by James Ponti
“Seriously?” said Monty. “Here in the King’s Arms? I’ve never heard that before.”
“Of course our boy said no,” Nigel said proudly.
Monty was completely charmed by the porter and wondered if he knew so much about MI6 because he too had some connection to it.
“Now, I’m not saying those two other agents who came poking around were Cambridge types,” he continued. “But I’m positive they didn’t go to Oxford.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because if they’d gone to Oxford and understood how everything around here works, they would’ve known the right question to ask the porter of a college. But they didn’t.” He leaned forward and asked, “I wonder if you know it.”
He was obviously trying to lead her somewhere, but she didn’t know where. She racked her brain thinking about all the things a porter does, and then it came to her. There was one key thing that porters handled for everyone at the college.
“The mail,” she said.
“What about the mail?” he asked coyly.
“Did you receive any mail for Parker Rutledge that you never got the chance to deliver to him?”
He smiled and she knew she was right.
And then he said, “No.”
She sagged in her chair, totally confused.
“Although,” he added, “I did receive an envelope for R.F. Stroud.”
Monty’s eyes opened wide with anticipation.
“Have a nice day,” Tompkins said as he stood from the table. “It was lovely to have lunch with you.”
He walked away, and she looked down to see that he’d placed a thick yellow envelope on the table. It was addressed to R.F. Stroud in care of the Lincoln College porter’s lodge. There was no return address, but it was postmarked San Francisco, California.
It was unopened.
18. Bernhard Berliner, MD
MONTY DIDN’T OPEN THE ENVELOPE until after everyone had ordered their food. They were at a hamburger joint down the street from Oxford station, and the anticipation was killing her.
“It may be nothing,” she reminded them all as she used a knife from the table to neatly slice it open.
“And it may be the key to everything,” Paris added hopefully.
The thickness of the envelope came from its padding. Inside, there was only a thin pocket calendar with a simple black cover that had the year imprinted on it in silver lettering, as well as the words ALL WEATHER—WATER-RESISTANT. Each two-page spread represented a single week. Throughout the book, Parker Rutledge had written down his appointments in very precise handwriting, always using pencil. Some weeks were empty and some were crowded, but there didn’t seem to be any pattern to the appointments.
Monty flipped through the pages until she got to the last one with writing. “The final entry is for October fifteenth.”
“That’s the day after he died,” added Paris.
“Meeting. Four p.m. Bernhard Berliner, MD,” Monty read.
“So that’s who he was supposed to meet with,” said Mother. “Maybe this Dr. Berliner has the key to what this is all about.”
Brooklyn did a quick search on her phone and read aloud to the others. “Dr. Bernhard Berliner. Born in Hanover, Germany. Educated at the University of Leipzig. Settled in San Francisco, where he became a noted psychoanalyst.”
Mother gave her a curious look. “I wonder why Parker was meeting with a psychoanalyst?” he asked. “Though he wouldn’t be the first spy who needed some therapy.”
“Died: November twenty-fifth, 1976,” Brooklyn continued.
“Wait, what?”
“Bernhard Berliner, MD, has been dead for more than forty years,” said Brooklyn. “I don’t think he’s going to be of much help to us.”
“Then how was Rutledge planning to meet him?” asked Rio, confused.
“Excellent question,” said Monty. She flipped back through some pages, looking, and asked, “And how did he meet with him twice the week before?”
They were all quiet for a moment. It was frustrating because it felt like an important clue, but it also felt like a dead end. Literally.
“We’ll study this book carefully, and maybe those answers will come to us,” said Mother. “But let’s put Dr. Berliner on hold for a moment and talk about what we learned today. Figure out who’s going to pick dessert.”
“We learned that cameras can be really expensive,” said Kat. “Rutledge’s cost thirty-five hundred pounds.”
“Wow!” said Sydney.
“Apparently, it was important for him to load his pictures directly to the cloud,” said Brooklyn. “Why, we have no idea.”
Rio looked over at her and smiled. “We know,” Rio said, pointing toward Paris. “It was for his life list.”
“What’s a life list?” asked Monty.
“It’s a record of all the bird species a bird-watcher sees in the field during their lifetime,” Rio answered. “It’s a very big deal for the Dodos. They were talking all about it. There’s even an ongoing competition between them. Rutledge had the most.”
“Why does that involve the cloud?” asked Sydney.
“Because that’s where they keep their lists,” Paris answered. “When you see a bird for the first time, you take its photo to document it. They keep them up on the cloud so they can look at each other’s pictures.”
“And by loading directly,” Rio said, “it lets you prove who saw the species first.”
“Sounds like you guys enjoyed your afternoon with the Dodos,” said Mother.
“Paris liked it more than I did,” answered Rio. “But the tea sandwiches were delicious.”
“What else do we know?” asked Monty.
“We know that there were two break-ins at Parker’s house soon after he died,” said Mother.
“How soon?” asked Monty.
“One a week after he passed away and the other a few weeks later.”
“Interesting,” said Monty. “That syncs up pretty well with the timeline of a pair of visits to Lincoln College. The porter said two people, one man, one woman, both of whom he was quite certain were spies, came looking for a book or books belonging to Rutledge.”
