To Say Nothing of the Dog (28 page)

“De naughty bad doggums is aww gone and dearum Juju don’t have to be afwaid no more,” Tossie said.

“O, this is all too much!” Mrs. Mering said, putting her hand dramatically to her forehead.

“Here,” Verity said, sticking the smelling salts under her nose. “I’ll be glad to show Mr. Henry to his room.

“Verity!” Mrs. Mering said in a voice that left no question of her being related to Lady Schrapnell. “That is
quite
unnecessary. The maid can show Mr. Henry to his room.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Verity said meekly and started across the room, catching her skirts up expertly so they didn’t brush against the claw-footed table legs or the scrollwork aspidistra stand. As she reached for the bellpull’s tassel, she murmured, “I am so glad to see you. I’ve been worried sick.”

“I—” I said.

“Take me up to my room, Tossie,” Mrs. Mering said. “I am feeling quite overcome. Verity, tell Baine I want a cup of chamomile tea. Mesiel, don’t bother Professor Peddick with your silly fish.”

Colleen appeared in the midst of her giving orders and was told to take me up to my room.

“Yes, ma’am,” she said, bobbed a curtsey and led me up the stairs, stopping at the bottom to light a lamp.

The decorating notion that “Less is more” had apparently not been invented yet. The walls next to the stairway and above it were solid with gilt-framed portraits of various Mering ancestors in gold lace, knee-breeches, and armor, and the corridor was lined with an umbrella stand, a bust of Darwin, a large fern, and a statue of Laocoön entangled with an enormous snake.

Colleen led me halfway down the corridor and stopped outside a painted door. She opened it, curtsied, and held it open for me. “Your bedroom, sir,” she said. Her Irish brogue made the “sir” sound like “sorr.”

This room was not quite so crowded as the parlor. It only had a bed, a washstand, a nightstand, a wooden chair, a chintz-covered chair, a bureau, a looking-glass, and an enormous wardrobe which covered one entire wall—a blessing since the wallpaper consisted of trellises up which crawled enormous blue morning glories.

The maid set the lamp on the nightstand and darted across the room to take the pitcher off the washstand. “I’ll just be bringin’ you your hot water, sorr,” she said, and ducked out.

I looked round the room. The Victorian interior decorating motto was apparently “No stone uncovered.” The bed was covered with a bedspread which was in turn covered with a white openwork crocheted thing, the dressing table and the bureau were topped with bouquets of dried flowers and white linen scarves edged with tatting, and the nightstand was draped with a paisley shawl over which lay a crocheted doily.

Even the toilet articles on the bureau had knitted covers. I took them out and examined them, hoping they weren’t as obscure as the kitchen utensils had been. No, those were brushes and that was a shaving brush and a mug with soap in it.

Twentieth Century has us use long-term depils on our drops, since shaving conditions are usually primitive, and I’d used one when I started my jumble sales, but it wouldn’t last the whole time I was here. Had the safety razor been invented in 1888?

I took the knitted case off an enameled box and opened it and got my answer. In it lay two ivory-handled straight-edge razors with lethal-looking blades.

There was a knock on the door. I opened it, and the maid came in, lugging the pitcher, which was nearly as large as she was. “Your hot water, sorr,” she said, setting the pitcher down and bobbing another curtsey. “If you’ll be needing anything else, just ring the bell there.”

She waved vaguely at a long ribbon embroidered with violets hanging above the bed, and it was a good thing I’d seen Tossie use a bellpull, or I would have taken it for part of the decorations.

“Thank you, Colleen,” I said.

She stopped in mid-bob, looking uncomfortable. “Begging your pardon, sorr,” she said, twisting the skirt of her apron in her hands, “it’s Jane.”

“Oh,” I said. “Sorry. I must have misunderstood. I thought your name was Colleen.”

She twisted some more. “No, sorr, it’s Jane, sorr.”

“Well, then, thank you, Jane,” I said.

She looked relieved. “Good night, sorr,” she said, bobbed her way out, and shut the door.

I stood there, looking at the bed almost in awe, scarcely able to believe I was actually going to get what I had come to the Victorian era for—a good night’s sleep. It seemed almost too good to be true. A soft bed, warm covers, blissful unconsciousness. No rocks, no missing cats to search for, no rain. No jumble sales, no bishop’s bird stump, no Lady Schrapnell.

