To Say Nothing of the Dog

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“It’s not your fault,” Verity said. We were arranging items in the jumble sale stall the next morning, our first chance to talk since the “thrilling news,” as Mrs. Mering put it.

“It was my fault,” Verity said, setting out a china wooden shoe with a blue-and-white windmill on it. “I should never have let T.J. send me on so many drops.”

“You were only trying to find out something that might help us,” I said, unwrapping an egg-boiler. “I was the one who left Terence and Tossie alone.” I set it on the counter. “And gave him the idea. You heard him last night. He wouldn’t have proposed if I hadn’t spouted that nonsense about ‘fleeting time’ and ‘miss’d opportunities.’ ”

“You were only doing what I told you to,” she said, opening a Japanese fan. “ ‘Turn the Titanic, Ned,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry. We won’t hit the iceberg.’ ”

“Not set up yet?” Mrs. Mering said, and we both jumped. “It’s nearly time for the fête to open.”

“We’ll be ready,” Verity said, setting out a soup tureen in the shape of a head of lettuce. Mrs. Mering looked worriedly at the overcast sky. “O, Mr. Henry, you don’t think it will rain, do you?”

Of course not, I thought. Fate is against me.

“No,” I said, unwrapping an etching of Paolo and Francesca, another couple who had come to a bad end.

“O, good,” she said, dusting off a bust of Prince Albert. “O, there is Mr. St. Trewes. I must go speak to him about the Pony Ride.”

I watched her interestedly as she swooped down on Terence. She was wearing a blue garden party dress, with all the requisite Victorian puffs and frills and rosettes and insets of lace, but over it she had flowing robes striped in red, yellow, and purple, and round her forehead was a wide velvet band with a large ostrich feather stuck in it.

“She’s the fortuneteller,” Verity explained, setting out a pair of sewing scissors in the shape of a heron. “When she reads my fortune, I intend to ask her where the bishop’s bird stump is.”

“It may well be here,” I said, trying to find a place to set the Widow Wallace’s banjo. “It would fit right in.”

She looked at the array of things on the counter. “It certainly is a jumble,” she said, adding a mustache cup to the mess.

I looked critically at it. “It still lacks something,” I said. I went and snatched a penwiper from Tossie’s stall and stuck it between a paperweight and a set of tin soldiers. “There. It’s perfect.”

“Except for the fact that Tossie and Terence are engaged,” she said. “I should never have assumed she’d stay at the Chattisbournes’ all afternoon.”

“The question is,” I said, “not whose fault it is they got engaged, but what we’re going to do now.”

“What are we going to do now?” Verity said, rearranging a pair of Harlequin and Columbine figurines.

“Perhaps Terence will get a good night’s sleep, come to his senses, and decide it was all a horrible mistake,” I said.

She shook her head. “That won’t help us. Engagements in Victorian times were considered nearly as serious as marriage. A gentleman couldn’t just break an engagement without a dreadful scandal. Unless Tossie breaks it herself, there’s no way Terence can get out of the engagement.”

“Which means her meeting Mr. C,” I said. “Which means our finding out who he is, and the sooner the better.”

“Which means one of us reporting back to Mr. Dunworthy and finding out if the forensics expert has managed to decipher his name yet,” she said.

“And that will be me,” I said firmly.

“What if Lady Schrapnell catches you?”

“I will take that risk,” I said. “You are not going anywhere.”

“I think that’s probably a very good idea,” she said, putting her hand to her forehead. “I’ve been remembering some of the things I said in the boat yesterday.” She ducked her head. “I want you to know that I only said those things about Lord Peter Wimsey and your hat because of the time-lag and the hormonal imbalance, and not because—”

“Understood,” I said. “And I do not, when in my right mind, see you as a beautiful naiad, drawing me down and down into the deep to drown in your watery embrace. Besides,” I said, grinning, “Pansy Chattisbourne and I are already promised to one another.”

“Perhaps you’d like to buy her an engagement gift then,” she said and held up a ceramic affair decorated with gilt lace, pink ceramic gillyflowers, and an assortment of small holes.

“What is it?” I said.

“I have no idea,” she said. “You realize you’ll have to buy something, don’t you? Mrs. Mering will never forgive you if you don’t.”

She held up a wicker basket in the shape of a swan. “How about this?”

“No, thank you,” I said. “Cyril and I are not fond of swans.”

