do you mean to the Ancient Egyptians, or are you talking about something else?’ he eyeballed the boy.

‘Both,’ Max said. He knew he was taking a chance.

Monty Reffell drew in a sharp breath. ‘To the Ancient Egyptians, they were a symbol of rebirth and renewal.’ The man stopped and swallowed hard. ‘In other circles, they were indicative of a changing of the guard. But that hasn’t happened in more than two hundred years and, back then, those wanting to shake things up failed dismally.’

Max nibbled his bottom lip. He could feel the little scarab in his pocket and considered if he should show it to the man. Maybe it was better to wait and see what Curtis could find at Alexandria before he jumped to conclusions.

‘Have you got one, sir?’ Max asked.

Monty’s jaw dropped. ‘Absolutely not.’ He looked positively stricken by the question.

‘Would you like one?’ Autumn chimed in.

Monty Reffell lowered his voice. ‘What are you talking about?’

Autumn shrugged. ‘I know you love collecting old things, that’s all.’

Monty’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Oh – no, scarabs are not something I’ve ever been interested in, and I can tell you that if one was to come my way, I wouldn’t keep it. That I can promise. In my books, loyalty is everything.’ The man spoke so quickly his tongue tripped over the words.

Max was thinking. If what Reff just said was true, and the scarab was an ancient Pharos symbol of a changing of the guard, then that meant anyone who had one was switching loyalties – from his grandmother . . . to Tippie? And why? Was that what the scarab meant? It would also mean that the man in Derek’s shop had been Pharos.

‘Anyway, that’s enough talk of scarabs. They’re completely irrelevant to the French Revolution,’ Monty said.

Max was about to ask him something more specific when the students began pouring through the door.

‘Whoa, sir, this is amazing,’ Dante said. ‘Hey, Sachin, come and give this a go.’

‘No touching the guillotine, Moretti – unless you want to lose your head,’ the teacher ordered. ‘Right, everyone, find somewhere to sit on the floor. I have a story to tell . . .’