“Good job, men,” he murmured as Messrs. Fettick and Flogg sipped coffee. “I admit, I didn’t like your plan at first. Too grandiose.”
Mr. Flogg gave him a tight smile. “Monsieur Badeau, if the International Ornithological Society wants to create more interest in ornithology and encourage university enrollments, something truly attention-grabbing is required.”
“ ‘More Bang for Your Birders,’ ” Mr. Fettick added, and Mr. Flogg jabbed a finger at him in agreement.
“I know, I see that now,” Monsieur Badeau said. “Indeed, when the Fotheringham sisters came out with the bird in their—”
“No,” Mr. Flogg interrupted, shaking his head definitively. “Not them.”
“But they caught the lapwing.”
“I don’t care if they caught seven lapwings; for your competition, you need the kind of winner who will attract a broad audience. You need that man.”
He pointed out the window, and although the street was now empty, they all knew whom he meant.
“That man was Devon Lockley,” Badeau said darkly. “He’s a complete rascal. Copious brainpower but all he wants to do is enjoy life instead of spending his days in the noble pursuit of writing scientific papers for his peers to argue over. It’s disgraceful. And while he may be an Englishman and a professor at Cambridge, he was educated at Yale. Yale! The place isn’t even two hundred years old! It barely qualifies as a community learning center.”
“He’s an Englishman?” Mr. Flogg repeated. “What a bonus! With the British Tourism Board helping to fund this competition, we couldn’t really set up a foreigner to win International Birder of the Year.”
Mr. Fettick sighed happily. “A university professor, handsome, athletic, with simply divine legs—”
“Ahem,” Mr. Flogg interrupted.
“—in summary, this Devon Lockley is ‘An Eagle Among Sparrows.’ Young people will flock to university ornithology courses just to be like him.”
Badeau muttered something inaudible that nevertheless perfectly encapsulated the attitude of a man for whom “athletic” means walking from the lecture theater to the tea station three times a day. Then he huffed in surrender. “Fine. But someone’s going to have to recover that lapwing. You know what the boss will say if you lose his precious bird. Feathers will fly, and not in a good way!”
“Don’t worry,” Mr. Flogg murmured with professional reassurance. “There’s no need for concern; we know what we’re doing. That’s why IOS employed us, after all. The plan is set, journalists have been alerted, and our agents will see to it everything goes smoothly. Just relax, monsieur, and wait for the enrollments to, ha ha, roll in.”
“But what about the girl?”
Messrs. Fettick and Flogg exchanged a confused glance. “Girl?”
Badeau flicked a finger toward the museum. “Beth Pickering. She was standing there at the door.”
“I thought she was just a museum employee,” Mr. Flogg said.
“She’s an Oxford professor. Moreover, she’s a genius when it comes to birds.” Badeau paused, frowning. “I wonder why she left with Lockley.”
“Perhaps they’re lovers,” Mr. Flogg mused, staring out the window as if he could still see Beth and Devon on the doorstep.
The monsieur barked a laugh. “An Oxonian and a Cantabrigian? Never! ‘Rivals’ would be more likely.”
Mr. Fettick raised his eyebrows at Mr. Flogg, whose mouth began twitching. “Rivals, you say? The pretty lady and the dashing young man?”
Badeau nodded solemnly. “Pickering is entirely capable of beating Lockley to the bird, regardless of your plan. If you want to knock her out of the competition, make sure you get to it quickly—and quietly, so there’s no scandal.”
“Oh, I think we know exactly how to handle this,” Mr. Flogg said. Mr. Fettick chuckled.
“Good.” Badeau frowned, glancing around yet again. “This conversation never happened,” he said, then slunk back to his table to brood.
—
“By Jove! That’s dastardly!”
Hippolyta stared at Beth over the stacks of luggage in their hotel suite. “Vanellus carnivorus?” she exclaimed. “It’s a miracle no one was killed. Oberhufter has gone too far this time!”
“Absolutely!” Beth agreed, looking around for a pot of tea to soothe her jangling nerves. She couldn’t seem to stop recalling the danger she’d just been through: Devon Lockley’s flashing grin, the feeling of his hand over her mouth, and, oh yes, the deadly lapwing that had tried to slaughter them.
“I will be speaking to the authorities upon arriving in England!” Hippolyta declared. “Criminal behavior cannot be tolerated.”
“Yes,” Beth said. And when Hippolyta glanced at her oddly—“Er, I mean no?”
Hippolyta’s eyes narrowed. “You seem discombobulated, Elizabeth. Your hat is askew, to say nothing of your vowels.”
Beth checked again for a pot of tea, or a cup of tea, or even a tea bag she could chew on at this point. “Being chased by a carnivorous—”
“It is that Cambridge professor, isn’t it? That Devil Lovely.”
“Devon Lockley,” she tried to say, but Hippolyta was already half a sentence ahead of her and moving fast.
“He is a blighter. I heard he spent the past few years in America and only recently transferred to Cambridge. Apparently the Yankees gave him a scholarship when he was fourteen, on account of his genius.”
“Genius,” Beth scoffed.
Hippolyta nodded in agreement. “Those upstarts wouldn’t recognize true genius if I gave a lecture in San Francisco’s Palace Hotel. It’s no wonder he’s so arrogant. Mark my words, Elizabeth, there’s nothing worse than a conceited person! Besides, he may have been born innocent,” (she sounded dubious as to this) “but anyone associated with Oberhufter is soon corrupted. The way he stole the caladrius call from you—”
“The Fotheringham ladies did that.”