Verity set out a small lidded tin box that sugared violets had come in. “No one will buy this.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” I said, unwrapping a waterstained copy of An Old-Fashioned Girl and setting it between two marble bookends carved in the likenesses of Dido and Aeneas, another couple who had gone up in smoke. Didn’t history have any famous couples who had got married, settled down, and lived happily ever after?

“People will buy anything at jumble sales,” I said. “At the Evacuated Children Charity Fair a woman bought a tree branch that had fallen on the table.”

“Don’t look now,” Verity said, and her voice dropped to a whisper, “but here comes your betrothed.”

I turned to see Pansy Chattisbourne bearing down on me. “Oh, Mr. Henry,” she said, giggling, “do come help me set up the fancy goods stall,” and dragged me away to arrange antimacassars and tatted handkerchief cases.

“I made these,” Pansy said, showing me a pair of slippers crocheted in a design of pansies. “Heartsease. It means, ‘I am thinking of you.’ ”

“Ah,” I said, and purchased a bookmark embroidered, “Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moths corrupt and thieves break in and steal. Matthew 6:19.”

“No, no, no, Mr. Henry,” Mrs. Mering said, swooping down on me and my cross-stitched tea cloths like some colorful bird of prey, you’re not supposed to be here. I need you over here.”

She led me down the lawn past the knitted and crocheted goods stall and the fishing pond stall and the coconut shy and the tea tent to a spot at the end of the lawn where a plot of sand had been laid out inside a wooden frame. Baine was dividing the sand into foot-wide squares with the blade of a small shovel.

“This is our Treasure Hunt, Mr. Henry,” she said, handing me a stack of folded pasteboard squares. “These are for numbering the squares. Have you any shillings, Mr. Henry?”

I fished out my purse and tipped it into my cupped hand.

She scooped up all the coins. “Three shillings for the minor prizes,” she said, plucking out three silver coins and handing them back to me, “and the rest of this will do excellently for change at the woolen goods booth.”

She handed me back a single gold coin. “And you’ll need this,” she said, “for purchasing treasures at the jumble sale.”

Definitely related to Lady Schrapnell.

“I will let you choose which squares to bury the shillings and the Grand Prize in. Take care no one sees you, she said. “Avoid the corner squares and all the lucky numbers — Three and Seven and Thirteen — people always choose those first, and if someone finds the treasure early, we shan’t make any money for the restoration. Also, avoid the numbers under twelve. Children always choose their age. And Fourteen. Today’s the fourteenth of June, and people always choose the date. Make certain they only dig in one square. Baine, where is the Grand Prize?”

“Right here, madam,” Baine said, handing her a brown-paper-wrapped parcel.

“The price for digging is tuppence a square or three for fivepence,” she said, unveiling the parcel, “and here is our Grand Prize.”

She handed me a plate with a painting of Iffley Mill and the words “Happy Memories of the Thames” on it. It looked just like the one the mobcap in Abingdon had tried to sell me.

“Baine, where is the shovel?” Mrs. Mering said.

“Here, madam,” he said, and handed me a shovel and a rake. “For smoothing the sand down after you’ve hidden the treasure,” he explained.

“Baine, what time is it?” Mrs. Mering asked.

“Five minutes to ten, madam,” he said, and I thought she was going to swoon.

“O, we’re not nearly ready!” she cried. “Baine, go and explain the fishing pond stall to Professor Peddick and bring out my crystal ball. Mr. Henry, there’s no time to waste. You must bury the treasure immediately.”

I started for the sand.

“And not Twenty-eight. That was last year’s winning square. Or Sixteen. That’s the Queen’s Birthday.”

She swept off, and I set about hiding the treasure. Baine had laid out thirty squares. Eliminating Sixteen, Twenty-eight, Three, Seven, Thirteen, Fourteen, and One through Twelve, to say nothing of the corners, didn’t leave very many choices.

I took a sharp look round, in case there were any “Souvenir of the Thames” thieves lurking in the hedge, and stuck the three shillings in Twenty-nine, Twenty-three, and Twenty-six. No, that was a corner. Twenty-one. And then stood there, trying to decide what the least-likely looking square was and wondering if I had time to go through and report to Mr. Dunworthy before the fête started.