I sat down on the bed. It sank in beneath me, smelling faintly of lavender, and entropy took over. I was suddenly too tired even to get undressed. I wondered how outraged Colleen—no, Jane—would be to come in and find me fully dressed in the morning.

I was still worried about incongruities and what I was going to tell Verity, but they would have to wait. And in the morning I would be rested, rejuvenated, finally cured of time-lag and able to reason out how to deal with the problem. If there was still a problem. Perhaps Princess Arjumand, safely back in the ruffled bosom of her owner, would restore balance and the incongruity would begin to heal itself. And if it didn’t, why, after a good night’s sleep I’d be able to
think,
able to reason out a plan of action.

The thought of that gave me the strength to spare the maid’s sensibilities. I took off my soggy coat, hung it over the bedpost, and sat down on the bed and began pulling off my boots.

I made it as far as one boot and half a saturated sock before there was a knock.

It’s the maid, I thought hopefully, bringing me a hot water bottle or a penwiper or something, and if her sensibilities are offended by a stockinged foot, so be it. I’m not putting my boot back on.

It wasn’t the maid. It was Baine. He was carrying the carpetbag. “I have been down to the river, sir,” he said, “and I regret that I was only able to save one of your baskets, your portmanteau, and this carpetbag, which was, unfortunately, empty and damaged.” He indicated one of the slits I’d cut for Princess Arjumand. “It must have been caught in a weir before it washed onto the shore. I’ll repair it for you, sir.”

I didn’t want him examining it closely and finding telltale cat hairs. “No, that’s all right,” I said, reaching for it.

“I assure you, sir,” he said, “it can be sewn so that it’s as good as new.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll take care of it.”

“As you wish, sir,” he said.

He crossed to the window and pulled the curtains shut. “We are still looking for the boat,” he said. “I have notified the lock-keeper at Pangbourne Lock.”

“Thank you,” I said, impressed at his efficiency, and wishing he would go away so I could go to bed.

“Your clothes from the portmanteau are being washed and ironed for you, sir. I also retrieved your boater.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Very good, sir,” he said and I thought he was about to leave, but instead he just stood there.

I wondered if there was something I was supposed to say to dismiss him and what it was. One didn’t tip butlers, did one? I tried to remember what the subliminals had said. “That will be all, Baine,” I said finally.

“Yes, sir.” He bowed slightly and started out, but at the door he hesitated again, as if there were something else.

“Good night,” I said, hoping that was it.

“Good night, sir,” he said and went out.

I sat down on the bed. This time I didn’t even get the boot off before there was a knock.

It was Terence. “Thank goodness you’re still up, Ned,” he said. “You’ve got to help me. We’ve got a crisis on our hands.”

“. . .
the curious incident of the dog in the nighttime.”

“
The dog did nothing in the nighttime.”

“
That was the curious incident,”remarked Sherlock Holmes.

Arthur Conan Doyle

C H A P T E R T W E L V E

A Rescue—Why English Country Houses Have a Reputation for Being Haunted—Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Elopement—Visitors—A Confession—The Mystery of Princess Arjumand’s Drowning Solved—More Visitors—The Charge of the Light Brigade—Rules of Mystery Novels—The Least Likely Suspect—An Unpleasant Discovery

The crisis was Cyril. “A stable! He’s never slept outside, you know,” Terence said, apparently forgetting about the night before.

“Poor Cyril!” he said, looking desperate. “Cast into outer darkness! With horses!” He paced the length of the room. “It’s barbaric, expecting him to sleep outside after he’s been in the river. And in his condition!”

“His condition?” I said.

“Cyril has a weak chest,” he said. “A tendency to catarrh.” He stopped pacing to peer out between the curtains. “He’s probably already caught a cough. We’ve got to get him inside.” He let the curtains drop. “I want you to sneak him up to your room.”

“Me?” I said. “Why can’t you sneak him up to your room?”

“Mrs. Mering will be watching out for me. I heard her tell the butler he was to see to it that the
animal
slept outside.
Animal!”

“Then how can I get him in?”

“The butler will be watching me, not you. You should have seen the look on his face when I told him he had to stay. Absolutely betrayed. ‘Et tu, Brute.’ ”

“All right,” I said. “But I still don’t see how I’m supposed to get past Baine.”

