To Say Nothing of the Dog

by Connie Willis

  And the last thing we needed was Terence quoting Keats’s “Ode on a Grecian Urn.” I looked desperately at Verity, trying to think of something to get us out of here and somewhere we could talk. The dogtoothed ornamentation? Cyril? Verity was looking round calmly at the stone vaulting, as if we had all the time in the world.

  “‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty,’”Terence said. “‘That is all ye know—’”

  “Do you suppose it’s haunted?” Verity said.

  Terence stopped quoting. “Haunted?”

  “Haunted?” Tossie said happily and gave a miniature version of a scream, a sort of screamlet. “Of course it is. Madame Iritosky says that there are certain places that act as portals between one world and the next,” she said.

  I glanced at Verity, but she looked serene, untroubled by Tossie’s having just described the net.

  “Madame Iritosky says that spirits often hover near the portal by which their souls passed to the Other Side,” Tossie explained to Terence. “That’s why séances fail so often, because they’re not close enough to a portal. That’s why Madame Iritosky always holds her seances at home, instead of travelling to people’s homes. And a churchyard would be a logical portal.” She looked up at the ribbed vaulting and gave another screamlet. “They could be here with us now!”

  “I should imagine the churchwarden would know of any spirits,” Verity said helpfully.

  Yes, and would have put up a sign saying, “No manifestations,” I thought. “Absolutely no ectoplasm.”

  “Oh, yes!” Tossie said and gave another of her little scream-lets. “Mr. St. Trewes, we must ask the churchwarden!” They went out the door, consulted the sign, and started off for Harwood House and the churchwarden, who would no doubt be delighted to see them.

  “All Mr. Dunworthy would tell me was that he was sending me back to two hours after I’d rescued the cat,” Verity said, picking up where she’d left off, “and to report back if there was any unusual slippage or coincidental happenings, and I assumed that meant Princess Arjumand was already back at Muchings End. But when I came through, she wasn’t there. Tossie had discovered she was missing and had the whole household out searching for her, and I began to worry that something had gone wrong. And before I could report back to Mr. Dunworthy and find out what had happened, Mrs. Mering had hauled us all off to Oxford, and Tossie had met Count de Vecchio.”

  “Count de Vecchio?”

  “A young man at one of the séances. Rich, handsome, charming. Perfect, in fact, except that his name begins with a ‘V’ and not a ‘C.’ He’s interested in theosophy,” she said. “He was also interested in Tossie. He insisted on sitting next to her at the table so he could hold her hand, and he told her not to be afraid if she felt a touch on her feet, that it was only the spirits. That’s why I suggested the walk by the Thames, to get her away from him, and then Terence came rowing by, and his name doesn’t begin with a ‘C’ either And he seemed so smitten with her. Not that that’s unusual Every young man who meets Tossie is smitten with her.” She looked up at me from under her veil. “Speaking of which, why aren’t you?”

  “She thinks Henry the Eighth had eight wives,” I said.

  “I know, but I’d have thought with your time-lag you’d have been in poor Titania’s condition, wandering about ready to fall in love with the first girl you saw.”

  “Which was you,” I said.

  If she had been the untouched English rose she looked like, she’d have blushed a becoming pink under that veil, but she was Twenty-First Century.

  “You’ll get over it,” she said, sounding just like the Infirmary nurse, “as soon as you’ve had a good night’s sleep. I wish I could say the same for Tossie’s suitors. Especially Terence. Tossie seems so taken with him. She insisted on coming to Iffley this afternoon even though Madame Iritosky had arranged a special seance for finding Princess Arjumand. And on the way over in the carriage, she asked me what I thought of plum cake for a bride’s cake. That’s when I got truly worried that my taking the cat had caused an incongruity and Count de Vecchio and Terence would never have met Tossie if she hadn’t come to Oxford, and neither of their names begins with a ‘C.’ ”

  I was getting lost again. “Why do their names need to begin with a ‘C’?”

  “Because that summer—this summer—she married someone whose name begins with a ‘C.’ ”

  “How do you know? I thought the diary was unreadable.”