While I was debating, the bell from Muchings End Church began to toll, Mrs. Mering gave a screamlet, and the fête was declared officially open. I hastily buried the Grand Prize in Eighteen and began raking it over.

“Seven,” a child’s voice said behind me. I turned round. It was Eglantine Chattisbourne in a pink dress and a large bow. She was carrying the lettuce soup tureen.

“I’m not open yet,” I said, raking several other squares and then stooping to place the cardboard numbers in them.

“I want to dig in Number Seven,” Eglantine said, shoving fivepence at me. “I get three tries. I want seven for my first one. It’s my lucky number.”

I handed her the shovel, and she set down the lettuce and dug for several minutes.

“Do you want to try another square?” I asked her.

“I’m not finished yet,” she said, and dug some more.

She stood up and surveyed the squares. “It’s never in the corners,” she said thoughtfully, “and it can’t be Fourteen. It’s never the date. Twelve,” she said finally. “That’s how old I am on my birthday.”

She dug some more. “Are you certain you put the prizes in?” she said accusingly.

“Yes,” I said. “Three shillings and a Grand Prize.”

“You could say they were in there,” she said, “and truly you’d kept them for yourself.”

“They’re in there,” I said. “Which square do you want for your third try?”

“I don’t,” she said, handing me the shovel. “I want to think for a little.”

“As you wish, miss,” I said.

She held out her hand. “I want my tuppence back. For my third try.”

I wondered if she were somehow related to Lady Schrapnell. Perhaps Elliott Chattisbourne, despite appearances, was Mr. C after all.

“I haven’t any change,” I said.

She flounced off, I raked the squares flat again, and leaned against a tree, waiting for more customers.

None came. They were apparently all hitting the jumble sale first. Business was so slow for the first hour I could easily have sneaked off to the drop, except for Eglantine, who hovered nearby, plotting which square to use her last tuppence on.

And, as it developed when she had finally decided on Number Seventeen and dug to no avail, keeping her eye on me. “I think you move the prizes when no one’s looking,” she said, brandishing the toy shovel. “That’s why I’ve been watching you.”

“But if you’ve been watching me,” I said reasonably, “how could I have moved the prize?”

“I don’t know,” she said darkly, “but you must have. It’s the only explanation. It’s always in Seventeen.”

Now that she was out of money, I’d hoped she would move on, but she hung about, watching a little boy choose Six (his age) and his mother pick Fourteen (the date).

“Perhaps you never put the prizes in at all,” Eglantine said after they’d left, the little boy sobbing because he hadn’t found a prize. “Perhaps you only said you did.”

“Wouldn’t you like to have a nice pony ride?” I said. “Mr. St. Trewes is giving pony rides over there.”

“Pony rides are for infants,” she said disdainfully.

“Have you had your fortune told?” I persisted.

“Yes,” she said. “The fortuneteller said she saw a long journey in my future.”

The sooner the better, I thought.

“They have some lovely penwipers in the fancy goods stall,” I said shamelessly.

“I don’t want a penwiper,” she said. “I want a Grand Prize.”

She kept an eagle eye on me for another half hour, at which point Professor Peddick came over.

“Looks exactly like the plain at Runnymede,” he said, gesturing to include the lawn with its stalls and tea tent. “The lords, with their marquees and their banners spread out across the plain, waiting for King John and his party to arrive.”

“Speaking of Runnymede,” I said, “shouldn’t we be going on downriver and then back to Oxford to see your sister and your niece? No doubt they will be missing you.

“Pah!” he said. “There’s plenty of time. They’ll be staying all summer, and the Colonel’s ordered a red-spotted silver tancho that is to arrive tomorrow.”

“Terence and I could run you home tomorrow on the train, just to check on things at home, and then you could come back to see the red-spotted silver tancho.”

“Not necessary,” he said. “Maudie’s a capable girl. I’m certain she has things well in hand. And I doubt Terence would be willing to go, now that he’s engaged to Miss Mering.” He shook his head. “I can’t say I entirely approve of these hasty engagements,” he said. “What’s your opinion of them, Henry?”

“That little pitchers have big ears,” I said, looking at Eglantine, who was standing next to the Treasure Hunt, her hands behind her back, looking earnestly at the squares.

“Pretty little thing, but knows scarcely any history,” Professor Peddick went on, not taking the hint. “Thought Nelson lost his arm fighting the Spanish Armada.”

“Are you going to dig?” Eglantine said, coming over to him.

