“They’re inviting us to tea,” Beth translated.
“Ha! Run, you beast!” Devon squeezed harder and the horse at last began to trot.
“Aider!” Beth called to the fishermen. “Aider!”
“Don’t you mean adieu?” Devon asked tartly.
“Of course, yes. Adieu!”
But it was too late. The horse had rediscovered its spirit and was gaining speed. “They will think us so rude,” Beth complained.
“I can live with that,” Devon said. “Focus on imagining yourself finding the caladrius.”
Beth attempted to do so, but her imagination seemed more inspired by the circumstance of Devon’s arm wrapped about her waist, his body supporting hers, the two of them bouncing together in the saddle as the horse galloped toward town. Indeed, she became so inspired, she would have stepped down for the sake of her dignity, had that not been a sure way to ruin her dignity forever, considering the speed at which they traveled.
“Oh dear,” she said.
“Are you all right?” Devon asked at once.
“Just a muscle spasm.”
A small moment of silence followed. Then: “Oh dear, indeed,” he said. “Just keep holding on. I’ll get you there soon.”
—
In the shadows of the Dover train station, Mr. Flogg slid a finger across his mustache, smoothing its dark hairs as he watched Devon and Beth gallop north. “You were right, Mr. Fettick,” he said. “Separating them from the other ornithologists was a brilliant ploy. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours and they’re already working together closely.”
“Yes, ‘A Golden Team!’ indeed,” Mr. Fettick agreed. “There’s a lot of potential in this rivals-to-lovers concept.”
“It’s publicity magic!” Mr. Schreib enthused from where he stood alongside Mr. Cholmbaumgh, rolling a paper cigarette in a rather awkward attempt to fully embody his role as a thug. “Much better than just having Lockley as the lone hero. Everyone loves a romance.”
“I’m not sure IOS will,” Mr. Cholmbaumgh said. “After all, there can only be one Birder of the Year.”
“That’s true,” Schreib said, frowning worriedly. “Someone’s going to end up a loser, and then what will happen to the romance tale?”
But Mr. Flogg dismissed this concern with a wave of his hand. “An all-round happy ending isn’t necessary.”
“Hm,” Schreib murmured doubtfully.
“The bird’s capture is the important thing. After that, people will move on to the next sensational news. Besides, we haven’t figured out the details. For now, much work remains to be done.” He pointed at Schreib. “You go alert the local newspaper as to events. Now that the professors have begun their road trip, all manner of ‘Delectable Moments’ will occur, and someone needs to report on them. You”—now he pointed at Cholmbaumgh—“go talk to those French fishermen. Give them some reason to visit Canterbury. They add a fun international flavor.”
“And what will you be doing?” Cholmbaumgh asked boldly.
Mr. Flogg’s mustache flicked. “As the brains of this operation, Fettick and I will be doing the most important work of all.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Consulting with each other over coffee. Now saddle up, everyone, ha ha. We have a romantic adventure to organize, and I will be very cross if it ends up being madcap.”
Chapter Eight
When in doubt, remember that you have the wisdom of an ornithologist, the patience of an ornithologist, and several tools in your ornithologist’s kit bag that can serve as weapons.
Birds Through a Sherry Glass, H.A. Quirm
Devon’s assurance of a quick journey to Canterbury contradicted any definition of “soon” that Beth had experienced. After almost two hours’ travel, she had become numb from top to most especially bottom; moreover, intimate contact with a male body had gone from titillating to tedious in the extreme. The horse trudged morosely beneath their combined weight. The sun beat down with remorseless vigor on unending billows of farmland. Beth began to fear she might do something drastic, such as remove her hat and announce herself to be bloody well fed up, if she did not get hold of a cup of tea before too long.
“We’re never going to reach Canterbury,” she said. “We’ll perish from dehydration before we even glimpse the cathedral’s tower.”
Devon sighed with equal weariness. “It must surely be just around the cor—”
“Aaarrrghhhh!”
A blur of darkness leaped from behind a tree. The horse shied, and Devon pulled the reins to settle it.
“Monsieur Tarrou!” Beth exclaimed, staring down at the president of the Parisian Ornithological Union, who now blocked their path. He wore an elegant three-piece suit, accessorized with a large spotted handkerchief tied around his head, which had sadly failed to prevent sweat from cascading down his face. As Beth and Devon watched in amazement, he held up a wrought-iron birdcage and shook it. The bird inside fluttered unhappily.
“Give me the horse,” he demanded, “or I’ll set this bird upon you!”
“A sparrow?” Devon said, unimpressed.
The monsieur spat a laugh. “What kind of ornithologist are you?” he asked, his tone prickling with contempt (or possibly just a normal French accent). “Can you not see the little black speck on its tail?”
“Leechsparrow!” Beth said, gasping.
A nasty grin slid across Monsieur Tarrou’s face, redirecting rivers of sweat. “Ah yes, the famously clever Professor Pickering. If you don’t want that cleverness sucked out through your ear by the leechsparrow’s magic, you’ll get down from the horse. Now.”