  “It is.” She walked over to a pew and sat down next to a sign that read, “Sitting in pews allowed only during services.”

  “Then couldn’t the ‘C’ refer to that trip to Coventry that changed her life forever?” I said. “Coventry begins with a ‘C’”

  She shook her head. “Her diary entry for May 6, 1938 says, ‘This summer we shall have been married fifty years, and I am happier than I ever thought possible being Mr. C-something’s wife,’ but the middle of his name is blotted out, and the letter ‘w’ of ‘wife.’”

  “Blotted?”

  “An ink stain. Pens did that in those days, you know”

  “And you’re certain it’s a ‘C’ and not a ‘G’?”

  “Yes.”

  That seemed to rule out not only Count de Vecchio and Terence but also Professor Peddick and Jabez. And thankfully, me.

  “Who is this Mr. Chips or Chesterton or Coleridge she’s supposed to marry?” I said.

  “I don’t know. It’s no one she’s ever mentioned and no one who’s ever been to Muchings End. I asked Colleen, the parlor maid. She’d never heard of him.”

  There was the sound of distant voices from outside. Verity stood up. “Walk with me,” she said. “Pretend we’re examining the architecture.” She strolled over to the baptismal font and looked interestedly at it.

  “So you don’t know who this Mr. C is, but you know it’s someone Tossie hasn’t met yet and you know she married him this summer,” I said, examining a sign that said, “Do not remove church furnishings.” “I thought Victorians went in for long engagements.”

  “They do,” she said, looking grim, “and after the engagement, the banns have to be read out in church for three successive Sundays, not to mention meeting the parents and sewing a trousseau, and it’s already nearly the middle of June.”

  “When were they married?”

  “We don’t know that either. The church at Muchings End was burned during the Pandemic, and her later diaries don’t mention the date.”

  I thought of something. “But surely they mention his name, don’t they? The May sixth entry can’t have been the only time she mentioned her husband in fifty years.”

  She looked unhappy. “She always refers to him as ‘my darling husband’ or ‘my beloved helpmeet.’ ‘Darling’ and ‘beloved’ underlined.”

  I nodded. “And exclamation points.” I’d had to read some of the diaries for references to the bishop’s bird stump.

  We strolled over to the side aisle. “The diaries stopped for several years after this summer’s,” Verity said, “and then started up again in 1904. By that time they were living in America, and he was working in silent films under the stage name of Bertram W. Fauntleroy, which he changed to Reginald Fitzhugh-Smythe in 1927, when the talkies came in.”

  She stopped in front of a stained-glass window half-covered with a sign that read, “Do not attempt to open.” “He had a long and distinguished career playing British aristocrats,” she said.

  “Which means it was likely he was an aristocrat himself. That’s good, isn’t it? It means at least he wasn’t a tramp who wandered by.” I thought of something. “What about his obituary?”

  “It lists his stage name,” she said, “and so does hers.” She smiled wryly at me. “She lived to the age of ninety-seven. Five children, twenty-three grandchildren, and a major Hollywood studio.”

  “And nary a clue,” I said. “What about Coventry? Could she have met this Mr. C there, while she was looking at the bishop’s bird stump, and that’s the event
that changed her life forever?”

  “It’s possible,” she said. “But that’s another problem. They haven’t said anything about a trip to Coventry. Mrs. Mering’s talked about going to Hampton Court to see Catherine Howard’s ghost, but they’ve never so much as mentioned Coventry, and they didn’t go before I got here. I know because I asked—”

  “—the upstairs maid,” I finished.

  “Yes. And we know Tossie went there sometime in June. That’s why I’ve been so worried about their coming to Oxford to see Madame Iritosky. I was afraid Princess Arjumand’s disappearance had made them come to Oxford when they should have been going to Coventry, or that Mr. C might have come to Muchings End while Tossie was here and missed meeting her. But if Mr. Dunworthy and T.J. have returned Princess Arjumand, that means the cat’s simply wandered off. And who knows? Mr. C may be the one who finds her and brings her back. Perhaps that’s why they got engaged so suddenly, because she was grateful to him for returning Arjumand.”

