To Say Nothing of the Dog

by Connie Willis

  “If she could have but heard the spirit’s fearful cry, I know she would come to us,” Mrs. Mering said. “Baine, has Mr. St. Trewes come down yet?”

  “I believe he is coming momentarily,” Baine said. “He took his dog for a walk.”

  Late for breakfast, and walking his dog. Two strikes against him, though Mrs. Mering didn’t look as irritable as I’d thought she might.

  “Hullo,” Terence said, coming in, and without Cyril. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “That’s perfectly all right,” Mrs. Mering said, beaming at him. “Do sit down, Mr. St. Trewes. Would you care for tea or coffee?”

  “Coffee,” Terence said, smiling at Tossie.

  “Baine, bring coffee for Mr. St. Trewes.”

  “We’re all so delighted you’ve come,” Mrs. Mering said. “I do hope you and your friends will be able to stay for our church fete. It will be such fun. We shall have a coconut shy and a fortuneteller, and Tocelyn will be baking a cake to raffle. Such an excellent cook, Tocelyn, and so accomplished. She plays the piano, you know, and speaks German and French. Don’t you, Tossie, dear?”

  “Oui, Mama,” Tossie said, smiling at Terence.

  I looked questioningly at Verity. She shrugged back an “I don’t know.”

  “Professor Peddick, I do hope your pupils can spare you for a few days,” Mrs. Mering was saying. “And Mr. Henry, do say you’ll help us with the Treasure Hunt.”

  “Mr. Henry has been telling me he lived in the States,” Verity said, and I turned and looked at her in astonishment.

  “Truly?” Terence said. “You never told me that.”

  “It . . . it was when I was ill,” I said. “I . . . was sent to . . . the States for treatment.”

  “Did you see Red Indians?” Tossie asked.

  “I was in Boston,” I stammered, silently cursing Verity.

  “Boston!” Mrs. Mering cried. “Do you know the Fox sisters?”

  “The Fox sisters?” I said.

  “The Misses Margaret and Kate Fox. The founders of our spiritist movement. It was they who first received communications from the spirits by rapping.”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t have that pleasure,” I said, but she had already turned her attention back to Terence.

  “Tocelyn embroiders beautifully, Mr. St. Trewes,” she said. “You must see the lovely pillowcases she has sewn for our fancy goods stall.”

  “I am certain the person who purchases them will have sweet dreams,” Terence said, smiling goopily at Tossie, “‘a dream of perfect bliss, too beautiful to last . . . .’”

  The Colonel and the professor, still at Trafalgar with Nelson, pushed back their chairs and stood up, muttering, one after the other, “If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Mesiel, where are you going?” Mrs. Mering said.

  “Out to the fishpond,” the Colonel said. “Show Professor Peddick my nacreous ryunkin.”

  “Do wear your greatcoat then,” Mrs. Mering said. “And your wool scarf.” She turned to me. “My husband has a weak chest and a tendency to catarrh.”

  Like Cyril, I thought.

  “Baine, fetch Colonel Mering’s greatcoat,” she said, but they were already gone.

  She turned back immediately to Terence. “Where do your people come from, Mr. St. Trewes?”

  “Kent,” he said, “which I always thought the fairest spot on earth till now.”

  “Might I be excused, Aunt Malvinia?” Verity said, folding her napkin. “I must finish my glove boxes.”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Mering said absently. “How long have your family lived in Kent, Mr. St. Trewes?”

  As Verity passed me, she dropped a folded note in my lap.

  “Since 1066,” Terence said. “Of course, we’ve improved the house since then. Most of it’s Georgian. Capability Brown. You must come and visit us.”

  I unfolded the note under the table and sneaked a look at it. It read, “Meet me in the library.”

  “We should love to come,” Mrs. Mering said eagerly. “Shouldn’t we, Tocelyn?”

  “Oui, Mama.”

  I waited for an opening and dived in. “If I might be excused, Mrs. Mering,” I began.

  “Absolutely not, Mr. Henry,” she said. “Why, you haven’t eaten a thing! You must have some of Mrs. Posey’s eel pie. It is unparalleled.”

  It was, and so was the kedgeree, which she made Baine dump on my plate with a large shovel-like utensil. A kedgeree spoon, no doubt.

