To Say Nothing of the Dog

by Connie Willis

  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.

  Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  CHAPTER 12

  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 largefern 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 sub-liminals 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.”

  He looked at me steadily, the boot hanging from his mouth, laces dangling.

  “I mean it,” I said. “I don’t care if you catch catarrh. Or pneumonia.”

  Cyril considered a moment longer and then dropped the boot and lay down with his flat nose just touching it.

  I dived for the boot, hoping it belonged to Professor Peddick, who would never notice the teeth marks, or Terence, whom it would serve right. It was a woman’s boot. And not Verity’s. She had been wearing white ones, like Tossie’s.

  “This is Mrs. Mering’s boot!” I said, shaking it at him.

  Cyril responded by sitting up alertly, ready to play.

  “This is serious!” I said. “Look at it!”

  Actually, except for a great deal of drool, it did not seem to have sustained much damage. I wiped it off against my trouser leg and opened the door. “Stay!” I ordered Cyril and went to put it back.

  I had no idea which was Mrs. Mering’s door, and no way of seeing which had a boot missing, coming straight from my lit room. And no time to let my eyes adjust to the pitch-darkness. And no desire to have Mrs. Mering catch me crawling about the corridor on all fours.

  I went back in the room, got the lamp, and shone it round the corridor till I found a door with one boot. Second from the end. And between it and my door the statue of Laocoön, Darwin, and a papier-mâché table with a large fern on it.

  I ducked back in, shut the door, replaced the lamp, picked up the boot, and opened the door again.

  “—tell you I saw a light,” a voice that could only be Mrs.Mering’s said. “An eerie, floating, ethereal light. A spirit light, Mesiel! You must get up!”

  I shut the door, blew out the lamp, and crept back over to the bed. Cyril was in it, nicely ensconced among the pillows. “This is all your fault,” I whispered, and realized I was still holding Mrs. Mering’s boot.

  I stuffed it under the covers, decided that would be truly incriminating, started to hide it under the bed, thought better of that, and stuck it between the springs and the feather-stuffed mattress. And then sat there in the dark, trying to determine what was happening. I couldn’t hear any voices over Cyril’s snoring, and there was no sound of doors opening nor any light under my door.

  I gave it another few minutes and then took off my boots, tiptoed over to the door, and opened it a crack. Darkness and silence. I tiptoed back to the bed, cracking my big toe on the looking glass and my shin on the nightstand, lit the lamp again, and got ready for bed.

  The last few minutes seemed to have sapped what little strength I had, but I undressed slowly and carefully, noting how my collar and braces fastened and looking at the tie in the mirror as I untied it so that I could put it on in more or less the same arrangement tomorrow. Not that it mattered. I would already have cut my throat shaving. Or been revealed as a thief and a foot-fetishist.

  I took off my still-soaking socks, put on the nightshirt, and got in bed. The springs sagged, the feather-stuffed mattress gave no support, the sheets were cold, and Cyril had all the covers. It felt wonderful.

  Sleep, Nature’s soft Nurse, the honeyed dew of holy rest, the balm of woe, sweet, blessed unravelling sleep.

  There was a knock on the door.

  It’s Mrs. Mering, I thought, looking for her shoe. Or spirits. Or the Colonel, whom she made get up.

  But there was no light under the door, and the knock, repeated, was too soft. It’s Terence, I thought, wanting Cyril now that I’ve done all the work.

  But in case it wasn’t, I lit the lamp, put on the dressing gown, and flung the coverlet over Cyril to cover him up and then went and opened the door.

  It was Verity. In her nightgown.

  “What are you doing here?” I whispered at her. “This is the Victorian era.”

  “I know,” she whispered back, sidling past me into the room. “But I’ve got to talk to you before I go report to Mr. Dunworthy.”

  “But what if someone comes in?” I said, looking at her white nightgown. It was a very modest sort of nightgown, with long sleeves and a high, buttoned-up neck, but I didn’t think that would impress Terence. Or the butler. Or Mrs. Mering.

