“Furthermore, the caladrius remains safely tucked away, university bookstores everywhere have sold out of ornithology textbooks, and tourism companies report being besieged by inquiries. Everything’s perfectly on track!”
Tinkle tinkle.
The little copper bell above the coffee-shop door rang. Messrs. Flogg and Fettick glanced up to see Cholmbaumgh enter. He stopped abruptly, staring at himself in the ornate mirror that hung opposite the door. The sight made him jolt, rabbitlike, and no wonder, for his eyes were rimmed with shadow, his jaw unshaven, his jacket severely wrinkled. Noticing the publicists, he trudged over and dropped into the empty chair beside Mr. Flogg.
“I’m exhausted,” he said. “First I chased Miss Pickering while she cycled from her lodgings to the university, then I chased her back to her lodgings, then onward from there to the train station. I’m all for allowing women to advance in society, but must they do it on wheels?”
Mr. Fettick frowned. “What are you talking about? According to the most likely narrative, Miss Pickering should at this moment be somewhere in private with Mr. Lockley, enjoying an intimate conversation, the particulars of which we shall politely not consider. This has all been plotted with care, down to the decidedly expensive fact that no hotel in Oxford currently has a vacancy of more than one room.”
“I didn’t understand half of what you said, mate,” Cholmbaumgh admitted, “but unless it was ‘Miss Pickering got on a northbound train some twenty minutes ago,’ your plot has a hole in it.”
“Egad!” the publicists exclaimed. Mr. Flogg whipped off his bowler hat in a frenzy of astonished dismay. Mr. Fettick dropped his scone bottom, sending marmalade splattering across the plate.
“Ornithologists really are ruthless,” Mr. Flogg said. “How could she leave him after he was so romantic in the park?”
“I’m starting to think we should have listened more closely to Monsieur Badeau when he warned us about Miss Pickering,” Mr. Flogg said gloomily. “I didn’t expect the pretty girl to show her own sense of agency.”
“Where is Lockley?” Mr. Fettick asked.
“On the train,” said a new voice. Everyone turned to see Schreib approach the table. “I followed him there and saw him get on, just now. He bought a ticket for Hathersage in the Peak District.”
“That’s where Miss Pickering was going,” Cholmbaumgh said. “Excellent news! They’re together after all.”
Mr. Fettick shook his head. “Not excellent news. Professor Gladstone’s country house is just outside Hathersage.”
“Blast!” Mr. Flogg cried. “Who’d have guessed they would outsmart us in this way?”
No one answered, but in the quiet floated a long list of teachers, thesis committee members, university staff, students, and casual bystanders who could have warned them that Beth and Devon, having obtained their doctorates and professorships at an uncannily young age, were probably going to be pretty clever.
Mr. Fettick sighed extensively. “So much for slowing them down. They weren’t supposed to go to Hathersage for ages yet. We need at least another week of them traveling around the countryside, having adventures, and altogether inspiring the population. ‘Birders Give Wings to Britain’s Imagination!’ ”
“We can’t damage the train tracks again to stop them,” Mr. Flogg mused. “Apparently that was ‘over the top’ and ‘a threat to public safety.’ ” He rolled his eyes.
“Why don’t you just throw another magical bird at them?” Schreib asked.
Mr. Flogg shook his head. “If we’re too repetitive, we risk getting stale. Besides, I’m sick of being pecked, frozen, and covered in feathers. I’ll never be able to enjoy a scented candle again after dealing with that carnivorous lapwing. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it’s possible to have too much vanilla aroma.”
“Maybe we should just tell them the truth and ask them to collude with us,” Mr. Fettick said.
“They’re scientists,” Mr. Flogg argued. “There’s too much risk that they’ll be ethical about the whole thing.”
A doleful silence fell over the group, broken only by the dry little sound of Mr. Flogg scratching his mustache. Then suddenly, he straightened. “Maybe we can’t stall them, but I have a new idea!” He directed a cunning smile at Mr. Fettick, whose eyes lit up.
“Ooh, I can see your mind whirring, Otis.”
“It’s waltzing, Chester. Waltzing! Gather round, boys, let me tell you the new plan. ‘A Fresh Wind for Famous Lovebirds.’ We need…” He began ticking off items with his fingers. “Train tickets, details of every hotel in Hathersage, the address of the village telegraph office, something with which to blackmail the local constable, birdseed…”
Chapter Seventeen
Courtship dances are not only for the birds.
Birds Through a Sherry Glass, H.A. Quirm
Beth was delighted to find that Devon was right about the journey north being “fun.” The moment they settled into a private compartment on the train, he closed the curtains, removed his coat, and brought Beth to a state of bliss by taking a long nap, thus allowing her two peaceful hours to read the latest Ibis magazine.
Upon his awakening, they visited the dining car and enjoyed wine and scallops, steamed cod, and assorted petit fours, while Beth revealed all the fascinating details of the Ibis articles and Devon listened with every sign of enthrallment. Indeed, he barely shifted his gaze from her face as she spoke, a rapt smile on his face, leading Beth to reflect that, despite all appearances, he really was a serious academic at heart.
It did feel a little dangerous to think about his appearances, however, especially since they currently retained the soft, lush-eyed look of sleep, and his lips glinted, wine-dewed, in the lamplight, and the way he stroked one finger slowly against the goblet as he listened to her created such a flutter in her stomach, she began to worry that the scallops were off. What would it feel like to have that finger stroke the source of those flutterings? Would she ever have the courage to suggest an experiment? And if she did, would he be willing?
“Yes,” he said, and drank wine, smiling, as Beth’s intellect scattered to the winds.
“I—um—I beg your p-pardon?” she stammered.
“Whatever that dreamy expression on your face is about, yes.”
“But you don’t know what I was thinking.”
He set the wineglass down and leaned forward across the table. “I’ll always say yes to you, Miss Pickering.”
In that sizzling, breathless moment, Beth’s brain ran around desperately trying to retrieve its intellect, and her heart just ran around until she felt quite giddy. But she’d survived two thesis defenses, and there remained in her that same strength, allowing her to at least say, “That is good news, since I want the last petit four.”
He grinned and sat back in his chair, gesturing to the plate. “As you wish.”
But when they changed trains in Suffolk, “fun” took a nosedive sharper than that of a gannet hunting fish. Each purchased a copy of the evening newspaper, and after boarding the westbound train, they settled in to read, hoping to save themselves from the torment of small talk. This they achieved with remarkable success by becoming utterly dumbstruck the moment they saw the front-page headline.
LOVEBIRDS SAVE THE DAY AGAIN!