“Did they find them?” asked Brooklyn.
“No,” Monty answered. “They left empty-handed.”
“Following that logic,” Mother said, “if those same two people were the ones who broke into Parker’s house, maybe they were looking for the books there. Although if they were, they struck out again. Nothing was stolen.”
“I wonder what the books are?” asked Kat.
“His bird books,” Rio interjected. “They may have been looking for his bird books.”
“I think you’re right,” said Paris.
Rio loved the rare moments when he knew more than the others. “Looks like we’re the only ones who got useful intel today, Paris.”
They traded a fist bump.
“What are bird books?” asked Monty.
“The Dodos raved about them at the meeting,” said Rio. “Once we got started talking about Rutledge, they couldn’t stop. They loved him. He was like their rock star.”
“And he had these intricate journals he kept,” said Paris. “Drawings, details, facts about different birds. He called them his bird books. They all started making them too.”
“Marni showed us some of hers,” said Rio.
“Marni?” asked Mother.
“She’s a field ornithologist with the Edward Grey Institute,” Paris answered. “She just had a fascinating trip to Africa.”
“Did the journals look like this?” Monty asked, holding up Rutledge’s datebook.
“No,” said Paris. “They’re hardbacks. Like those blank book diaries you can buy at the stationer’s.”
“Of course,” said Mother. “Why didn’t I think of that? I remember those. He was always doodling in them.” He thought about it for a moment and the memory took on more significance. “But they weren’t just about birds. That’s what everyone thought.
But they were really about our missions. He had these little codes to track our operations.”
“Well, that would definitely be something MI6 would want to get their hands on,” said Monty. “Do you think they found them?”
Sydney shook his head and smiled. “No. They didn’t.”
“How do you know that?” asked Kat.
“Because Mrs. Rutledge donated them to the Bodleian.”
“So that means we’re having cupcakes tonight,” said Rio.
“Wait a second,” said Sydney. “I was part of the team that found out about the Bodleian.”
“Ahem,” said Monty. “Are we forgetting this?” She held up the pocket calendar.
“Match Day is for young people only,” protested Rio.
“Says who?” asked Monty.
“I don’t remember that rule,” said Mother. “All we said was best information gets to pick dessert.”
“Which will be macarons,” said Monty, “from the French bakery by Paddington station.” She paused for a moment and added, “But it’s going to have to wait.”
“For what?” asked Rio.
“For Paris, Sydney, and me to get back to London,” she said. “You guys are going to go now, and we’re going to come back on a later train.”
“We are?” asked Paris.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m going to take you over and show you around my old college. And then, when it gets dark, maybe the three of us will break into the Bodleian and steal those bird books.”
19. The Bodleian Job
PASSING THROUGH THE PORTER’S LODGE into Exeter College was like stepping into another time. For Paris and Sydney, it was as if they’d wandered back into the Middle Ages as they looked up at the medieval architecture of the centuries-old buildings. But for Monty, the time travel was a much shorter trip. She felt like she’d gone back fifteen years to when she was a student and this was home.
“It’s perfect,” she said gleefully as they walked across the grassy quad. “It hasn’t changed a lick.”
“Yeah,” added Paris, “not since Charlemagne.”
Monty shot him a look and smiled. “Exeter’s old, but not quite Charlemagne old. It was founded in 1314,” she said, assuming the role of tour guide. “Famous alumni include J. R. R. Tolkien, who first began writing about Middle-earth while he was an undergraduate living right over there.”
She pointed toward a building across the quad, and Paris, whose favorite book was The Hobbit, looked over in amazement.
“Other notable Exonians include author Philip Pullman, actor Richard Burton, and Sir Roger Bannister.”
“Who’s Sir Roger Bannister?” asked Sydney.
“A prominent neurologist who also happened to be the first person to run a mile in less than four minutes,” Monty answered. “He set the mark just down the street at Iffley Road Track after spending the morning doing his rounds as a med student at St. Mary’s Hospital.”
“You certainly know your school history,” said Paris.
“Of course I do. The Junior Common Room is the society of undergraduate students, and in my last year I was the president.” She gave Paris a sly wink and added, “Just like Tolkien was during his final year.”
They reached Palmer’s Tower, which Monty informed them was the oldest building at the college. “It’s the residence for some of the school’s most distinguished professors, including the person I want you to meet.”
On the second floor, they reached an apartment and could hear someone playing violin inside. Monty smiled and paused, as if reconnecting to a fond memory, before knocking on the door.
There was no reply, just the continued playing of music, so she rapped three more times, only louder than before.
The music stopped and a perturbed voice called out from within. “Can’t you tell that I’m practicing?”
“Is that what you call it?” Monty called back. “You’ve been practicing since I was president of the JCR. You think you might’ve gotten at least a little better by now.”
They heard movement from within, and then the door opened wide to reveal esteemed mathematician and mediocre violinist Duncan Fletcher, late fifties, tall and lanky with a thick head of silver-gray hair. Paris’s first thought upon seeing him was that he’d make an excellent Doctor on Doctor Who.
