To Say Nothing of the Dog (19 page)

And Drouét tore ahead through the forest to raise a force to stop the carriage, and failing that, dragged a cart out of a barn and across the road to block their way.

And what if an historian had stolen the cart, or waylaid Drouét, or warned Louis’s driver to take another road? Or what if, back at Versailles, an historian had stolen the banknote and replaced it with coins? Louis and Marie would have made it to their loyalist army, put down the Revolution, and changed the entire course of European history.

For want of a cart. Or a cat.

“We should be coming to Sandford Lock soon,” Terence said cheerfully. “We can ask the lock-keeper if he’s seen the boat.”

In a few minutes, we came to the lock, and I thought we were going to have to endure another interminable and incomprehensible conversation, but this time Terence’s earnest shouts failed even to bring the lock-keeper out, and after several minutes he said, undaunted, “There’ll be someone at Nuneham Courtenay,” and set off again.

I didn’t even ask how far Nuneham Courtenay was, for fear of the answer, and beyond the next bend in the river there was a line of willows next to the towpath, obscuring the view. But when we came round the bend, Terence was standing in front of a thatched cottage, looking thoughtfully at a little girl in the front garden. She was sitting on a swing in a blue-and-white-striped pinafore whose petticoats billowed up around her, holding a white cat and talking to it.

“Dear sweet pussy,” she said, “you love to go up in a swing, don’t you? Up in the air so blue?”

The cat didn’t answer. It was sound asleep.

Cats weren’t extinct yet in the Forties, so I’d seen them before, but, except for that sooty streak in the cathedral, I had yet to see one that was awake. Verity had said time-lag had made the cat she brought through the net sleepy, but I wasn’t convinced this wasn’t their normal state. The black-and-orange calico at the Nativity of the Virgin Mary Fête had slept the entire duration of the fête on top of a crocheted afghan on the Fancy Works Table.

“I say, what do you think?” Terence said, indicating the little girl.

I nodded. “She might have seen the boat. And she can’t be any worse than the lock-keeper.”

“No, no. Not the child. The cat.”

“I thought you said Miss Mering’s cat was black,” I said.

“It is. With white feet and a white face,” he said. “But with a bit of boot-blacking in the right spots—”

“No,” I said. “You said she was very attached to her pet.”

“She is, and she’ll be extremely grateful to the person who finds it. You don’t think some soot, carefully applied . . .”

“No,” I said, and walked over to the swing. “Have you seen a boat?”

“Yes, sir,” she said politely.

“Excellent,” Terence said. “Who was in it?”

“In what?” she said.

“In the boat,” Terence said.

“Which boat?” she said, petting the cat. “There are lots and lots of boats. This is the Thames, you see.”

“This was a large green boat with a great deal of luggage piled in it,” Terence said. “Did you see it?”

“Does he bite?” the little girl asked Terence.

“Who? Mr. Henry?” Terence said.

“Cyril,” I said. “No, he doesn’t bite. Did you see a boat like that? With a lot of luggage?”

“Yes,” she said, and got off the swing, shifting the cat to her shoulder. It didn’t wake up. “It went that way,” she said and pointed down the river.

“We know that,” Terence said. “Did you see who was in the boat?”

“Yes,” she said, patting the cat as if she were burping a baby. “Poor, dear pussy, did the big dog frighten you?”

The cat slumbered on.

“Who was in the boat?” I said.

She transferred the cat back to her arms and cradled it. “A reverent.”

“A reverend? You mean, a clergyman? A verger?” I said, wondering if the churchwarden had posted a sign saying, “No docking,” and carted the boat off as punishment.

“Yes,” she said. “Wearing a robe.”

“Professor Peddick,” I said.

“Did he have white hair?” Terence said. “And muttonchop whiskers?”

She nodded, picking the cat up under the front legs and holding it out in front of her like a doll. “What a wicked dog, to frighten you so!”

The cat still didn’t wake up.

“Come on, then,” Terence said, already far ahead. “We should have thought of that,” he said when the wicked dog and I caught up to him, “that it was Professor Peddick who took the boat. He can’t have gone far.”

He gestured at the river, winding slowly off to the southwest between the flat fields. “It looks exactly like the plain of Marathon.”

It might have been a spitting image, for all I knew, but either the resemblance hadn’t struck Professor Peddick or he could row faster than I thought. Neither he nor the boat were anywhere to be seen.

