To Say Nothing of the Dog (37 page)

“What about the slippage in 2018? Have they found out what’s causing that?” I said.

She shook her head. “Mrs. Bittner couldn’t remember anything. 2018 was the year Fujisaki did his first work on the possibility of incongruities occurring, and they made modifications to the net so it would shut down automatically if the slippage became too great, but that was in September. The area of increased slippage was in April.”

She opened the door and peered out. “Perhaps tomorrow morning Mr. C will come to help set up for the fête, and we won’t have to do anything,” she whispered.

“Or we’ll hit an iceberg,” I whispered back.

I realized as soon as I’d shut the door behind her that I hadn’t asked her about Finch.

I waited five minutes to make sure Verity had made it safely back to her room and then put on my bathrobe and tiptoed carefully down the corridor, carefully avoiding the obstacles in the dark: Laocoön, whose situation I could empathize with; fern; bust of Darwin; umbrella stand.

I tapped softly on Verity’s door.

She opened it immediately, looking upset. “You’re not supposed to rap,” she whispered, looking anxiously down the corridor to Mrs. Mering’s room.

“Sorry,” I whispered, sidling in the door.

Verity shut the door carefully. It made a soft snick. “What do you want?” she whispered.

“I forgot to ask you if you found out what Finch was doing here,” I whispered back.

“Mr. Dunworthy wouldn’t tell me,” she said, looking worried. “He told me the same thing Finch told you, that it was a ‘related project.’ I think he was sent to drown Princess Arjumand.”

“What?” I said, forgetting I was supposed to whisper.
“Finch?
You’re joking.”

She shook her head. “The forensics expert translated part of one of the references to Princess Arjumand. It said ‘. . . poor drowned Princess Arjumand.’ ”

“But how do they know that wasn’t written while they were still looking for her? And why would they send Finch? He wouldn’t harm a fly.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Perhaps they don’t trust us to do it, and Finch was the only person available to send.”

I could believe that, given Lady Schrapnell’s penchant for recruiting anyone who wasn’t nailed down. “But Finch?” I said, unconvinced. “And if that’s what he’s supposed to be doing, why would they send him to Mrs. Chattisbourne’s instead of here?”

“They probably think Mrs. Mering will steal him away.”

“You
have had too many drops. We will talk about this in the morning,” I said, looked out into the pitch-black hall, and slid out the door.

Verity shut the door silently behind me and I started back. Umbrella stand—

“Mesiel!” Mrs. Mering’s voice cried. The corridor sprang into light. “I knew it!” Mrs. Mering said, and advanced on me holding a kerosene lamp.

The top of the stairs was too far away to make a run for it, and anyway, Baine was coming up them, carrying a candle. There wasn’t even time to move away from my incriminating location in front of Verity’s door. This was hardly what Mr. Dunworthy meant by “containing the situation.”

I wondered if I could get away with saying I had just been downstairs to get a book. Without a candle. And where was said book? For a fantastic moment, I wondered if I could claim I was sleepwalking, like the hero in
The Moonstone.

“I was—” I said, and was cut off by Mrs. Mering.

“I
knew
it!” she said. “You heard it, too, Mr. Henry, didn’t you?”

Tossie’s door opened and she peeked out, her hair in rag curlers. “Ma
ma
, what is it?”

“A spirit!” Mrs. Mering said. “Mr. Henry heard it, too, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” I said. “I had just come out to investigate. I thought it was an intruder, but there was no one here.”

“Did you hear it, Baine?” Mrs. Mering demanded. “A rapping sound, very faint, and then a sort of whispering sound?”

“No, madam,” Baine said. “I was in the breakfast room, setting out the silver for breakfast.”

“But
you
heard it, Mr. Henry,” Mrs. Mering said. “I
know
you did. You were white as a sheet when I came out in the corridor. There was a rapping and then whispers and a sort of—”

“Ethereal moan,” I said.

“Exactly!” Mrs. Mering said. “I think there must be more than one spirit and they are speaking to one another. Did you see anything, Mr. Henry?”

“A sort of glimmer in white,” I said, in case she’d seen Verity shutting the door, “just for a moment, and then it vanished.”

“O!” Mrs. Mering said excitedly. “Mesiel! Come here! Mr. Henry has seen a spirit!”

Colonel Mering did not respond, and in the little silence before she called to him again, the faint sound of Cyril’s snoring wafted down the corridor. We weren’t out of the woods yet.

