Chapter 4

‘You at the airport yet?' Poe asked Doyle after they'd caught up with each other's news.

‘We checked in a couple of hours ago. Boarding in twenty minutes.'

‘How was Tilly's speech?'

‘Weird.'

‘Thank you, Captain Obvious.'

Doyle laughed. It was throaty and full and genuine and made Poe realise just how much he'd missed her this last week.

‘She explained the physics of air travel to a roomful of scientists, then thanked you for five minutes—'

‘Me? Why did she thank me?'

‘She said she got interested in the equation after she watched you cram four pickled onions into your mouth.'

‘But I only did it to make her laugh. She didn't tell them, did she?'

‘What do you think?' Doyle said. ‘She then told everyone you and I were recently engaged and led the entire audience in three hearty cheers for Estelle Doyle and Washington Poe.'

‘She didn't!'

‘Again, what do you think?'

‘But no one would have had the first clue who we were.'

‘There was an undercurrent of confusion,' Doyle admitted. ‘But because of her infectious enthusiasm, they went with it anyway. Strangest thing I've ever witnessed. That woman could lead armies if she put her mind to it.'

‘Oh well, at least she was only talking to a bunch of nerds.'

‘And to anyone watching one of the countless news channels that picked it up. CNN, Sky News, Fox, Al Jazeera and the BBC all had cameras there.'

‘You're joking.'

‘It's a huge deal, Poe. I don't think we've quite realised how much of a rock star Tilly is in the maths world. After her speech, of which I understood nothing, she received a fifteen-minute standing ovation.'

‘Really?'

‘And while we were having dinner after the ceremony, representatives from three US agencies came to our table to offer her a job. And I'm sure one of them was the NSA.'

‘Blimey. She enjoyed it though?'

‘She did. Blundered her way through any number of social faux pas without batting an eyelid. As soon as we arrived, she asked the event organiser, a woman in her fifties, if the dark hairs growing out of her chin were caused by hypertrichosis.'

‘Which is?'

‘It's more commonly known as werewolf syndrome. A point Tilly was very clear about.'

Poe laughed so hard the men playing pool stopped to watch.

‘Laugh all you want; I was standing right next to her. She has no embarrassment threshold at all, does she?'

Poe was about to go toe-to-toe with Doyle on the times Bradshaw had made awkward situations unimaginably worse when the pub's lounge door burst open. A worried-looking man in grass-stained corduroys and a brown felt waistcoat rushed in. His face was ruddy and his hair unkempt, like he'd combed it with his fingers. A man of the soil. Either a gamekeeper or a poacher. He scanned the semi-crowded room until his eyes found Poe's.

‘I'd better go, Estelle,' he said. ‘I think duty's about to call.'