TABLE OF SIGNIFICANT CHARACTERSin order of appearance
Beth Pickering…an intrepid professor of ornithology
Hippolyta Spiffington-Quirm…a high flier
Devon Lockley…a young man who has not yet seen the error of his ways
Klaus Oberhufter…a stain on the noble name of beak bagger
Lady Trimble…a bearer of exciting news!
Miss Fotheringham (à deux)…binate birders
Monsieur Tarrou…verminous
Mr. Cholmbaumgh…pronounced chum-bum, alas
Assorted ornithologists
Various reporters
Messrs. Fettick and Flogg…on pressing business
Monsieur Badeau…but please note, he is not really here
Mr. Schreib…not who he seems to be
Eliza Wolfe…an adversary
A boatload of French fishermen…f(r)iends
Miscellaneous locals
Mr. and Mrs. Podder…an entirely chance encounter
Rose Marin…a model of professional ornithological behavior
Mrs. Hassan…coincidental
Gabriel Tarrant…a grumpy cousin
Laz Brady…beholds the swelling scene
Professor Gladstone…the big birder of Oxford
Chapter One
For the master ornithologist, trouble is like water off a duck’s back.
Birds Through a Sherry Glass, H.A. Quirm
Spain, 1890
It was a fine day for birding. Almost too fine. Sunlight glazed the sky of northern Spain, unrelieved by cloud or breeze. Heat pressed down on the forest path.
Mrs. Quirm and Miss Pickering strolled beneath the shade of hats and lace parasols, employing their white-gloved hands in the manner of fans to cool themselves. Every now and again they lifted delicate silver binoculars to search the surrounding trees. Several birds flitted between branches, singing, courting, and generally participating in occupations typical to the avian species. But the ladies’ quarry was one bird in particular, far shyer than the common breeds. They had seen glimpses of it throughout the morning and were intent on pursuit, despite the overbearing weather.
“By Jove, I could use a glass of lemonade right now!” Mrs. Quirm declared.
“Indeed, it is atrociously warm,” Miss Pickering agreed.
“Rupert!” Mrs. Quirm snapped her gloved fingers. “Lemonade, if you please.”
Rupert, walking behind her, turned to the contingent of porters, guides, and servants walking behind him. He gestured, and a man hurried forth with bottle and glass. Lemonade was poured, the glass was set on a silver tray, and Rupert presented it.
Mrs. Quirm took the drink, but before she could bring it to her robust lips, she sighted something that caused her to gasp.
“A bastard, here in the forest!”
Miss Pickering stared at her with astonishment. One simply did not speak of people born out of wedlock if one was a lady, and in all her twenty-four years, Miss Pickering had met none more ladylike than Hippolyta Quirm, despite the vigorous galumphing of her vocal cords.
“You do well to be surprised, Elizabeth!” the woman said in what would have been termed a shout had it come from a less reputable person. “The great bustard has no business being in a forest! It is a bird of the fields.”
“Oh, a bustard,” Beth said with relief. No doubt the heat had suffocated her ear canal as it was attempting to do with her lungs.
She blew restively at a chestnut brown strand of hair that had slipped over her damp brow. If only it was decent behavior to remove one’s hat in company, or loosen one’s collar, or leap naked into a nearby river! Ornithology tended to be a mucky venture—scuffed shoes, snagged stockings, guano-splattered parasols—but the worst of it was the perspiration.