“There!” I said, pointing to the wall above Lady Schrapnell’s portrait. “Did you hear that?”

“Yes!” Mrs. Mering said, mashing her hand to her bosom. “What did it sound like?”

“The sound of bells,” I said, improvising, “and then a sort of sob—”

“Exactly,” Mrs. Mering said. “The attic. Baine, open the attic door. We must go up.”

At this point Verity finally made an appearance, clutching her wrapper and blinking sleepily. “What is it, Aunt Malvinia?”

“The spirit I saw two nights ago out by the gazebo,” Mrs. Mering said. “It is in the attic.”

Just then Cyril gave an enormous snuffling snort from the unmistakable direction of my room.

Verity instantly looked up at the ceiling. “I hear them!” she said. “Ghostly footsteps overhead!”

We spent the next two hours in the attic, tripping over cobwebs and looking for vanishing glimmers of white. Mrs. Mering didn’t find any, but she did find a ruby glass fruit compote, a lithograph of Landseer’s
The Monarch of the Glen,
and a moth-eaten tigerskin rug for the jumble sale.

She insisted on poor Baine carrying them down on the spot. “Amazing, simply amazing, the treasures one finds in attics,” she said rapturously. “Don’t you agree, Mr. Henry?”

“Umm,” I said, yawning.

“I am afraid the spirit has departed,” Baine said, coming back up the attic stairs. “We may only frighten it by our further presence.”

“You are quite right, Baine,” she said, and we were able, finally, to go to bed.

I was afraid Cyril might be at it again when we came down the corridor, but there was no sound from my room. Cyril and Princess Arjumand were sitting bolt upright in the middle of the bed, engaged in a nose (such as it was for Cyril) to nose staring match.

“No staring,” I said, taking off my robe and crawling into bed. “No snoring. No sprawling.”

There was none of the above. Instead, they paced round the bed, sniffing each other’s tails (such as it was for Cyril) and looking daggers at each other.

“Lie down,” I hissed, and then lay there in the dark, worrying about what to do and thinking about the accidental bombing of London.

It made sense that that was a crisis point. There had only been two planes involved, and very little would have been required to shift the course of events: they might have spotted a landmark and realized where they were, or their bombs might have fallen on a marrows field or in the Channel, or they might have been hit by flak. Or something even smaller, some tiny event that no one was aware of. It was a chaotic system.

So there was no way to tell what we should do, or not do, and how it would affect Terence’s marrying Maud.

Cyril and Princess Arjumand were still pacing over the bed. “Lie
down,”
I said, and, amazingly, Cyril did, flopping at my feet. Princess Arjumand walked over to him, sat down next to his head, and smacked him smartly on the nose.

Cyril sat up, looking aggrieved, and Princess Arjumand stretched out in his place.

If only it were that simple. Action and reaction. Cause and effect. But in a chaotic system, the effect wasn’t always what one intended.

Look at the letter I’d tried to burn tonight. And the battleship
Nevada.
It had been damaged in the first wave of attack at Pearl Harbor, but not sunk, and it had fired up its boilers and tried to get underway and out of the harbor to where it could maneuver. And as a result it had nearly sunk in the channel, where it would have blocked the entire harbor entrance for months.

On the other hand, a radar technician at Opana Station had telephoned his superior officer at 7:05 AM., nearly fifty minutes before the attack on Pearl Harbor, and reported a large number of unidentified planes coming in from the north. His superior officer had told him to ignore it, it was nothing at all, and gone back to bed.

And then there was Wheeler Field, where, trying to protect the planes from sabotage, they had parked them all in the middle of the field. Where it had taken the Japanese Zeros exactly two and a half minutes to destroy them all.

Lady Schrapnell’s motto might be “God is in the details,” but mine was rapidly becoming, “Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.”

I was still thinking about Pearl Harbor when I went down to breakfast. Tossie was standing at the sideboard, holding Princess Arjumand and taking the lids off each of the silver serving dishes and then putting them back on with a dissatisfied expression.

It was the first time I had felt any kinship with her. Poor thing, consigned to a life of frivolousness and wretched things for breakfast. Not allowed to go to school or do anything worthwhile, and eel pie besides. I was thinking I’d been too hard on her when she slammed down the snarling wolf dtsh, picked up the silver bell sitting next to it, and rang it violently.

