There followed whatseemed so much like a dark moment of the soul that Beth did not even bring out her field guide to read on the train. Seated between a window and an elderly lady occupied with a crossword puzzle, she took only brief intermissions from brooding to use the bathroom and secure tea and sandwiches from the dining car. Her nerves performed a long, angsty monologue about the kiss on the platform, and startled every time someone walked down the carriage aisle, in case they proved to be Devon. She was at last driven to the extreme ofremoving her gloveto chew upon her thumbnail, a misdemeanor that inspired grim looks and mutterings from the elderly lady.
“My apologies,” she said. “I’m a little frazzled, due to being in a competition.”
The lady’s eyes widened. “You’re not an orthinocist doing the Birder of the Year competition, are you? I read about it in the papers yesterday.”
Beth nodded hesitantly.
“Upon my word! How marvelous!” The crossword puzzle was flung aside and the woman grasped Beth’s arm in an act that ought to have been declared a felony. “It’s in Ipswich! The caladrius! My grandfather told me so last night!”
“Your grandfather?” Beth echoed.
“Yes, at our weekly séance. We get together for a nice chat through the heavenly veil. He said—” She paused to clear her throat, then intoned in a spectral voice: “ ‘The caladrius bird will be in Ipswich, Gladys, and will cure your arthritis.’ ”
“Uh, thank you,” Beth said, blinking rapidly to forestall a bemused frown. “I shall take that under advisement.” And with a polite smile, she turned toward the window and resumed her dark moment.
Of course, the caladrius might indeed be in Ipswich, for all she knew. She possessed no idea of where in Britain to begin searching. Sensibly, she ought to return home to Oxford. In the quiet, well-ordered environment of her boardinghouse room, she could regroup and make a plan for tracking down the bird. She could even visit one of her favorite places in the world, the Bodleian Library, to research it in more depth and perhaps come up with some clues as to where it might most likely nest in Britain.
But after the past two days’ adventures, the very thought ofquietandwell-orderedsent a great rush of dreariness through her heart. Sitting alone in her small room…sitting alone in the library…she could not bear even the thought of it. Far better to make London her initial base. Even if she talked with no one, at least she would be surrounded by the city’s vivacious energy and noise.
Disembarking at Paddington Station, she stood on the platform for some time, not at all looking for Devon amongthe other passengers, simply trying to devise a route ahead. Besides, he never appeared. Perhaps he had gotten off the train before she did. Perhaps he’d decided to bypass London altogether. He might be anywhere—she might never see him again in all her life—she did not care.
“Are you quite well, dear?” a woman asked, pausing beside her. “You just gave the most dreadfully mournful sigh.”
Flushing, Beth smiled and apologized and hurried out of the station before her emotions could catch up with her again.
Her first call was to the bank, where she withdrew enough money from her savings to fund a substantial engagement in the competition, although it meant that any dream of traveling to New Zealand to study the giant carnivorous moa flew out the window. Then she spent the day traipsing around the city buying maps, nets, a cage that collapsed to fit in a suitcase, clothes, and a new straw boater. It was an endeavor more exhausting than chasing demon ducks along the shores of Greece, and within hours her feet had begun to ache, but she continued onward, as ruthless with herself as any ornithologist ought to be. And to her surprise, everywhere she went she heard people discussing the caladrius.
“My sister was eating chips on the beach in Brighton and the caladrius stole one from her,” claimed a woman in the department store where Beth purchased stockings.
“My husband says the bird can’t really cure illness, it’s just a story being used by the Tories to distract from their mismanagement of public health,” declared a woman in the boutique where Beth purchased gloves.
“IOS actually stands for the Invisible Order of Secrets,” said a man on the tram she caught across town. “They’re conspiring to take over the world using avian magic. Mark mywords, before long we’ll all be flying in feathered machines instead of taking trams.”
Only her exceptional manners prevented Beth from laughing aloud at this. IOS undertaking a secret scheme? Nothing was more ridiculous! (Goodness, that gentleman at the back of the tram, facing away from her, looked like Mr. Cholmbaumgh. She must be tired indeed for her imagination to come up with such a fancy!)
Stopping for afternoon tea in a small café, she idly perused a newspaper that had been left on the table. As she turned to the second page, however, her mouthful of cucumber sandwich became in sudden, real danger of being ejected. For there, in several excited paragraphs, was a report of the lapwing’s capture in Paris. Beth was most surprised indeed to learn that Professor Devon Lockley had singlehandedly brought down the bird, thus saving two frail old grannies and a pretty young woman from certain doom.
“I beg your pardon!” she muttered indignantly, and was forced to drink an entire pot of tea before her nerves settled enough to relinquish the idea of writing a strident letter to the editor, and instead to continue on with her shopping.
Finally, come evening, and so thoroughly worn out she kept thinking she saw Cholmbaumgh skulking behind her, she retired to the Minervaeum Club, London’s premier private establishment for academics. The grand Georgian building on Cromwell Road in Kensington was owned by a mysterious figure rumored to be the scion of either a smuggler or a royal duke, but who clearly possessed a good heart despite this, for they set annual membership at a mere half sovereign to anyone with a doctorate and a tolerance for interesting conversation. Considering most scholars lived on the cusp of either wretchedpoverty or explosive fortune (literally explosive, in the case of chemists), this generosity was much appreciated and often reciprocated by grateful donors who wanted their peers to enjoy the same inspiration the club’s atmosphere, not to mention the club’s wine cellar, had given them.
Beth had always loved the place. The air smelled gently of old books, the beds were soft, and pacing the halls muttering theories to oneself was considered normal behavior. She hadn’t visited for some time, since Hippolyta was not a member, and walking into the warm dustiness of the lobby felt like a truer homecoming than returning to her Oxford boardinghouse ever did. Sounds of philosophical debate could be heard from the Platonic Drawing Room, interspersed now and again by theboom!of scientific debate from the Paracelsus Lounge. The floor beneath her trembled from someone making a forceful rejoinder about the benefits of nitroglycerin as she crossed to the check-in desk, dreaming of finally being able to eat quality fare, such as bangers and mash with spotted dick for pudding, after enduring French cuisine for far too long.
“Giggleswick,” said the gentlewoman clerk as she handed over a room key.
“Excuse me?” Beth asked vaguely, half-lost in visions of custard.
“That’s where I reckon you’ll find the caladrius,” the clerk elaborated. “Giggleswick in North Yorkshire. On account of the limestone. It’s got special healing properties, has limestone. The caladrius would be drawn to it.”
“I see,” Beth murmured. She couldn’t remember having mentioned her business but clearly must have. Picking up her suitcase, for she was in a hurry to settle in, then visit the dining room, she turned—
“I can’t believe I’m talking to such a famous orothologisist!” the clerk exclaimed.
Well, perhaps she could spare a minute or two. She turned back with a smile—
“I squealed out loud when I read about you kissing that other orothologisist on the train platform!”
Beth’s smile vanished, taking her good manners with it. “Excuse me, what?”
