“Why, that you are a tremendously accomplished woman,” he answered. “Clever and capable and beau—”
Alas, just at this most interesting part, a hand reached out from a gap between bushes and yanked Beth off the road. Staggering, she drew breath to scream, but another hand clamped over her mouth, and she was dragged into darkness.
Chapter Nineteen
If it looks like a blackbird and sings like a blackbird, it might nevertheless grow sudden fangs and try to eat your face off.
Birds Through a Sherry Glass, H.A. Quirm
An hour earlier
Gladstone’s summer residence, with its comfortable aspect, private aviary, and several accompanying acres for the natural study of birds, reflected his academic character—and the fact that he’d inherited a large income, since no science teacher could afford such an estate.
This morning he was outdoors, endeavoring to capture a leechsparrow. Which is to say, he sat on a mahogany sofa in the meadow behind the house, gesturing with his rosewood pipe to several graduate students who traipsed through the grass, bedecked with protective goggles and earmuffs, wielding heavy-duty nets, as they did the actual work of capturing a leechsparrow. The gentleman himself sipped tea between puffing on the pipe and nudging down his tiny spectacles to frown at the students. His goatee had been brushed and teased into a magnificent state, his bowler hat was unacquainted with bird guano, and the fine polish of his shoes reflected considerable doubt that he’d entered the field under his own steam.
“To the left!” he shouted. “No, fools! My left, not yours! For pity’s sake!” He clicked his tongue with contempt, and all throughout England, university students shivered uncannily. “Young people these days,” he grumbled.
“Absolutely,” averred Mr. Flogg from the far end of the sofa, since despite the inexact nature of Gladstone’s complaint, his professional instinct was to always agree with the person paying him, regardless.
“Indeed,” murmured Mr. Fettick in a chair opposite.
Gladstone flicked a disdainful look at both men. “You two are no better. IOS hired you to organize a competition that would attract people to study ornithology. We expected to see accounts of diligent, noble-minded scientists using research libraries and crouching in rain-soaked hides. But what do I read instead in the newspapers? Romance.”
“Romantic comedy,” Mr. Flogg muttered unhelpfully.
Mr. Fettick began to open his briefcase. “We brought our latest analysis to show—”
“Listen to me,” Gladstone interrupted, knocking his pipe stem against the arm of the sofa in lieu of any available blackboard upon which he could tap a wooden pointer. “I know what I’m talking about. People aren’t interested in romance. They want sober, informative reports that use complex words and make them feel stupid, thereby inspiring them to seek higher education.”
A moment of silence followed this speech as Messrs. Fettick and Flogg tried to decide if it was satire. In the field beyond, one student was excitedly pointing to a particular spot in the long grass while the others gestured at each other to stay very still.
“Besides,” Gladstone continued, “Pickering and Lockley are from different universities. You can’t have a romance between an Oxonian and a Cantabrigian; it’s unnatural.”
“They’re rivals who become lovers,” Mr. Fettick explained.
“Also, both universities are represented on the IOS committee,” Mr. Flogg pointed out. “We thought they’d be pleased.”
“They are not,” Gladstone said. And as he sent a look over the rim of his spectacles, Messrs. Fettick and Flogg were prompted to understand that, for all intents and purposes, the committee was sitting before them, embodied in a gentleman for whom the cutting edge of scientific progress had come and gone some forty years ago.
“Arrrgh!” came a sudden scream from the students as a leechsparrow flew up from the long grass several feet from where they were focused, its wings flapping violently.
Gladstone took a sip of tea—and yet, when he spoke again, his tone was somehow even drier. “Now seems an opportune time to make a few changes to the plan.”
“Changes,” Messrs. Fettick and Flogg chorused warily.
“Nothing major. Mere tweaks. For example, no more of this romance nonsense. And return to having just one winner—let’s make it Pickering, eh? Throw a sop to the bluestockings. Show we’re all about ‘equal opportunity.’ ” He used his fingers to make quote marks in the air, and not even a massive doomsday weapon over his shoulder would have illustrated more clearly that he was the antagonist.
“Ah. Have an Oxford professor win,” Mr. Flogg said with the cynical insight of a man whose own degree was in political history.
Gladstone shrugged and puffed his pipe.
In the field, the students began running in panic, arms flailing, as the leechsparrow dive-bombed them.
“Miss Pickering might not agree with this plan,” Mr. Fettick said. “She seems from all accounts to be quite a nice lady, concerned with doing the right thing.”
Gladstone blew a smoke ring contemptuously. “Nice? The woman keeps pushing at the boundaries of ornithological science and outright refuses to grade students on a curve. I don’t call that nice.”
“There is also the small issue of her being just down the road in Hathersage with Devon Lockley,” Mr. Flogg added. “We fear they guessed that you have the caladrius bird in your possession and will be arriving here soon, ruining our carefully planned timing and potentially costing a fortune in tourism revenue if the competition is cut short.”
“Caladrius,” Gladstone said.
Mr. Flogg frowned delicately. “Pardon?”
“Caladrius. Not ‘caladrius bird.’ There’s hardly a caladrius frog for me to confuse it with, is there?”
“So true, of course, indeed,” Mr. Flogg murmured, flushing. Mr. Fettick said nothing, but flicked the latch of his briefcase handle, making a spiky little tsk sound with it.
“I am not worried about Pickering and Lockley,” Gladstone went on. “If they arrive, I shall give them both a thorough re-education. And if they won’t cooperate, we’ll just have to resort to Plan B.”
“Plan B?” Mr. Flogg inquired nervously.
“Hippolyta Quirm.”
“Oh God, nooooo!!”
For a moment, both Messrs. Fettick and Flogg were sure they’d been the ones to shout. But it was only a student cowering in the grass as the leechsparrow perched on his head, pecking wildly at his earmuffs. Two other students were bashing him with their nets in a hysterical effort to capture the bird.