  “And it isn’t as if you’ve been away from Muchings End long,” I said. “Only a day. If Mr. C did come calling, the maid would no doubt ask him to wait in the parlor till you returned.”

  “What do you mean?” she said. She stood up abruptly, her skirts rustling.

  “I just assumed,” I said, surprised. “Weren’t the Victorians the ones with parlors? Didn’t their maids ask callers to wait?”

  “When did you come through?” she demanded.

  “This morning,” I said. “I told you. Bang on target. Ten o’clock, June the seventh, 1888.”

  “This is the tenth of June,” she said.

  The tenth. “But the newspaper—”

  “—must have been an old one. I came through on the night of the seventh. We came to Oxford on the eighth, and we’ve been here three days.”

  I said blankly, “Then there must have been—”

  “—increased slippage,” she said, “which is an indication that there’s been an incongruity.”

  “Not necessarily,” I said. “I left rather in a hurry.” I explained about Lady Schrapnell. “Warder might not have finished setting the coordinates. Or she might have made a mistake. She’d done seventeen drops already.”

  “Perhaps,” she said doubtfully. “Where did you come through? Folly Bridge? Is that where you met up with Terence?”

  “No, the railway station. He was there to meet his tutor’s relatives, but they didn’t arrive.” I explained about his asking me if I were going on the river and about his financial problems. “So I paid the balance on the boat.”

  “And if you hadn’t been there, he wouldn’t be here,” she said, looking even more worried. “Could he have gotten the boat if you hadn’t lent the money to him?”

  “Not a chance,” I said, thinking about Jabez, and then, at her worried expression, “He said something about trying to borrow money from someone named Mags at the Mitre,” I said. “But he was determined to see Tossie again. I think he would have run the entire way to Iffley if he hadn’t had the money.”

  “You’re probably right” she said. “There’s a great deal of redundancy in the system. If he hadn’t met her here, he might very well have met her at Muchings End. He said yesterday he had been thinking of going downriver. And three days’ slippage isn’t all that much.” She frowned. “Still, though, it seems a lot for a pleasure trip. And it’s more than on the other Victorian drops. I’d better report it to Mr. Dunworthy when I get back to—”

  “—certain the spirits will bring us word of Princess Arjumand,” Tossie’s voice said, and she fluttered in with Terence, who had his hat in his hands. “Madame Iritosky is famous for locating lost objects. She told the Duchess of Derby where her lost brooch was and the Duchess gave her a reward of a thousand pounds. Papa said, of course she knew where it was, she’d put it there herself, but Mama,” she said, putting the accent on the last syllable, “knows it was the workings of the spirit world.”

  Verity stood up and draped her skirts. “What did the churchwarden say?” she said, and I was amazed at her composure. She looked the serene English maiden again. “Is Iffley Church haunted?”

  “No,” Terence said.

  “Yes,” Tossie said, looking up at the vaulting. “And I don’t care what he says, cross old bear. They are here now, spirits from another time and place. I can feel their presence.”

  “What the churchwarden said was that it wasn’t haunted, but he wished it were,” Terence said, “because ‘hants’ didn’t get mud all over the floor or take down his notices. Or bother the churchwarden when he was having his tea.”

  “Tea!” Tossie said. “What a lovely idea! Cousin, go and tell Baine to serve tea.”

  “There isn’t time,” Verity said, pulling on her gloves. “We are expected back at Madame Iritosky’s.”

  “Oh, but Mr. St. Trewes and Mr. Henry have not seen the mill yet,” Tossie said.

  “They shall have to see it after we are gone,” Verity said, and swept out of the church. “We do not want to miss our train to Muchings End.” She stopped at the lychgate. “Mr. St. Trewes, would you be so good as to tell our butler to bring the carriage round?”

  “My pleasure,” Terence said, tipping his hat, and started toward the tree where Baine sat reading.

