“O, but orange blossoms have such a sweet smell.”
“There are far too many trains,” Mrs. Mering said. “They cannot possibly need all these trains.”
Baine finally got everything and everyone on the train and arranged in an even more opulent compartment, and we started for Coventry. After a few minutes, a guard, this one much younger and actually quite good-looking, came along the corridor and punched our tickets. Tossie, deep in planning her trousseau, didn’t so much as glance up, and what made us think that when we got to Coventry she would even notice Mr. C, engrossed as she was in her wedding plans with Terence? What made us think she would even notice the bishop’s bird stump?
She would. She had to. The trip to Coventry had changed her life and inspired her great-great-great-great-granddaughter to make ours miserable.
After a few miles, Baine arrived, spread white linen napkins on our laps, and served us a sumptuous luncheon, which cheered everyone considerably (except possibly Baine, who had made approximately two hundred trips between first and second class, bringing us cold roast beef and cucumber sandwiches and Mrs. Mering a fresh handkerchief, her other gloves, her sewing scissors, and, for no discernible reason, Bradshaw’s Railway Guide).
Terence looked out the window and announced it was clearing off, and then that he could see Coventry, and before Jane and Baine had time to gather up everything and fold up Mrs. Mering’s lap robe, we were standing on the platform in Coventry, waiting for Baine to unload our luggage and find us a carriage. It had not cleared off, nor did it look like it was going to. There was a fine mist in the air, and the city’s outline was blurred and gray.
Terence had thought of a poem suitable to the occasion and was declaiming it. “‘I waited for a train at Coventry,’” he quoted. “‘City of three spires . . . ’” He stopped, looking puzzled. “I say, where are the three spires? I only see two.”
I looked where he was pointing. One, two, and a tall box-like structure stood out against the gray sky.
“St. Michael’s spire is being repaired,” Baine said, struggling under a load of rugs and shawls. “The porter informed me that the church is undergoing extensive restorations at the moment.”
“That explains why Lady Godiva spoke to us now,” Mrs. Mering said. “The spirits’ resting place must have been disturbed.”
The mist deteriorated into a drizzle, and Tossie gave a scream-let. “My travelling dress!” she cried.
Baine appeared, unfurling umbrellas. “I have obtained a closed carriage, madam,” he told Mrs. Mering, handing them to Terence and me to hold over the ladies.
Jane was put into a hack with the luncheon hamper and the rugs and shawls and told to meet us at the church, and we drove into town, the horses clattering along narrow brick-paved streets lined with old, half-timbered buildings that leaned out over the street. A Tudor inn with a painted sign hanging above the door, narrow brick shops selling ribbons and bicycles, narrower houses with mullioned windows and tall chimneys. The old Coventry. This would all be destroyed by fire along with the cathedral that November night in 1940, but it was hard to imagine it, clopping along the damp, placid streets.
The driver pulled the horses to a stop at the corner of St. Mary’s Street, the street Provost Howard and his little band had paraded down, carrying the candlesticks and crosses and the regimental flag they’d rescued from the burning cathedral.
“Cahnt gawna fur thuhsahth dawblottuff,” the driver said in an impenetrable dialect.
“He says he can’t take the carriage any farther,” Baine translated. “Apparently the route to the cathedral is blocked.”
I leaned forward. “Tell him to go back along this street to Little Park Street. That will take us to the west doors of the church.”
Baine told him. The driver shook his head and said something unrecognizable, but turned the horses around and started back up Earl Street.
“O, I can feel the spirits already,” Mrs. Mering said, clutching her bosom. “Something is about to happen. I know it.”
We turned up Little Park Street toward the cathedral. I could see the tower at the end of the street, and it was no wonder we hadn’t been able to see the third spire from the railway station.It was encased in wooden scaffolding from a third of the way up all the way to the top, and, except that it had gray cloth tarps draped across it instead of blue plastic, it looked the way it had looked last week when I’d seen it from Merton’s pedestrian gate. Lady Schrapnell was more authentic than she knew.