“Dig?” Professor Peddick said.

“For treasure,” she said.

“As Professor Schliemann dug at ancient Troy,” he said, picking up the little shovel. “ ‘Fuimus Troes; fuit Ilium.’ ”

“You must pay tuppence first,” Eglantine said. “And choose a number.”

“Choose a number?” Professor Peddick said, bringing out two pennies. “Very well. Fifteen for the day and the year of the signing of the Magna Carta.” He plunked down the pennies. “The fifteenth of June, 1215.”

“That’s tomorrow,” I said. “What an excellent occasion for us to go down to Runnymede, on the very anniversary of the signing. We could telegram your sister and your niece to meet us there, and we could go down by boat tomorrow morning.”

“Too many sightseers,” Professor Peddick said. “They’d spoil the fishing.”

“Fifteen’s a very poor number,” Eglantine said. “I would have chosen Nine.”

“Here,” Professor Peddick said, handing her the shovel. “You dig for me.”

“May I keep anything I find?” she asked.

“We shall share the spoils,” he said. “ ‘Fortuna belli semper anticipiti in loco est.’ ”

“What do I get for digging if it isn’t in Fifteen?”

“Lemonade and cakes in the tea tent,” he said.

“It isn’t in Fifteen,” Eglantine said, but she began digging.

“A fateful day, the fifteenth of June,” Professor Peddick said, watching her. “Napoleon marched his army into Belgium on the fifteenth of June in 1814. Had he pressed on to Ligny instead of stopping in Fleurus, he would have split Wellington’s and Blücher’s armies apart and won the battle of Waterloo. A day that changed history forever, the fifteenth of June.”

“I told you it wasn’t in Fifteen,” Eglantine said. “I don’t think it’s in any of them. When do I get my lemonade and cakes?”

“Now, if you like,” Professor Peddick said, taking her arm and leading her off toward the tea tent, and now I could go through and report in to Mr. Dunworthy.

I started for the gazebo, and hadn’t made it three steps before I was stopped by Mrs. Chattisbourne. “Mr. Henry,” she said, “have you seen Eglantine?”

I told her she was in the tea tent.

“I suppose you have heard the delightful news of Miss Mering’s and Mr. St. Trewes’s engagement,” she said.

I said I had.

“I always think June is the perfect month for engagements, don’t you, Mr. Henry? And so many lovely young girls about. I shouldn’t be surprised if you were to become engaged, too.”

I told her Eglantine was in the tea tent.

“Thank you,” she said. “Oh, and if you see Mr. Finch, will you please tell him we are nearly out of parsnip wine at the baked goods stall?”

“Yes, Mrs. Chattisbourne,” I said.

“Finch is such a wonderful butler,” she said. “So thoughtful. Did you know he went all the way to Stowcester for seed cake for the stall? He spends every spare moment travelling the countryside, looking for delicacies for our table. Yesterday he walked to Farmer Bilton’s for strawberries. He’s quite simply amazing. The best butler we have ever had. I worry night and day that he will be stolen away from me.”

A legitimate worry under the circumstances, I thought, and wondered what Finch was really up to at Stowcester and Farmer Bilton’s. And whether Mrs. Chattisbourne would ever leave.

She did, but not before Pansy and Iris showed up, giggling, and spent tuppence apiece on Three and Thirteen (their lucky numbers). By the time I got rid of them, it had been nearly half an hour, and Eglantine was liable to be back at any moment.

I sprinted over to the driveway and the Pony Ride and asked Terence if he could watch the Treasure Hunt for me for a few minutes.

“What does it involve?” he asked suspiciously.

“Handing people a shovel and taking their tuppences,” I said, skipping the part about Eglantine.

“I’ll do it,” Terence said, tying the pony to a tree. “It sounds like a soft job compared to this. I’ve spent all morning being kicked.”

“By the pony?” I said, eyeing it warily.

“By the children.”

I showed him the layout of the Treasure Hunt and gave him the shovel. “I’ll be back in a quarter of an hour,” I promised.

“Take as long as you like,” he said.

I thanked him and took off for the gazebo. And nearly made it. At the edge of the lilacs, the curate caught me and said, “Are you enjoying the fête, Mr. Henry?”

“Tremendously,” I said. “I—”

“Have you had your fortune told?”