  After some eels and as little kedgeree as possible, I made my escape and went to look for Verity, though I had no idea where the library was. I needed one of those diagrams like in Verity’s detective novels.

  I tried several doors and finally found her in a room lined from floor to ceiling with books.

  “Where have you been?” Verity said. She was seated at a table covered with a litter of shells and pots of glue.

  “Eating vile, unspeakable things,” I said. “And answering questions about America. Why on earth did you tell them I’d been to America? I don’t know anything about the States.”

  “Neither do they,” she said imperturbably. “I had to do something. You haven’t been prepped, and you’re bound to make mistakes. They think all Americans are barbarians, so if you use the wrong fork, they’ll put it down to your having spent time in the States.”

  “Thank you, I suppose,” I said.

  “Sit down,” she said. “We need to plan our strategy.”

  I looked at the door, which had an old-fashioned key in the lock. “Should I lock the door?”

  “It’s not necessary,” she said, selecting a flat pinkish shell. “The only person who ever comes in here is Baine. Mrs. Mering disapproves of reading”

  “Then where did all this come from?” I said, indicating the rows of brown-and scarlet-bound books.

  “They bought it,” she said, swabbing glue on the shell.

  “Bought what?”

  “The library. From Lord Dunsany. The person Baine worked for before he came to the Chattisbournes. The Chattisbournes are who Mrs. Mering stole Baine from, though I think Baine actually chose to come. For the books.” She stuck the shell down on the box. “Sit down. If anyone comes in, you’re helping me with these.” She held up a completed box. It was covered with shells of assorted sizes in the shape of a heart.

  “That’s absolutely hideous,” I said.

  “The entire Victorian era had the most atrocious taste,” she said. “Be glad it’s not hair wreaths.”

  “Hair wreaths?”

  “Flowers made out of dead people’s hair. The mother-of-pearl shells go along the edges,” she said, showing me, “and then a row of cowrie shells.” She shoved a glue pot at me. “I found out from Baine why Mrs. Mering’s suddenly so friendly toward Terence. She looked him up in DeBrett’s. He’s rich, and he’s the nephew of a peer.”

  “Rich?” I said. “But he didn’t even have enough money to pay for the boat.”

  “The aristocracy are always in debt,” she said, looking at a clamshell. “He’s got five thousand a year, an estate in Kent, and he’s second in line to the peerage. So,” she said, discarding the clamshell, “our priority is to keep Tossie and Terence away from each other, which will be difficult with Mama matchmaking. Tossie’s collecting things for the jumble sale this morning, and I’m going to send you with her. That’ll keep them apart for at least half a day.”

  “What about Terence?” I said.

  “I’m going to send him to Streatley after the Chinese lanterns for the fete. I want you to try to find out from Tossie if she knows any young men whose names begin with ‘C.’”

  “You’ve checked in the neighborhood for ‘C’’s, I suppose,” I said.

  She nodded. “The only two I’ve been able to discover are Mr.Cudden and Mr. Cawp, the farmer who’s always drowning kittens.”

  “Sounds like a match made in heaven. What about Mr. Cudden?”

  “He’s married,” she said glumly. “You’d think there’d be lots of Mr
. C’s. I mean, look at Dickens—David Copperfield, Martin Chuzzlewit, Bob Cratchet.”

  “Not to mention the Admirable Crichton,” I said, “and Lewis Carroll. No, that won’t work. It wasn’t his real name. Thomas Carlyle. And G.K. Chesterton. Eligible suitors all,” I said. “What are you going to do while I’m with Tossie?”

  “I’m going to search Tossie’s room and try to find her diary. She’s hidden it, and I had to cut my search short. Jane came in. But this morning they’ll all be working on the fete, so I won’t be interrupted. Failing that, I’ll go through to Oxford and see what the forensics expert’s been able to find out.”

  “Ask Warder how much slippage there was on the drop when you rescued Princess Arjumand,” I said.

  “Going through to Oxford with her, do you mean?” she said. “There’s never any slippage on return drops.”

  “No,” I said, “the drop where you came through and saw the cat.”

  “All right. We’d better get back in there.” She stuck the cork in the glue pot, stood up, and rang for Baine.

  “Baine,” she said when he appeared, “have the carriage brought round immediately, and then come to the breakfast room.”

