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.
“Go back to London, gentlemen,” Gladstone said, “and organize the award ceremony. I’ll see to it that Pickering behaves. If she doesn’t, she’ll lose her job. And I’ll provide Lockley with a sabbatical—behind the bolted door of my cellar. There will be no more shenanigans. No more making relations public. Just good old-fashioned ornithology.”
“But—but—you’re proposing to kidnap Mr. Lockley and blackmail Miss Pickering,” Mr. Fettick gasped.
Gladstone puffed out another smoke ring. “As I say, good old-fashioned ornithology.” He snapped his fingers, and three footmen stepped forward from where they had been waiting discreetly at the edge of the scene. “Show the gentlemen out,” he drawled in a bored tone.
As Messrs. Flogg and Fettick trudged despondently away, blood-curdling screams arose from the students.
“Wait!” Gladstone shouted, raising his hand. The footmen paused, and Messrs. Flogg and Fettick looked back hopefully. But Gladstone was squinting across the meadow at his frantic students. “Once you’re done,” he told the footmen, “bring me another pot of tea. I need liquid fortification; I have some failing grades to hand out.”
—
Back on the road, an hour after Messrs. Flogg and Fettick were thus dismissed, Devon stared with mute shock at the gap in hedgery through which Beth had disappeared. Three seconds later, his intellect snapped into service once more, and he leaped after her.
Plowing into a tangle of grasses beneath a heavy oak tree, he scanned the shadows ahead but saw no sign of Beth. Confused, he turned—and there she was, caught in the clutches of a dark-suited man against the back side of the hedge. The fiend pressed one black-gloved hand over her mouth, and in his other held a narrow, pointed object to her throat.
“Don’t come any closer!” he warned, “or I’ll use this!”
“It’s a pen,” Devon said.
“And I won’t hesitate to scribble on her!” the man growled. “She’ll not get the ink out of her skin for weeks!”
Beth’s eyes grew wide with alarm. But Devon calmly surveyed the man, thinking of all the ways he’d kill him for threatening Beth. The expensive suit and bowler hat, in addition to a briefcase set neatly on the ground nearby, reminded him of someone he’d recently seen. All at once, he realized: “You were on the train to Oxford.”
“Mmmm-mmm,” Beth said urgently from behind the gloved hand. Devon gave her a reassuring smile.
“Don’t worry, love, I’m going to—”
Alas, the exact manner in which he would have heroically rescued her cannot be related, for he was interrupted by Beth ramming her elbow back into her captor’s gut. As the man bent, crying out in pain, she slammed her fist up beneath his jaw. He staggered, she hooked her leg around his, some physics was applied, and in the next moment the man was thudding to his back on the weedy ground. His bowler hat tumbled off and rolled away.
“Eek!” the man squealed, cringing in terror. “Don’t hurt me!”
Devon stared openmouthed as Beth tilted her chin. “I apologize for the violence,” she said. “However, if people insist on equating my ladylike manner with powerlessness, they are to blame for the consequences. I wouldn’t be an ornithologist—not to mention a woman who went through years of schooling with mostly male classmates—if I wasn’t able to defend myself.”
She stared coolly down at the man, but almost at once her expression wavered. “Are you all right? I didn’t hurt you too much, did I? And, oh dear, I fear your hat may be scuffed…”
She hurried to rescue it, and Devon instantly moved forward, imparting a mild kick to the man’s leg.
“Up you get.”
The man scrambled to his feet, pale-faced and sweating. He performed a hasty bow, his sleek black hair flopping over his brow. “Please excuse my unorthodox behavior. I was worried you’d try to run away.”
“You’ve been following us since London,” Beth said as she brushed dirt off his hat and handed it back to him. “May we inquire as to your identity?”
“What she means,” Devon added, “is, who the bloody hell are you? ”
“I certainly do not mean that,” Beth said indignantly. “There is no cause to be rude.”
Devon gave her an incredulous look. “You’re joking, right? He just attacked and threatened you.”
“For which he has apologized.”
“And you threw him to the ground.”
“For which I apologized.”
“Ha! You know, it’s possible to be too polite.”
“And sad to be quite so cynical.”
They stepped toward each other.
“I’m not cynical, I’m realistic,” Devon argued.
“Perhaps you need to imagine a little,” Beth said.
He blinked slowly, giving her a look absolutely overflowing with imagination, and she trembled as if he’d reached out and caressed her.
“Ahem,” said the man. Remembering his existence, they tore their attention from each other and back to him.
“Who are you?” Devon demanded.
The man’s eyes shifted nervously. “I’m with the Protection and Rescue of Enchanting Species, um, Service. We’re trying to rescue the caladrius, and you’re our only hope.”
“I’ve never heard of that group,” Devon said suspiciously.
“We’re a secret organization,” the man explained. “My colleague and I have just come from Professor Gladstone’s house—”
“Your colleague?” Devon looked around, reaching for his concealed gun before realizing he must have left it in his suitcase.
“Yes, he’s watching the road to be sure no one comes upon us.”
“Such as whom?” Beth asked, looking around now herself as if she expected half a dozen rival ornithologists (and their servants) to appear from behind the greenery. “I extrapolate the chances of—”
“ Please. Listen.” Such was the man’s anxiety, he scrunched the brim of his hat in his fists. “There isn’t much time! Be prepared, what you are about to hear will shake you to the core. The Birder of the Year competition is rigged! ”
He paused dramatically, but neither Devon nor Beth evidenced any shaking. “You seem awfully calm about that,” he remarked, miffed.
“We already guessed it,” Beth said.