“Alexandra Montgomery!” Fletcher beamed, a huge grin on his face. “Tell me you’ve come to repay the money you owe.”
She laughed. “You mean the five quid that I’ve paid back at least a dozen times?”
“Compound interest is a complex and confusing concept. You might know that if you paid more attention during my tutorials.”
“So good to see you, Fletch,” she said as she gave him a warm hug.
“Lovely to see you too, Monty. It’s been much too long.”
“I’d like to introduce you to my friends, Eleanor and Lucas,” she said, using their cover names.
“Nice to meet you both,” he said, shaking their hands. “Let me warn you now, do not loan money to this woman. She may look trustworthy, but I assure you she’s a charlatan.”
“Good to know,” replied Paris, delighted to be included in their inside joke.
“Come on in,” Fletcher said, motioning to his room. “The lodgings are meager, but I should be able to rustle up a tin of biscuits.”
“Actually, we just ate,” Monty said.
Fletcher turned back and gave her an arched eyebrow.
“Although a couple of biscuits might be nice,” she conceded.
“I thought so,” replied Fletcher.
The apartment was teeming with cramped bookshelves and antique furniture, but every inch was meticulously organized and spotlessly clean. They sat around a coffee table in the main room and had Earl Grey tea with custard cream cookies.
After some pleasantries and brief catching up, Fletcher asked, “So what brings you back to Exeter? I mean, other than exquisite music and engaging conversation.”
“I need your help.”
“Of course, my dear, anything. What is it?”
She stood up and pulled open the curtains to reveal a spectacular view of the Bodleian library. “We need to break into that,” she said. “Preferably tonight.”
“Break into the Bod?” he replied, laughing. “And what after that? The Tower of London?”
Sydney and Paris were shocked to realize that Monty had meant what she said earlier. They really thought they were just paying a friendly visit.
“Oh, and Eleanor is scheduled to appear before a secret inquiry at Parliament tomorrow,” Monty added. “So it would be best if we didn’t get caught and arrested.”
“Wait a second,” Fletcher replied. “You’re serious?”
“Quite.”
“I will do no such thing,” he said. “I’m a don at this university, and the Bodleian is a sanctified repository of priceless books and manuscripts. There’s a Gutenberg Bible in there. Not to mention four original copies of the Magna Carta.”
“We’re not interested in any of those,” she said. “But we would very much like to get our hands on some recently donated bird-watching journals. Trust me when I say that no one will notice when they’re gone.”
“Oh, so you’re not just breaking in?” he said. “You’re also planning to steal what you find? The crimes keep multiplying.”
“We’re not criminals, we’re spies,” she said. “This is an MI6 directive.”
He gave her a disbelieving look and gestured toward Paris and Sydney. “Does security mean nothing to you?”
“Don’t worry, they know I’m a spy.” Then she turned to the kids and said, “And don’t you worry. He not only knows I’m a spy, but he’s the one who recruited me for MI6.” She smiled as she realized something. “Come to think of it, that means you’re to blame for all of this in the first place. So you have to help me.”
“You’re a spy?” Paris asked Fletcher.
“Less spy, more consultant,” he said. “And part-time talent scout.”
He turned his attention back to Monty. “And even if I were inclined to help, I wouldn’t have the first clue as to how. The Bodleian’s a highly secure building.”
“That was built when the cutting edge of security was a moat and a man with a pointy stick,” Monty said with a laugh. “I’m guessing there must be a few vulnerabilities in that old medieval armor. Besides, I don’t believe for one moment that you’ve spent years looking out this window at that gorgeous building and not figured out how to break into it.” She gave him a look. “Or more to the point, how Newton Isaacs would do it.”
“Newton Isaacs?” said Sydney. “Don’t you mean Isaac Newton?”
“Isaac Newton is the great scientist and mathematician,” said Monty. “Newton Isaacs is the main character in the Principia Murders, a series of mystery novels written by none other than Duncan Fletcher.”
“You’re an author?” asked Sydney.
“Yes,” he said with a slight bow. “Although my books are only printed by a small press and sell about as well as you’d suspect novels written by an applied maths professor would sell.”
“They’re wonderful,” claimed Monty. “And so is Newton. He’s a brilliant Oxford mathematician and a cunning detective. And I guarantee that you’ve worked out a way for him to get into that building.”
Fletcher paused for a moment before coyly admitting, “I may have sketched out a few ideas. Or, to be more precise, six feasible scenarios.”
“I knew it!” said Monty.
Sydney and Paris exchanged happy looks, delighted at the unfolding developments.
“Just give me a second.” Fletcher went over to a wooden file cabinet and pulled out an aged manila folder, which he placed on the table.
“What’s the Bodleian Job?” asked Paris, reading from the tab.
“It’s an idea for a novel in which someone is murdered the same night that the Gutenberg Bible is stolen,” he explained. “They’re seemingly unrelated events, but Isaacs realizes they are, in fact, part of the same crime.”
“I’d read that,” Paris replied.
“So would I,” added Sydney.