And she knew exactly where to start.
It was time to go home to Oxford.
Chapter Thirteen
The garden sparrow is as beautiful as the swan (although not as delicious when roasted).
Birds Through a Sherry Glass, H.A. Quirm
In a coffeehouseoverlooking Paddington Station, Messrs. Flogg and Fettick sipped their third round of black coffee as they watched passengers enter the terminal.
“I’m not happy, Mr. Flogg,” grumbled Mr. Fettick. “When we sent Schreib and Cholmbaumgh to frighten our professors into escaping the Chaucer Inn together, it was specifically so that they’d remain in each other’s company. But here we are now, with‘The Lovers Parted!’ ”
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Mr. Flogg soothed him. “Every narrative benefits from some conflict. The professors will reunite, feeling more keen than ever, mark my words. After all, we’re tracking them to make sure they do.”
Mr. Fettick sighed. “What if they don’t, though? The newspaper articles have already been published! We might have to print a retraction.”
Both men shuddered.
“No, it’s fine,” Mr. Flogg reiterated firmly. “A night apart will make our lovebirds’ hearts grow fonder. We can leave thatup to human nature—whatwehave to do is pave their way to success in the competition. But not too quickly, mark you! IOS and the British Tourism Board want to get their money’s worth first.”
“But not too slowly,” Mr. Fettick countered. “The professors need to look clever, so that people will appreciate the value of a university education.”
“True.” He sighed. “This project certainly is a challenge. Let’s imagine we’re a pair of bird experts. Where would we go next?”
Mr. Fettick hesitated, only too aware that his own degree in French history left his head in entirely the wrong place for thinking like a scientist. “Well, I’d personally go to question the IOS chairman, Professor Gladstone. But that’s because I know he’s involved. Don’t worry, they’ll never think of it.”
Mr. Flogg’s brow creased in the shadow of his bowler hat. “They’re geniuses; of course they’ll think of it. Drat! We’d better organize a surprise to meet them at Oxford University should they turn up there. Something to slow them down a bit.”
“What kind of surprise?”
Mr. Flogg merely smiled fiendishly and bounced his eyebrows.
“Ah,” Mr. Fettick said, perking up. “Thatkind!”
Setting down his coffee cup with a clank, Mr. Flogg stood in a manner that would have been dramatic were he not a pasty-faced fellow with a prissy little mustache. “Quick! To the telegram office!”
—
Following a hastymeal in the Hildegard of Bingen Breakfast Room, Beth caught a hackney cab to Paddington Station.Entering the terminal, she immediately looked around forDevon LockleyCholmbaumgh, still feeling a little on edge after having imagined yesterday that the man was lurking behind her. But all she saw were a few pigeons and one rather fine specimen ofParus major(and, less interesting, several dozen people). This failed to ease her nerves, however. As she purchased a ticket and made her way across the platform, she had the oddest sensation that someone was watching her…
“Miss Pickering!”
At the familiar voice, her pulse stumbled. Turning, she smiled politely.
“Hippolyta.”
“Thank goodness, by Jove!” the woman boomed, ringlets and ruffles flouncing as she rushed forward to take Beth’s hand. Footmen followed in her wake, barely visible beneath armloads of luggage. “I’ve been beside myself!”
“Er,” Beth said, looking down at the yellow gloves Hippolyta had given her.
“You know how bad I am at stitching! They’re my favorite gloves, and the seams are beginning to fray! But you’re so clever, I’m sure you can have them tidied up in a jiffy.”
“Um,” Beth said, to no effect. Hippolyta hustled her aboard the train in such typical style that she began to wonder if she’d only imagined the past two days.
“Oberhufter is traveling east like a fool,” Hippolyta said as they settled into a first-class compartment, “despite all signs pointing clearly to the caladrius being in the Cotswolds.”
“Actually, I—” Beth began.