  “No one will come in,” she said, and sat down on the bed. “Everyone’s gone to bed. And the walls in these Victorian houses are too thick to hear through.”

  “Terence has already been here,” I said. “And Baine.”

  “What did he want?”

  “To tell me he hadn’t been able to salvage the luggage. Terence wanted me to sneak Cyril up from the stables.”

  At the mention of his name, Cyril emerged from the covers, blinking sleepily.

  “Hullo, Cyril,” Verity said, petting him on the head. He lay his head on her lap.

  “What if Terence comes back to check on him?” I said.

  “I’ll hide,” she said calmly. “You have no idea how glad I was to see you, Ned.” She smiled up at me. “When we got back from Madame Iritosky’s, Princess Arjumand still wasn’t here, and when I went to report back last night, Mrs. Mering caught me on my way out to the gazebo. I managed to convince her I’d seen a spirit and was chasing it, and then she insisted on getting everyone up and searching the entire grounds, so I couldn’t go through and I didn’t have any idea what had happened.”

  It really was too bad. The naiad was sitting on my bed in her nightgown, her Pre-Raphaelite auburn hair streaming down her back. She was here, smiling up at me, and I was going to have to ruin it all. Still, the sooner I got it over with, the better.

  “And then this morning,” she was saying, “I had to accompany Tossie to a meeting at the church, and—”

  “I brought the cat through,” I said. “It was in my luggage. Mr. Dunworthy must have told me I had it, but I was too time-lagged to hear him. I had it all along.”

  “I know,” she said.

  “What?” I said, wondering if I was experiencing Difficulty in Distinguishing Sounds again.

  “I know. I reported back this afternoon and Mr. Dunworthy told me.”

  “But—” I said, trying to take this in. If she’d been back to 2057, then that radiant smile—

  “I should have guessed when I saw you at Iffley,” she said. “Sending historians on holiday isn’t Mr. Dunworthy’s style, especially not with Lady Schrapnell breathing down his neck and the consecration in only two weeks.”
r />   “I didn’t know I had it till after I saw you at Iffley,” I said. “I was looking for a tin-opener. I know you said to keep Terence away from Muchings End, but I thought it was more important to get the cat returned. The plan was for us to stop at an inn in Streatley, and I’d sneak her back during the night, but Terence insisted on rowing down, and then the cat started meowing, and Cyril started sniffing at it, and he fell in, and then the boat capsized and . . . you know the rest,” I finished lamely. “I hope I did the right thing.”

  She bit her lip, looking worried.

  “What? You don’t think I should have brought her back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I thought I should get her back here before there were any other consequences.”

  “I know,” she said, looking genuinely distressed. “The thing is, you weren’t supposed to have brought her through in the first place.”

  “What?” I said.

  “When Mr. Dunworthy found out about the Coventry slippage, he called off the drop.”

  “But—” I said. “I wasn’t supposed to bring Princess Arjumand through? But I thought you said the Coventry slippage was unrelated, that it was due to a crisis point.”

  “It was, but while they were checking it, T.J. compared the slippage patterns to Fujisaki’s research, and they decided the lack of slippage surrounding the original drop meant it was a nonsignificant event.”

  “But that’s impossible. Animate creatures can’t be nonsignificant.”

  “Exactly,” she said grimly. “They think Princess Arjumand was nonanimate. They think she was intended to drown.”

  This was making no sense. “But even if she drowned, her body would still interact with the continuum. It wouldn’t just disappear.”

  “That’s what Fujisaki’s research was about. She’d be reduced to her component parts, and the complexity of their separate interactions would drop exponentially.”

  Meaning her poor body would drift down the Thames, decomposing into carbon and calcium and interacting with nothing but the river water and hungry fishes. Ashes to ashes. Dust to nonsignificance.