  I’d hoped Tossie would go with him so I could talk to Verity, but she stayed by the lychgate, pouting and snapping her parasol open and shut. And what sort of excuse could give us a few moments alone? I could hardly suggest she follow Terence with Verity already concerned about her attraction to him, and she was the type to give orders, not take—

  “My parasol,” Verity said. “I must have left it in the church.”

  “I’ll help you find it,” I said, and opened the door with alacrity, scattering notices everywhere.

  “I’ll return to Oxford and report to Mr. Dunworthy as soon as I get the chance,” she whispered as soon as the door was shut. “Where will you be?”

  “I’m not certain,” I said. “On the river somewhere. Terence talked about rowing down to Henley.”

  “I’ll try to get word to you,” she said, walking toward the front of the nave. “It may be several days.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Keep Terence away from Muchings End,” she said. “It’s probably just an infatuation on Tossie’s part, but I don’t want to take any chances.”

  I nodded.

  “And don’t worry. It’s only three days’ slippage, and Mr. Dunworthy wouldn’t have sent you through if Princess Arjumand hadn’t already been safely returned. I’m certain everything’s fine.” She patted my arm. “You get some sleep. You’re supposed to be recovering from time-lag.”

  “I will,” I said.

  She retrieved the white parasol from underneath the kneeling rail and started toward the door, and then stopped and smiled. “And if you meet anyone named Chaucer or Churchill, send them along to Muchings—”

  “Your carriage, miss,” Baine said, looming in the door.

  “Thank you, Baine,” she said coldly and swept past him.

  Terence was handing Tossie into the carriage. “I do hope we shall meet again, Mr. St. Trewes,” Tossie said, no longer pouting. “We take the train home this evening to Muchings End. Do you know it? It’s on the river, just below Streatley.”

  Terence took off his boater and held it over his heart. “‘Till then, good-bye, fair one, adieu!’”

  The carriage lurched forward. “Baine!” Tossie protested.

  “I beg your pardon, miss,” Baine said and clucked the reins.

  “Goodbye,” Tossie called back to us, waving a handkerchief and everything else on her person. “Goodbye, Mr. St. Trewes!” The landau rolled away.

  Terence watched it till it was out of sight.

  “We’d better go,” I said. “Professor Peddick will be waiting.”

  He sighed, looking longingly after the dust cloud it had left. “Isn’t she wonderful?”

  “Yes,” I said.

/>   “We must start immediately for Muchings End,” he said, and started down the hill.

  “We can’t,” I said, trotting after him. “We have to take Professor Peddick back to Oxford, and what about his aged relicts? If they’re on the afternoon train, they’ll need to be met.”

  “I’ll arrange with Trotters to meet them. He owes me a favor for that translation of Lucretius I did,” he said without stopping. “It will only take an hour to row Peddick back. We can put him off at Magdalen by four. That will still give us four hours of daylight. We should be able to make it past Culham Lock. That will put us at Muchings End by noon tomorrow.”

  And so much for my blithely promising Verity to keep Terence away from Tossie, I thought, following him down to the boat.

  It wasn’t there.

  “This is the cat

  That killed the rat

  That ate the malt

  That lay in the house that Jack built.”

  Mother Goose

  CHAPTER 7

  Importance of Locks in Victorian Era—“Loose lips sink ships”—Tristan and Isolde—Pursuit—The French Revolution—An Argument Against Tipping—A Traumatized Cat—Soot—The Bataan Death March—Sleep—The Boat Is Found at Last—An Unexpected Development—Importance of Meetings to History—Lennon and McCartney—I Search for a Tin-Opener—What I Found

  Cyril was there, in the same position in which we had left him, his head disconsolately pressed against his paws, his brown eyes reproachful.

  “Cyril!” Terence said. “Where’s the boat?” Cyril sat up and looked round in surprise. “You were supposed to guard the boat,” Terence said sternly. “Who took it, Cyril?”

  “Could it have drifted off, do you think?” I said, thinking about the half-hitch.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Terence said. “It’s obviously been stolen.”

  “Perhaps Professor Peddick came and got it,” I said, but Terence was already halfway across the bridge.

  When we caught up to him, he was looking downstream at the river. There was no one on it except for a mallard duck.