Baine appeared in a moment, his arms full of coconuts and a length of purple bunting draped over his shoulders. “Yes, miss?” he said.

“Why is there no fish for breakfast this morning?” Tossie said.

“Mrs. Posey is engaged in preparing the cakes and refreshments for the fxte tomorrow,” Baine said. “I told her four hot dishes were sufficient.”

“Well, they are not,” Tossie snapped.

Jane came in with an armful of antimacassars, bobbed a curtsey at Tossie, and said hurriedly, “Beggin’ your pardon, miss. Mr. Baine, the men are here with the tea tent, and Miss Stiggins’s footman is wantin’ to know where the extra chairs are to go.”

“Thank you, Jane,” Baine said. “Tell them I will be there directly.”

“Yes, sorr,” Jane said, bobbed, and ran out.

“I should like grilled trout for breakfast. Since Mrs. Posey is busy,
you
can prepare it,” Tossie said, and if I’d been Baine I’d have beaned her with one of the coconuts.

Baine merely looked hard at her, clearly trying to maintain a poker face, and said, “As you wish, miss.” He looked at Princess Arjumand. “If you will allow me to speak, miss, encouraging your pet to eat fish is not good for her. It only—”

“I do
not
allow you to speak,” Tossie said imperiously. “You’re a servant. Bring me the grilled trout immediately.”

“As you wish, miss,” he said, and started out, juggling his coconuts to keep them from falling.

“I want it served on a silver dish,” Tossie called after him. “And tie up that horrid dog of Terence’s. It tried to chase my dearums Juju this morning.”

All right, that settled it. Tossie couldn’t be allowed to marry Terence, and the hell with what our meddling might do to the continuum. A universe in which Cyril (and Baine) had to put up with that wasn’t worth having.

I ran upstairs to Professor Peddick’s room. He wasn’t there, but I found Terence in his room. He was shaving.

“I’ve been thinking,” I said, watching him brush soap on his face in fascination. “This is the third day Professor Peddick’s been away from Oxford, and we still haven’t been down to Runnymede. Perhaps we should go there today and then back to Oxford tomorrow. I mean, we’re only in the way here, what with the jumble sale and all.”

“I promised Miss Mering I’d stay and help with the fête,” he said, scraping the lethally sharp blade along his cheek. “She wants me to be in charge of the Pony Ride.”

“We could take him to Oxford on the train this afternoon,” I said, “and be back in time for the fête. The professor’s sister and niece are no doubt missing him.”

“He sent them a telegram,” Terence said, shaving his chin.

“But they may only be visiting for a short time,” I said. “It would be a shame for him to miss them.”

He looked unconvinced.

“ ‘Time is fleeting,’ ” I said, deciding perhaps a quote was what was needed, “ ‘and opportunities once miss’d, do ne’ er return.’ ”

“True,” Terence said, complacently drawing the blade across his jugular. “But people like Professor Peddick’s relations always stay forever.” He wiped the remains of the soap off with the towel. “The bluestocking niece has probably come up to campaign for women’s colleges, or suffrage, or something, and they’ll be in Oxford all term. Modern girls! Thank goodness Miss Mering is an old-fashioned girl, shy and demure and ‘sweet as the dewy, milk-white thorn, dear as the raptured thrill of joy.’ ”

It was hopeless, but I continued to try for several more minutes, and then went to work on Professor Peddick.

I didn’t make it. Mrs. Mering waylaid me on my way to the fishpond and sent me to put up placards in the village, and it was nearly noon by the time I got back.

Verity was on a ladder on the lawn, putting up Chinese lanterns between the stalls the workmen were hammering together. “Any luck with the diary?”

“No,” she said disgustedly. “I’ve searched every ruffle and cranny of her room, and nothing.” She stepped down off the ladder. “Any luck with Terence?”

I shook my head. “Where is he?” I said, looking round at the stalls. “He’s not with Tossie, is he?”

“No,” she said. “Mrs. Mering sent Terence to Goring for prizes for the fishing stall, and Tossie’s over at the Chattisbournes’ borrowing a ribbon for her hat. She should be gone all afternoon.”

“For a ribbon?”

She nodded. “I told her she needed a special shade of lilac halfway between mauve and periwinkle, with just a hint of lavender blue. And the Chattisbourne girls will want to hear all about you. Both Tossie and Terence should be safely occupied till tea.”

“Good,” I said. “I’m going to work on Professor Peddick this afternoon.”