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 Lockleyare 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 thisromancenonsense. 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 littletsksound 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 studentcowering 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.
