And drive past them.
And continue on toward the horizon.
Seconds later, they found themselves looking at empty tracks and a high trail of smoke speckled with disturbed birds. Miss Fotheringham threw down the green flag, cackling.
“I told you we were right to follow Miss Pickering, Elvira!” she called out.
“There’s a first time for everything, Ethel!” came a reedy shout from behind the seating shelter farther down the platform. Devon looked around to see a second Miss Fotheringham emerge, pulling a knife from her puffed sleeve.
“Hand over that bird,” she demanded, moving toward them.
“This?” Beth held up the cage. “It’s empty.”
Whether Miss Fotheringham believed her did not matter, for just then another shout rang out.
“Stop right there!”
Looking around, they saw Gladstone’s footman running up the station’s ramp, red-faced with fury.
“For goodness’ sake,” Beth said. “All this excitement cannot be good for the caladrius.”
“Caladrius?!” The ticket clerk squeaked, excitement radiating from his every pore. “You have the actual caladrius in that cage?!”
Alas, they could not answer him, on account of being halfway across the platform, making at speed for a secondary exit.
“Stop!” Gladstone’s footman insisted, gasping as he reached the top of the ramp.
“Stop!” Elvira Fotheringham demanded, brandishing her knife.
“Terribly sorry!” Beth called out. “Please give Professor Gladstone our regrets!”
“I’ll give you regrets!” Gaining his second wind, the footman sprinted toward them.
Crash!
The ticket clerk had shoved his luggage trolley across the platform and the footman ran into it, causing the trolley to topple and him to go down with it. Pumping a fist, the clerk whooped triumphantly. “For the caladrius!” he shouted.
As the footman groaned and the Fotheringhams reunited in preparation to give chase, Devon and Beth raced down a short ramp into the adjacent lane, where the curricle awaited. Someone, presumably Gladstone’s footman, had broken its wheels. The footman’s own horse stood nearby, grazing on wild grass at the side of the avenue, and Devon was debating whether he should steal it when a garishly colored bird flew overhead. It circled them, then aimed back toward the village, squawking, train station! train station!
“Psittacus inquisitor,” Beth identified grimly. Spy parrot.
Devon cursed. His mind began to sink with the weight of every possible decision he might make, and for a terrifying moment he simply could not move at all. Then Beth caught his hand and began tugging him.
“Just run,” she said, and he gratefully obeyed.
They reached a crossroads and saw a hansom cab in the distance, speeding through the village. “This way!” Beth ordered, and they turned south, following the road down beneath an arched stone bridge into a vista of sheep-strewn farmlands. Beth’s hand grew sweaty in Devon’s, and he could hear the strained labor of her breath. Only a frightening silence emitted from the birdcage. Devon wondered if they should leave the road to hide among bushes, but a glance back showed a horseman in pursuit, and he knew it was too late.
“Stop!” the man shouted. “Wait!”
“Devon.” Beth slowed her pace, making him stumble a little. “Stop.”
“We don’t need to be polite to our enemies!” he reminded her.
“No, really, stop! It’s the ticket clerk from the station.”
Devon glanced back with confused surprise. Indeed, the clerk was galloping toward them—or, more correctly, what appeared to be the footman’s horse was galloping toward them with the clerk hunched on its back, his goatee flapping like a tiny blond flag of surrender. Devon felt inclined to keep running, but Beth pulled free of his grip and waved to the clerk. Devon lifted his gaze heavenward, seeking patience, but then turned and stood beside the angel he’d already been sent. Perhaps she was right and they were not about to be captured and forced to deliver the caladrius back into Gladstone’s dubious care.
“Look at it this way,” Beth said. “We can always hijack the horse.”
Devon bit his lip so he didn’t laugh. Feet apart and arms crossed, he scowled as the clerk drew up before them.
“I’ve come to help!” the young man explained breathlessly, slithering down from the saddle and performing an old-fashioned bow to Beth. From the corner of his eye Devon could see her practically melting at the gesture, and his scowl grew more severe.
“You’re Professor Pickering, aren’t you?” the clerk said, pressing a hand against his heart as if he addressed the Queen herself. “I knew you were! I’m a big fan. The way you caught that whopper swan in Oxford with such grace and expertise was an inspiration to me as a professional luggage handler. And you must be Mr. Lockley.” He flicked a glance at Devon, then returned to swooning over Beth. “I know we have no time for autographs, or even for me to snip a lock of your hair—? Right, no time. But it is my honor to assist you. Also the man said you might turn up at the station and that if I helped, I’d get my name in the papers too. He said an evil professor was torturing the caladrius! So I’ve brought this horse for your escape.”
“Thank you,” Beth said so sincerely, the clerk hunched up his shoulders with bashful delight. Devon’s scowl went from severe to the equivalent of a winter storm in Antarctica. Shifting closer to Beth, he laid a hand on her back—not at all in a proprietary fashion, you understand, simply to have somewhere to put it.
“What man?” he asked.
“He said he was a PRESS agent,” the clerk told Beth as if Devon was merely her mouthpiece. “Black suit, mustache, briefcase. He said the caladrius was counting on me. Me.”
“Gosh,” Beth responded obligingly.
“Horse theft is a significant crime,” Devon pointed out.
“Not when you’re doing it to save a bird!”
At that, Devon’s scowl eased slightly. “What’s your name?”