  “As you wish, miss,” he said.

  “Thank you, Baine,” she said, picked up the shell-covered box, and led the way back to the breakfast room.

  Mrs. Mering was still interrogating Terence. “O, how exquisite!” she said when Verity showed her the box.

  “We still have a good deal to do for the fete, Aunt Malvinia,” she said. “I so want the jumble sale to be a success. Have you your list?”

  “Ring for Jane to bring it,” Mrs. Mering said.

  “She has gone to the vicarage to fetch the bunting,” Verity said, and as soon as Mrs. Mering had left the room to get the list, “Mr. St. Trewes, may I prevail on you for a favor? The Chinese lanterns we had intended to string between the stalls have not been delivered. Would you be so good as to go to Streatley for them?”

  “Baine can go,” Tossie said. “Terence is to go with me to the Chattisbournes’ this morning.”

  “Your mother cannot spare Baine, with the tea tent to be set up ”Verity said. “Mr. Henry shall go with you. Baine,” she said to the butler who had just come in, “bring Mr. Henry a basket in which to carry the jumble sale donations. Is the carriage waiting?”

  “Yes, miss,” he said, and left.

  “But—” Tossie said, her mouth forming a pout.

  “Here is the address,” Verity said, handing Terence a sheet of paper, “and orders for the lanterns. This is so good of you,” and hustled him out the front door before Tossie could even protest.

  Baine brought the basket, and Tossie went to get her hat and gloves. “I don’t see why Mr. Henry couldn’t have gone for the lanterns,” I heard her say to Verity as they went upstairs.

  “Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” Verity said. “Wear your hat with the polka-dot veil to show to Rose Chattisbourne.”

  Verity came back downstairs. “I’m impressed,” I said.

  “I’ve been taking lessons from Lady Schrapnell,” she said. “While you’re at the Chattisbournes’, see if you can find out when Elliott Chattisbourne—he’s the one whose clothes you’re wearing—is coming home. She could have been secretly corresponding with him since he’s been out in South Africa. Here comes Tossie.”

  Tossie fluttered down the stairs in the polka-dotted veil, carrying a reticule and a parasol, and we set off.

  Baine ran to catch up with us. “Your hat, sir,” he said breathlessly, handing me my boater.

  My straw boater, which I had last seen floating down the river, the ribbon already beginning to fade pale blue onto the soggy straw. Baine had somehow restored it to its original state, the ribbon bright blue, the straw scrubbed and crisp.

  “Thank you, Baine,” I said. “I thought it was lost forever.”

  I put it on, feeling jauntier immediately and fully capable not only of keeping Tossie away from Terence but of being so charming she’d forget all about him.

  “Shall we?” I said to Tossie and offered her my arm.

  She looked up at me through the polka dots. “My cousin Verity says your hat makes you look feeble-minded,” she said speculatively, “but I don’t think it’s that bad. Some men simply don’t know how to wear hats. ‘Don’t you fink Mr. St. Twewes looks dashing in his boater?’ my dearums Juju said to me this morning. ‘Don’t you fink he’s the han’somest, han’somest mannums?’”

  I had thought baby talk was bad, but baby talk from a cat—

  “I knew a chap at school who lived near here,” I said, changing the subject to something more productive. “I can’t remember his name just now. Began with a ‘C.’”

  “Elliott Chattisbourne?”

  “No, that’s not it,” I said. “It did begin with a ‘C,’ though.”

  “You knew him at school?” she said, pursing her lips. “Were you at Eton?”

  “Yes,” I said. Why not? “Eton.”

  “There’s Freddie Lawrence. But he went to Harrow. Were you at school with Terence?”

  “This was a medium-tallish chap. Good at cricket.”

  “And his name began with a ‘C’?” She shook her curls. “I can’t think of anyone. Does Terence play cricket?”

  “He rows,” I said, “and swims. He’s a very good swimmer.”

  “I think he’s terribly brave for rescuing Princess Arjumand,” she said. “‘Don’t oo fink he’s the bwavest knight in awl the world?’ Juju asked me. ‘I fink he is.’”

  This kept up the entire way to the Chattisbournes’, which was just as well since I didn’t know any other facts about Terence.

  “Here we are,” Tossie said, starting up the drive to a large neo-Gothic house.