The piles of red sandstone blocks and heaps of sand in the churchyard looked the same, too, and I worried that the entire approach to the church might be blocked, but it wasn’t. The driver was able to pull the carriage up directly in front of the west doors. On them was a large, hand-lettered sign.
“Iffley’s churchwarden’s been here,” I said, and then saw what it said:
“Closed for repairs.
1 June to 31 July.”
“The heart is its own fate.”
Philip James Bailey
CHAPTER 19
A Fateful Day—Another Conversation with a Workman—I Sink to Promoting Jumble Sales—The Cathedral Ghost—A Tour—I Attempt to Find Out Two Workmen’s Names—The Bishop’s Bird Stump Is Found at Last—Tossie’s Reaction—The Execution of Mary Queen of Scots—Baine Expresses an Aesthetic Opinion—Tossie’s Reaction—The Albert Memorial, Beauties of—Penwipers—Prevalence of Flower Names in Victorian Times—A Premonition—I Attempt to Find Out the Curate’s Name—A Quarrel—An Abrupt Departure
Closed!” Tossie said.
“Closed?” I said and looked over at Verity. The color had drained from her face.
“Closed,” Mrs. Mering said. “It’s just as Madame Iritosky said. ‘Beware,’ and the letter ‘C.’ She was trying to warn us.”
As if to prove her point, it began to drizzle.
“It can’t be closed,” Verity murmured, looking disbelievingly at the sign. “How can it be closed?”
“Baine,” Mrs. Mering said. “What time is the next train?”
Don’t let Baine know, I thought. If he didn’t know the schedule, we had at least a quarter of an hour while he trotted back to the station to check and back, a quarter of an hour in which to think of something.
But this was Baine we were talking about, clearly the forerunner of Jeeves, and Jeeves had always known everything.
“2:08, madam,” he said. “It goes to Reading. Or there’s an express at 2:46 to Goring.”
“We shall take the 2:08,” Mrs. Mering said. “Goring is so common.”
“But what about Lady Godiva?” Verity said desperately. “She must have had a reason for wanting you to come to Coventry.”
“I am not at all convinced it was her spirit, particularly under the circumstances,” Mrs. Mering said. “I believe Madame Iritosky was right about there being mischievous spirits at work. Baine, tell the driver to take us to the station.”
“Wait!” I shouted, and jumped out of the carriage and squarely into a puddle. “I will be right back,” I said. “Stay there,” and took off along the tower wall.
“Where on earth is he going?” I heard Mrs. Mering say. “Baine, go and tell Mr. Henry to come back here immediately.”
I sprinted round the corner of the church, holding my coat collar together against the wet.
I remembered from the rubble and the reconstruction that there was a door on the south side of the cathedral and another on the north, and if necessary I’d bang on the vestry door till someone answered.
But it wasn’t necessary. The south door was open, and a workman was standing in it, under the porch just out of the rain, arguing with a young man in a clerical collar.
“You promised the clerestory would be completed by the twenty-second and here it is the fifteenth and you’ve not even begun the varnishing of the new pews,” the curate, who was pale and rather pop-eyed, though that might have been from the workman, was saying.
The workman looked as though he h
ad heard all this before and would hear it again. “We carn’t start the varnishin’, guv, till they’re done in the clerestory ’cuz o’ the dust.”
“Well, then, complete the work in the clerestory.”
He shook his head. “Carn’t. Bill as wuz puttin’ the steel girders in the beams is ’ome sick.”
“Well, when will he be back? The work must be completed by next Saturday. That’s the date of our church bazaar.”
The workman gave him the identical shrug I had seen an electrician give Lady Schrapnell three weeks ago, and it occurred to me it was a pity she wasn’t here. She’d have cuffed him smartly on the ear, and the work would have been done by Friday. Or Thursday.
“Cud be tomorra, cud be next month. Don’t see wot you need new pews for anyways. I liked the aud box pews.”
“You are not a member of the clergy,” the curate said, getting more pop-eyed, “or an expert on modern church architecture. Next month is not good enough. The renovations must be completed by the twenty-second.”
The workman spit on the damp porch and sauntered back into the church.