Terence didn’t seem bothered. “We’re bound to spot him soon.”

“What if we don’t catch up to him?” I said.

“We shall,” he said. “There’s a lock five miles from here. He’ll have to wait to go through it.”

“Five miles?” I said weakly.

“And we must catch up to him. That’s how Fate works. Like Antony and Cleopatra.”

Yet another love story that hadn’t turned out well.

“Would Antony have let a little thing like a lost boat stand in his way? Though I suppose in his case it would have been a barge.”

We struggled on. The Victorian sun beat down, Terence hurried on at an energetic pace, comparing Tossie to angels, fairies, sprites, and Cleopatra (a truly bad end); Cyril began to take on the demeanor of a Bataan Death March participant; and I thought longingly of sleep and tried to calculate how long I had been up.

I had been here since ten, and my pocket watch said nearly IV, so that was six hours, and I had spent three hours in the lab being prepped, an hour in Mr. Dunworthy’s office, a half hour on the playing fields of Oxford, ditto in Infirmary, which added up to eleven, and that didn’t count the two hours I’d spent looking for the bishop’s bird stump and the hour I’d spent looking for the cathedral, and the five hours I’d spent at the Harvest Charity Bazaar and Scrap Metal Drive. Nineteen.

When had I gone through to the bazaar, in the morning or the afternoon? Afternoon, because I was just heading back to my rooms for dinner when Lady Schrapnell caught me and put me on jumble sale duty.

No, that was the day before. Or the day before that. How long had I been doing jumble sales? Years. I had been up for years.

“We’re going to have to give this up,” I said, thinking wearily of how far it was back to Oxford. Perhaps we could sleep in the church in Iffley. No, it was only open until four. And no doubt there was a “No sleeping in pews” sign tacked to the hymnal rack.

“Look!” Terence cried. He pointed to a willow-covered island in the middle of the river. “There he is!”

It was definitely Professor Peddick. He was bending over at the very edge of the river, his robe fluttering, peering through his pince-nez at the water.

“Professor Peddick!” Terence shouted to him, and he nearly toppled in.

The professor grabbed hold of an uncertain-looking willow branch and steadied himself. He adjusted his pince-nez and peered at us.

“It’s us,” Terence shouted, cupping his hands round his mouth. “St. Trewes and Henry. We’ve been looking for you.”

“Ah, St. Trewes,” Peddick shouted. “Come over. I’ve found some excellent shallows, perfect for chub.”

“You must come over here and fetch us,” Terence said.

“Hitches?” Professor Peddick said, and I thought, here we go again.

“Fetch
us,” Terence said. “You’ve got the boat.”

“Ah,” Professor Peddick said. “Stay there.” He disappeared into a thicket of willows.

“Let’s hope he remembered to tie up the boat,” I said.

“Let’s hope he remembers where he left it,” Terence said, sitting down on the bank.

I sat down next to him, and Cyril lay down and immediately rolled over on his side and began to snore. I wished I could do the same.

Now we’d have to row the professor all the way back to Oxford, which would take at least three hours,
if
we could talk him out of stopping at every fish and meadow.

But perhaps this was all to the good. Verity had said to keep Terence away from Muchings End, and this was certainly doing that. It would be dark by the time we reached Oxford. We’d have to spend the night, and in the morning perhaps I could talk Terence into going upriver to Parson’s Pleasure. Or going down to London or to a horse race. When was Derby Day?

Or, who knows, with a good night’s sleep he might come to his senses and see Tossie for the twittering ignoramus she was. Infatuation was a lot like time-lag, an imbalance of chemicals, cured by a good night’s sleep.

There was no sign of the professor. “He’s found a new variety of chub and forgotten all about us,” Terence said, but presently the boat appeared, nosing around the end of the island, Professor Peddick’s sleeves billowing like black sails as he rowed.

The boat pulled up downstream from us, and we scrambled down the towpath to it, Cyril wobbling after us.

I turned to urge him. “Come along, Cyril,” I said, and crashed into Terence, who had stopped short and was staring down at the boat.

“You cannot imagine the wonderful discoveries I’ve made,” Professor Peddick said. “This island is the very image of the location of the battle of Dunreath Mow.” He held up the pan. “I want to show you the double-gilled blue chub I’ve found.”