“I’ll go and ring for a cup of cocoa. That’ll keep him out of your way. You’re an absolute brick to do this. ‘Best friend, my wellspring in the wilderness!’ ”

He opened the door and looked both ways. “All clear for the moment. I’ll give it five minutes so you can put your boots back on, and then ring for the refreshments. If he does catch you, you can simply tell him you’ve come out for a smoke.”

“And if he catches me on the way back with Cyril in tow?”

“He won’t. I’ll ask for a glass of claret, as well. Chateau Margaux, ‘75. These country houses never have a decent wine cellar.”

He looked both ways again and sidled out, shutting the door softly behind him, and I went over to the bed and looked at my socks.

It is not an easy thing to put on a wet sock, let alone a wet boot on over it, and there was a certain reluctance involved. It took me well over five minutes to put them on and start down. I hoped that the Merings’ wine cellar was at the opposite end of the house.

I opened the door a crack and peered down the corridor. I couldn’t see anyone, or anything, for that matter, and wished I had paid more attention to the placement of the furniture and statuary.

It was so dark I debated going back for the lamp with the dangling crystals on it, trying to weigh which was worse: being caught by Mrs. Mering when she saw the light or being caught by Mrs. Mering after I’d crashed into the statue of Laocoön.

I decided the latter. If the servants were up, and I didn’t see how they could not be, with all those tablecloths to wash and starch, they’d see the light and come scurrying up to ask me if there was anything else, sir. And my eyes were gradually adjusting to the darkness, enough at any rate to make out the outline of the corridor. If I kept to the very center of it I should be all right.

I felt my way to the head of the stairs, tripping over a large fern that rocked wildly on its stand before I managed to steady it, and what turned out to be a pair of boots.

I puzzled over those and what they meant the rest of the way to the staircase, and nearly tripped over another pair, Tossie’s dainty white lace-up boots this time, and remembered the subliminals saying something about people putting their boots outside their doors at night for the servants to polish. No doubt after they were done with doing up the tablecloths and brewing cocoa and swimming down the Thames looking for stray boats.

There was more light here. I started down the stairs. The fourth step creaked loudly and when I looked anxiously back up the stairs there was Lady Schrapnell, glaring at me from the head of the stairs.

My heart stopped cold.

When it finally started up again, I realized she was wearing a pleated ruff and one of those long, pointed waists, and that Lady Schrapnell was still safely on the Other Side and this must be one of the Merings’ Elizabethan ancestors. And no wonder Victorian country houses had a reputation for being haunted.

The rest of the way was easy, though I had a bad moment at the front door when I thought it was locked and I might have to go through that maze of a parlor and out the French doors, but it was only bolted, and it made scarcely any noise when I shoved the bolt back. And the moon was shining outside.

I had no idea which of several outbuildings shining whitely in the moonlight was the stable. I tried a potting shed and what turned out to be a henhouse before the whinny of horses, no doubt awakened by the hens, put me in the right direction.

And Cyril looked so pathetically glad to see me that I was sorry for the curses I’d been rehearsing for Terence. “Come along, old fellow,” I said. “You have to be very quiet. Like Flush, when Elizabeth Barrett Browning eloped.”

Which had been in these times, come to think of it. I wondered how she had managed to sneak down the stairs and out of a pitch-black house without killing herself. And carrying a suitcase and a cocker spaniel, too. I was beginning to have a lot of respect for the Victorians.

Cyril’s version of being quiet consisted of heavy breathing punctuated by snorts. Halfway up the steps, he stopped cold, staring up at the head of the stairs.

“It’s all right,” I said, urging him on. “It’s only a painting. Nothing to be afraid of. Careful of the fern.”

We made it down the corridor and into my room without incident. I shut the door and leaned gratefully against it. “Good boy. Flush would be proud of you,” I said, and saw that he had a black boot in his mouth, which he had apparently picked up along the way.
“No!”
I said and lunged for it. “Give me that!”

Bulldogs had originally been bred to grab a bull’s nose and hang on for dear life. That trait persisted. I yanked and pulled and tugged to no avail. I let go. “Drop that boot,” I said, “or I am taking you straight back out to the stable.”