“Pardon me,” I said, running up to the curate before he could disappear, too. “I wondered if we might tour the church.”
“Oh, no!” the curate said, looking wildly round like a housewife surprised by unexpected guests. “We’re in the midst of major renovations to the clerestory and the bell tower. The church is officially closed until the thirty-first of July, at which time the vicar would be delighted to conduct you on a tour.”
“That’s too late,” I said. “And it’s the renovations we’ve come to see. The church at Muchings End is badly in need of them. The altar’s positively mediaeval.”
“Oh, but,” he said reluctantly, “the thing is, we’re trying to prepare for the church bazaar, and—”
“Church bazaar!” I said. “What a wonderful coincidence! Mrs. Mering has just put on a bazaar at Muchings End.”
“Mrs. Mering?” the curate said, looking back at the door as if he’d like to escape through it. “Oh, but the church is in no fit condition for ladies. You wouldn’t be able to see the choir or the altar. There’s sawdust everywhere, and workmen’s tools.”
“The ladies won’t mind,” I said, putting myself firmly between him and the door. “Sawdust is exactly what they’ve come to see.”
Baine came running up with an umbrella, which he handed to me. I handed it back. “Go and bring the carriage round,” I said to him. “Tell Mrs. Mering we can tour the church.”
Which just goes to show you that hanging round Lady Schrapnell and her ancestors can teach you a thing or two about getting things done.
“Hurry!” I said to Baine, and he sprinted off through the drizzle, which was rapidly turning into rain.
“I really do not think a tour at this time is advisable,” the curate said. “The workmen are installing a new choir railing, and I have an appointment to meet with Miss Sharpe regarding the fancywork table.”
“You’ll be having a jumble sale, of course,” I said.
“A jumble sale?” the curate said uncertainly.
“It’s the latest thing in bazaars. Ah, here they are.” I bounded down the steps as the carriage pulled up, snatched Verity’s hand, and pulled her out of the carriage. “What good luck! St. Michael’s is open after all, and the curate’s offered to give us a tour of the church. Quick,” I muttered under my breath. “Before he changes his mind.”
Verity tripped lightly up to the curate, smiled brightly at him, and peered in through the door. “Oh, do come look at this, Tossie,” she said, and ducked inside.
Terence helped Tossie out and into the church, and I assisted Mrs. Mering, holding the umbrella Baine handed me over her head.
“Oh, dear,” she said, looking anxiously at the clouds. “The weather looks very threatening. Perhaps we should start for home before the storm breaks.”
“Some of the workmen say they’ve seen a spirit,” I said rapidly. “One of them went home ill after the experience.”
“How wonderful!” Mrs. Mering said.
We came up even with the curate, who was standing in the doorway, wringing his hands. “I’m afraid you will be sadly disappointed in St. Michael’s, Mrs. Mering,” he said. “We are—”
“—preparing for the annual bazaar. Mrs. Mering, you must tell him about your dahlia penwipers,” I said shamelessly, maneuvering her around him and into the church. “So clever, and beautiful, besides.”
There was a crack of thunder so loud I was convinced I’d been struck by lightning for lying.
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Mering said.
“I’m afraid this is an inauspicious time for a tour of the church,” the curate said at the same time. “The vicar is away, and Miss Sharpe—”
I opened my mouth to say, “A brief tour, at least, since we’re here,” and didn’t have to. There was a second crack of thunder, and the skies opened up.
Mrs. Mering and the curate stepped back into the church, away from the splashing raindrops, and Baine, the ever-ready, stepped forward and shut the door. “It looks like we’ll be here awhile, madam,” he said, and I could hear Verity sigh with relief.
“Well,” the curate said, “as you’re here, this is the nave. As you can see, we are undertaking renovations.” He had not exaggerated about the sawdust or the mess. It looked nearly as bad as after the air raid. The chancel was blocked off with wooden hoardings. The pews were draped in dusty tarps. Stacks of lumber lay in front of the choir, from which there issued a loud banging.