“I see. Well, Professor Gladstone, as the chairman of the International Ornithological Society, has possession of the caladrius. And—and he has made a deal with a wicked doc—no, an evil pharmaceutical organization that plans to experiment on the bird. The competition is a sham; they intend to simply make their secret agent their winner.”
“Why did they even bother holding a competition?” Beth asked. “Why not just hand over the bird?”
The man blinked at her. “Because…to cover their tracks.”
“How exactly?” Devon asked.
The man’s blinking accelerated. “Who can say? It’s a secret, evil plot.”
“Where did IOS find the caladrius to begin with?” Beth asked.
“Er…Transylvania, I think?”
“Who discovered it?” Devon asked.
“And why have other magical birds been attacking people?” Beth asked.
“And how do you know about this secret plan?” Devon asked.
The blinking reached force 6 on the Beaufort scale, threatening to do the man an ocular injury. “Look, the point is, someone needs to rescue the caladrius and take it to London.”
Beth’s eyes narrowed. “Why London?”
“And how did a conservative thinker like Gladstone get involved in something like this?” Devon asked.
“And why are we your only hope?” Beth asked.
The man began fanning himself desperately with his hat. “I-I-I will answer all your questions when there’s time. But we need to hurry now! The caladrius must be rescued from Gladstone’s house before anyone else discovers it there and tries to steal it for themselves.”
Beth and Devon exchanged a sober glance. “Oberhufter,” Devon said.
“Hippolyta,” Beth said at the same time.
They turned back to the man. “We’ll do it.”
He exhaled with relief, his shoulders sagging as if half the air in him had been released. “Gladstone has the caladrius secured inside a cage in his library. You need to—”
“If you were just at the house and saw the bird, why didn’t you rescue it yourself?” Devon asked.
The man smacked his hat over his face. When he lowered it again, he was smiling brightly. “Do I look like a hero to you? Really, we have no more time for questions. You need to sneak into Gladstone’s house, obtain the caladrius, then flee before any of the servants catch you. Make sure you don’t separate! This is vital! You must stay together. Er, safety in numbers and all that. Take the bird to London and meet us at…let’s see, a random place just off the top of my head…Kensington Gardens, behind the Albert Memorial on Albert Memorial Road, opposite the Royal Albert Hall. There’s a new public aviary just finished being built there: the Albert Aviary. Queen Victoria had it erected in memory of the prince. He loved birds, you know.”
“Loved to shoot them,” Devon said caustically.
“Why can’t we just bring the caladrius to you here, today?” Beth asked. “Since we’re in—”
“I said no time for questions !” The man flapped his hat at them urgently. But Beth and Devon paused. Morning light fell through the oak foliage over them in soft, bright pieces, like the broken dream of tenure.
“If we bring you the caladrius, will you keep it safe?” Beth asked.
“Yes. It will be protected from all harm, or my name isn’t Feh—er…”
“Isn’t what?” Devon prompted, suspicion darkening his eyes.
“Feth-erlong-ham- skew !” The syllables tumbled from the man’s throat with increasing desperation. “Mr. Fetherlonghamsque, PRESS agent. Now hurry, in case Herr Oberhufter and Mrs. Quirm turn up at Gladstone’s house before you!”
That propelled them into action. Beth nodded a polite goodbye, and Devon held back branches so she could move easily through the gap in the hedge. As she reentered the road, she noticed Devon casting one more mistrustful look at the PRESS agent. Then he followed her, and they took off running toward the Eyrie.
—
“Uuughhh.” Mr. Fettick groaned, collapsing back against the trunk of the oak tree. Taking the handkerchief from his jacket’s breast pocket, he applied it to his face and throat. It came away sodden.
“That was brilliant!” Mr. Flogg whispered excitedly, appearing from around the other side of the tree. His eyes shone with admiration. “ You are brilliant! I’ve never seen anyone think so fast on their feet. Your brain must have been in a flat spin!”
“I feel like I need a doctor,” Mr. Fettick said, wringing out his handkerchief. “They were so blastedly clever! I didn’t expect them to question me quite so much.”
“Professors,” Mr. Flogg murmured in a tone recognizable to anyone who has had an essay returned to them covered in red ink.
“At least we have control of the story again. And frankly, I think it’s going to be even more of a triumph than the original competition idea. Heroic professors rescuing a bird from the clutches of a tyrant! Sacrificing their own dreams to keep it safe! Dangerous henchmen! Romance! A desperate race across the country! Children everywhere will want to be ornithologists after this.”
“And Gladstone will learn not to mess with publicists,” Mr. Flogg said with dark satisfaction.
Both men chuckled and rubbed their palms together in what anyone would call dastardly behavior—at least until the publicists talked them into a new perspective.
—
Slowing as they spied the Eyrie ahead, Beth and Devon glanced back at the road behind them, hazy with sunlit dust. No one followed, and yet they felt a creepy sensation of being watched.
“Do you believe what that man said?” Beth asked.
“Ha! No,” Devon answered. “It sounded like complete nonsense. But I do think Gladstone has the caladrius. And if he’s training thaumaturgic birds, to exploit their powers…even beyond winning Birder of the Year, I want to get the caladrius away from him. Removing dangerous birds from the wild so they can be protected in aviaries and do no harm to people, that’s one thing; using the magic of those birds for your own gain, another thing altogether.”
“I agree. As for us remaining together…”
“You heard the man: it’s vital .”
Beth nodded. “That part is absolutely believable.”
“Totally,” Devon agreed. Taking her hand, he hurried along a path at the edge of Gladstone’s property, and she smiled secretly to herself, letting him lead her.