“I’m afraid this was sabotage,” Devon explained to the workers. “There’s a race for a special bird, a caladrius—”
“Ahh, so that’s what those blasted orthonogogists were going on about,” the engineer said, nodding with belated comprehension. “I thought a caladrius was some kind of kitchen utensil. Couldn’t understand why they were in such a tizzy about it.”
“They actually demanded the use of our staff vehicles!” the clerk added. “Didn’t even line up in a proper queue!”
“You have vehicles?” Beth said hopefully. “Carriages?”
“Bicycles. Or we did. The ornologists wanted them all. Offered enough money that we could get a new portrait of Her Majesty for the waiting room, so of course I said yes. I brought out the Special Transactions form (3A), the Purchaser Identification form (2F), the form for—”
“You gave them all necessary papers,” Devon interrupted.
“Yes! But they ignored that and just took the bicycles!”
“You mean they stole them?” Beth gasped.
“No, they paid money,” the clerk said. “But they didn’t fill out the proper paperwork!”
“Oh dear,” Devon murmured.
The engineer peered suspiciously at Beth. “You’re one of them, aren’t you?”
His tone was so sharp, she leaned back. Devon took a small, gliding side step closer to her—an act she’d observed a horned blackbird making in defense of his mate—and she went all steamy inside. Not even admonishing herself that steamy was a highly unscientific term could seem to stop it.
“Of course she isn’t,” Devon said, smiling with such languid charisma that both clerk and engineer blushed. “We’re innocent, mild-mannered geologists. Entirely down to earth.”
He nudged Beth with his elbow, but she hesitated. While an ornithologist should be able to lie on the spot—for example, No, sir, I did not see the bright-red sign saying “private land, no trespassing” beside the gate, which was definitely already open—she had never mastered the ability. Just then, however, she glimpsed a figure lurking by the entrance to the station and recognized it as Oberhufter’s secretary, Schreib. Immediately she gave the clerk and engineer a brisk nod.
“We are indeed geologists! Rock-solid characters, honest to a fault.”
“But you knew about the magic bird,” the clerk pointed out.
“Didn’t you as well? I thought it was obvious.”
He squirmed and shrugged in the beam of her polite smile.
“We’ve got a lot on our plates right now,” she continued, “so we’d very much appreciate a timely furnishment of intelligence as to any means of locomotion that might be available nearby, for which we will offer commensurate recompense, of course.”
The two men gave her a stunned look, then turned to Devon.
“Tell us where in town to find horses,” he said. Then, with a sidelong wink at Beth: “Please.”
The steaminess began to form a sauna in the pit of her stomach.
“If you’re not orgthologists, why are you so desperate to get horses?” the engineer asked suspiciously.
“We have a rock emergency.”
“Oh. Well, that makes sense. But look you, there’s no point running around Dover. Those maniacs will have been through it like a plague already.”
“We have to try,” Beth said. “It’s a matter of—”
“Life and death?” the clerk interjected with a doubting smirk.
“Worse! Tenure! And surely with a bit of door knocking, some cash on offer, we’ll find a kind, good-hearted person willing to help. This is Britain, after all.”
Chapter Seven
Fortune favors the bold ornithologist—which is to say, having a fortune will get you all the favors you need.
Birds Through a Sherry Glass, H.A. Quirm
Returning to the station an hour later, they found the clerk leaning against the ticket desk, still smirking as he watched them trudge in. “Let me guess,” he said. “The price for horses has increased somewhat since yesterday.”
“Seven hundred pounds,” Devon said grimly. “And when we explained the situation was urgent, it went up to eight hundred. I’ve never encountered a more unscrupulous lot of people, and I teach university students.”
“We didn’t bother trying the whole town,” Beth explained. “We came back here to see if our associates left our luggage behind; then we’ll start walking.”
“I may be able to help you after all,” the clerk said. He glanced at something behind them; looking back, they saw only a black-suited, briefcase-toting gentleman of the type ubiquitous in England, standing farther down the platform as he innocently perused the train schedule. “As it happens, I have a horse you could borrow,” the clerk explained, drawing their attention again. “She’s old but still has a leg on her, and I’m willing to take—”
“Two hundred pounds,” Devon offered promptly. And, as the clerk hesitated, he added: “I’ll also fill out any necessary forms. In triplicate.”
—
“Only one horse.” Beth sighed as she watched Devon check the tack on an ancient gray mare. She tried to be glad for him that he’d obtained his own transport, but it was going to be a very long walk north to Canterbury, where the nearest train station was located.
On the other hand, she was relieved to be parting from the dastardly fellow. Men had always been vague shapes at the edge of her awareness, rambling on about sports or telling her how to do something she’d mastered in adolescence. The exception was Professor Gladstone, Beth’s head of department and former mentor. An octogenarian who smelled of pipe smoke and slightly damp tweed, he had eyes permanently narrowed from too much peering through binoculars and no small finger on his left hand after it was bitten off in the wilds of Colombia by a feral undergraduate suffering from coffee withdrawals. As a young woman, Beth had been awed by the professor, but his repeated suggestions that she try to smile more and show her intelligence less, so as not to intimidate her male peers, destroyed that feeling. And no other man had even approached her interest.