  Well, you survived that, I thought, and the rest of the morning’s bound to go easier.

  Tossie stepped up to the front door. I waited for her to ring the bell and then remembered it was the Victorian era and rang it for her, and then stepped back as the butler opened the door.

  It was Finch. “Good morning, miss, sir,” he said. “May I say who is calling?”

  “It’s not the same game. It’s an absolutely different game,

  that’s the trouble.”

  Darryl F. Zanuck on croquet

  CHAPTER 14

  A Surprise Appearance—Jeeves—In a Flower Garden—Giggling—Dress Descriptions—An Overweight Cat—Sex and Violence—Finch Is Not at Liberty to Say—Tales of the Wild West—Amazing Treasures People Have in Their Attics—Home Again—I Am Prepped—A Civilized Game—Bad News—Croquet in Wonderland—More Bad News

  I am not certain what I said or how we got in the house. It was all I could manage not to blurt out, “Finch! What are you doing here?”

  It was obvious what he was doing. He was buttling. It was also obvious he had patterned himself on that greatest of all butlers, P.G. Wodehouse’s Jeeves. He had the supercilious air, the correct speech, especially the poker-faced expression down cold. You’d have thought he’d never seen me before in his life.

  He ushered us inside with a perfectly measured bow, said, “I will announce you,” and started for the stairs, but he was too late.

  Mrs. Chattisbourne and her four daughters were already hurrying down the stairs, burbling, “Tossie, dear, this is a surprise!”

  She stopped at the foot of the staircase, and her daughters stopped, too, in a sort of ascending arrangement. They all, including Mrs. Chattisbourne, had turned-up noses and brownish-blonde hair.

  “And who is this young gentleman?” Mrs. Chattisbourne said.

  The girls giggled.

  “Mr. Henry, madam,” Finch said.

  “So this is the young gentleman who found your cat,” Mrs. Chattisbourne said. “We heard all about it from the Reverend Mr. Arbitage.”

  “O, no!” Tossie said. “It was Mr. St. Trewes who returned my poor lost Princess Arjumand to me. Mr. Henry is only his friend.”

  “Ah,�
�� Mrs. Chattisbourne said. “I am so pleased to meet you, Mr. Henry. Allow me to introduce my flower garden.”

  I had gotten so used to having people say nonsensical things to me in the last few days that it didn’t even faze me.

  She led me over to the stairs. “These are my daughters, Mr. Henry,” she said, pointing up the stairs at them one by one. “Rose, Iris, Pansy, and my youngest, Eglantine. My own sweet nosegay, and some lucky gentlemen’s,” she squeezed my arm, “bridal bouquet.”

  The girls giggled in turn as she said their names and again at the end when she mentioned the bridal bouquet.

  “Shall I serve refreshments in the morning room?” Finch said. “No doubt Miss Mering and Mr. Henry are fatigued from their walk.”

  “How marvellous of you to think of it, Finch,” Mrs. Chattisbourne said, steering me toward the door on the right. “Finch is the most wonderful butler,” she said. “He thinks of simply everything.”

  The Chattisbourne morning room looked exactly like the Merings’ parlor, only floral. The carpet was strewn with lilies, the lamps were decorated with forget-me-nots and daffodils, and on a marble-topped table in the middle of the room was a poppy-painted vase with pink peonies in it.

  It was just as crowded as the Merings’, too, and being asked to sit down meant working my way through a maze of hyacinths and marigolds to a chair needlepointed in extremely realistic roses.

  I sat down gingerly on it, almost afraid of thorns, and Mrs. Chattisbourne’s four daughters sat down on a flowered sofa opposite and giggled.

  I found out over the course of the morning that, except for Eglantine, the youngest, who looked about ten, they giggled at all times and at virtually everything that was said.

  “Finch is an absolute gem!” Mrs. Chattisbourne said, for instance, and they giggled. “So efficient! He does things before we even know we want them done. Not at all like our last butler—what is his name, Tossie?”

  “Baine,” Tossie said.

  “Oh, yes, Baine” she said with a sniff. “An appropriate name for a butler, I suppose, though I have always felt it is not the name that makes the butler, but the training.Baine’s training was adequate, but hardly perfect. He was always reading books, as I recall. Finch never reads,” she said proudly.