“We are modernizing the church,” the curate said. “The decorations were hopelessly out-of-date. I had hoped to have the bell tower replaced with a modern carillon, but the Renovations Committee refused to consider it. Hopelessly hidebound. But I was able to persuade them to remove the galleries and many of the old tombs and monuments, which were cluttering up the chapels. Some of them dated all the way back to the Fourteenth Century.” He rolled his eyes. “Simply ruined the look of the church.”
He smiled a rather protruding smile at Tossie. “Would you care to see the nave, Miss Mering? We’ve put in all new electric lighting.”
Verity came up next to me. “Get his name,” she whispered.
“When our proposed plans are completed,” the curate said, “the church will be a fully modern church which will last hundreds of years.”
“Fifty-two,” I muttered.
“I beg your pardon?” the curate said.
“Nothing,” I said. “You’re modernizing the tower, too?”
“Yes. It and the spire are being completely recased. It’s rather rough here, ladies.” He offered Tossie his arm.
Mrs. Mering took it. “Where is your crypt?” she asked.
“The crypt?” he said. “Over here,” he pointed in the direction of the hoarding, “but it’s not being modernized.”
“Do you believe in the world beyond?” Mrs. Mering said.
“I . . . of course,” he said, bewildered. “I’m a man of the cloth.” He smiled protuberantly at Tossie. “I am of course merely a curate at present, but I hope to be offered a living next year in Sussex.”
“Are you familiar with Arthur Conan Doyle?” Mrs. Mering demanded.
“I . . . yes,” he said, looking even more bewildered. “That is, I’ve read A Study in Scarlet. Thrilling story.”
“You have not read his writings on spiritism?” she said. “Baine!” she called to the butler, who was neatly standing the umbrellas next to the door. “Fetch the issue of The Light with Arthur Conan Doyle’s letter in it.”
Baine nodded, opened the heavy door, and disappeared into the deluge, pulling his collar up as he went.
Mrs. Mering turned back to the curate. “You have heard, of course, of Madame Iritosky?” she said, steering him firmly in the direction of the crypt.
The curate looked confused. “Is she something to do with jumble sales?”
“She was right. I can feel the presence of the spirits here,” Mrs. Me
ring said. “Have you any history of ghosts here at St. Michael’s?”
“Well, actually,” the curate said, “there is a legend of a spirit having been seen in the tower. The legend dates back to the Fourteenth Century, I believe,” and they passed beyond the hoardings to the Other Side.
Tossie looked after them uncertainly, trying to decide whether she should follow them.
“Come look at this, Tossie,” Terence said, standing in front of a brass inscription. “It’s a monument to Gervase Scrope. Listen to what it says, ‘Here lies a poor tossed tennis ball/Was racketed from spring to fall.’”
Tossie obediently came over to read it, then to look at a small brass plate to the Botoners, who had built the cathedral.
“How quaint!” Tossie said. “Listen. ‘William and Adam built the tower, Ann and Mary built the spire. William and Adam built the church, Ann and Mary built the choir.”
She moved on to look at a large marble monument to Dame Mary Bridgeman and Mrs. Eliza Samwell, and then an oil painting of “The Parable of the Lost Lamb,” and we proceeded round the nave, stepping over boards and bags of sand, and stopping at each of the chapels in turn.
“Oh, I do wish we had a guidebook,” Tossie said, frowning at the Purbeck marble baptismal font. “How can one tell what to look at without a guidebook?”
She and Terence moved on to the Cappers’ Chapel. Verity paused and gently tugged on my coat-tails, pulling me back. “Let them get ahead,” she said under her breath.
I obediently stopped in front of a brass of a woman in Jacobean costume dated 1609. “In memory of Ann Sewell,” it read. “A worthy stirrer-up of others to all holy virtues.”
“Obviously an ancestor of Lady Schrapnell’s,” Verity said. “Have you found out the curate’s name?”
When would I have had the chance to do that? I thought. “You think he’s Mr. C?” I said. “He did seem taken with her.”
“Every man seems taken with her,” she said, looking at Tossie, who was hanging on Terence’s arm and giggling. “The question is, is she taken with him? Do you see the bishop’s bird stump?”
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