Terence was still staring strickenly at the boat.

I couldn’t see any scrapes or dents except for the ones that had been there when Jabez rented it to us, and there didn’t seem to be any holes. The boards of the stern and the bow looked perfectly dry.

The boards of the stern. And the bow. “Terence . . .” I said.

“Professor Peddick,” Terence said in a strangled voice. “What’s happened to our things?”

“Things?” Professor Peddick said vaguely.

“The luggage. Ned’s portmanteau and the baskets and—”

“Ah,” the professor said. “Under the
Salix babylonica
on the far side of the island. Climb in. I shall ferry you across like Charon bearing souls over the River Styx.”

I climbed in and helped Terence get Cyril in, propping his front legs on the gunwale while Terence hoisted his rear legs over and then clambered in himself.

“Wonderful gravel bottoms,” Professor Peddick said, and began rowing across. “Perfect spot for dace. Lots of midges and flies. I caught a trout with a red ridge-gill slit. Have you a net, St. Trewes?”

“A net?”

“For trawling. I do not want to endanger the mouth by using a hook.”

“There really isn’t time for fishing,” Terence said. “We must repack the boat as quickly as we can and then start back.”

“Nonsense. I’ve found a perfect place to camp.”

“Camp?” Terence said.

“No use in going home and then having to come back again. Chub bite best near sundown.”

“But what about your sister and her companion?” He pulled out his pocket watch. “It’s nearly five o’clock. If we leave now, you can be there to see them at dinner.”

“No need,” he said. “A pupil of mine has already met them.”

“
I’m
that pupil, professor,” Terence said.

“Nonsense. This pupil was boating along the Thames while I was working on my—” He peered at Terence through his pince-nez. “By George, you are.”

“I met the 10:55,” Terence said, “but your sister and her companion weren’t on it, so they must have come in on the 3:18.”

“Didn’t come,” he said, peering into the water. “Good grass for perch.”

“I know your sister didn’t come,” Terence persisted, “but if she arrived on the 3:18—”

“Not my sister,” he said, pushing up the sleeve of his robe and sticking his hand in the water. “Her companion. Ran off and got married.”

“Married?” I said. The woman on the platform had talked about someone getting married.

“In spite of my sister’s best efforts. Met him at church. Classic example of individual action. History is character. She brought my niece instead.”

“Your niece?” I said.

“Lovely girl.” He brought up a slimy piece of trailing brown grass. “Wonderful at labelling specimens. Too bad you weren’t there to meet them when they arrived so you could have met her.”

“I was, but they weren’t there,” Terence said.

“You’re certain?” Professor Peddick said, handing the grass to me. “Maudie’s letter was quite clear about the time.” He patted his coat pockets.

“Maudie?” I said, hoping I’d misheard.

“Named after her poor dear mother, Maud,” he said, looking through his pockets. “Would have made a good naturalist if she were a boy. Must have lost the letter when Overforce tried to murder me. Certain it was the 10:55. Might have been tomorrow’s train, though. What day is it? Ah, here we are, arrived at last in paradise, ‘the Elysian plain at the ends of the earth, where fair-haired Rhadamanthys is.’ ”

The boat hit the shore with a jolt hard enough to wake Cyril, but it was nothing to the jolt I’d just had. Maud. I had made Terence miss meeting the “agèd relicts.” If it hadn’t been for me, Professor Peddick’s sister and niece would still have been sitting on the platform waiting for Terence when he skidded in. And if I hadn’t told him no one of that description had come in on the train, he’d have caught up with them on their way to Balliol. But he had said “agèd relicts.” He had said they were “positively antediluvian.”

“Can you get the rope, Ned?” Terence said, pulling the nose of the boat into the shore.

Meetings are notoriously pivotal in the complex chaotic course of history. Lord Nelson and Emma Hamilton. Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn. Crick and Watson. John Lennon and Paul McCartney. And Terence was supposed to have met Maud on that railway platform in Oxford.

“Ned?”
Terence said. “Can you get the rope?”

I took a giant step onto the muddy bank with the rope and tied the boat up, thinking this was the last thing I should be doing.

“Hadn’t we better leave for Oxford now to meet your niece? And sister,” I added. They wouldn’t be at the station, but at least they’d have met. “We can leave this luggage here and come back for it. Two ladies, travelling alone. They’ll need someone to see to their luggage.”