“Not yet,” I said. “I—”

“Then you must this very instant,” he said, grabbing me by the arm and propelling me back toward the fortune-telling tent. “It and the jumble sale are the high point of the fête.”

He shoved me through a red-and-purple flap into a tiny enclosed tent in which sat Mrs. Mering and the crystal ball, which she had apparently bullied Felpham and Muncaster’s into delivering on time.

“Sit down,” she said. “You must cross my palm with silver.”

I handed her the lone gold coin she’d left me. She handed me back several silver coins in change and then passed her hands over the crystal ball.

“I see…” she said in a sepulchral voice, “…you will live a very long life.”

It only seems long, I thought.

“I see… a long journey, very long… you are seeking something. Is it an object of great worth?” She closed her eyes and ran a hand across her forehead. “The glass is murky… I cannot see whether you will be successful in your search.”

“You can’t see where it is, can you?” I said, leaning over to try to see into the ball. “The object?”

“No,” she said, placing her hands over it, “…it… Things Are Not What They Seem. I see… trouble… the glass is becoming clouded… at the center I see… Princess Arjumand!”

I jumped a good foot.

“Princess Arjumand! Naughty puss!” she said, reaching under her robes. “You mustn’t come in here, you naughty bad kitty. Mr. Henry, do be so good as to take her back to my daughter. She quite spoils the atmosphere.”

She handed over Princess Arjumand, who had to be detached claw by claw from her robes. “Always causing trouble,” she said.

I carried Princess Arjumand over to the jumble sale stall and asked Verity to keep an eye on her.

“What did you find out from Mr. Dunworthy?” she said.

“I haven’t gone yet. I got waylaid by Mrs. Mering,” I said. “However, she saw a long journey in my future, so perhaps it means I’ll be able to go now.”

“She saw a wedding in my future,” Verity said. “Let’s hope it’s Tossie’s to Mr. C.”

I came round behind the counter, handed Princess Arjumand to her, and then ducked out the back way, sprinted down to the towpath and along it to the gazebo, and hid in the lilac bushes, waiting for the net to open.

It took forever to open, during which I worried about Eglantine or the curate catching me, and then, when the net finally began to shimmer, about Lady Schrapnell catching me.

I came through in a crouch, ready to bolt if Lady Schrapnell was in the lab. She wasn’t, at least in the parts that I could see. The lab looked like it had been turned into a war room. All across the wall where I had sat — how many days ago? — there was a comp setup so big it dwarfed the net console. A tall bank of monitors and three-dimensional stack screens filled the entire part of the lab that wasn’t taken up by the net.

Warder was at the console, interrogating the new recruit.

“All I know is,” the new recruit said, “he said, ‘I’m not risking you being left behind again. Get in the net,’ and I did.”

“And Carruthers didn’t say anything about doing anything before he followed you?” Warder asked. “Checking on something?”

He shook his head. “He said, ‘I’m right behind you.’ ”

“Was there anyone about?”

He shook his head again. “The sirens had gone. And there’s nobody living in that part of the city. It’s all burnt down.”

“The sirens had gone?” Warder said. “Were you under attack? Could a bomb have hit—” She looked up suddenly and saw me. What are you doing here?” she said. “What happened to Kindle?”

“Advanced time-lag, thanks to you people,” I said, flailing my way out of the veils. “Where’s Mr. Dunworthy?”

“Over at Corpus Christi with the forensics expert,” she said.

“Go tell him I’m here and need to talk to him now,” I said to the new recruit.

“I’m trying to find out what happened to Carruthers,” Warder said, flushing angrily. “You can’t just come in here and—”

“This is important,” I said.

“So is Carruthers!” she snapped. She turned to the new recruit. “Were there any delayed-action bombs in the area?”

The recruit looked uncertainly from her to me. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Warder said angrily. “What about the buildings and ruins in the area, were they unstable? And don’t tell me you don’t know!”

“I’d best go fetch Mr. Dunworthy,” the recruit said.

“All right,” Warder snapped. “Come straight back. I’ve some more questions to ask you.”

The recruit made his escape, brushing past T.J., who was on his way in with a stack of books, vids, and disks. “Oh, good,” he said when he saw me. “I want to show you both—” He stopped, looking round. “Where’s Verity?”

“In 1888,” I said. “She got time-lagged doing all those drops for you.”

“They didn’t turn up anything,” he said, trying to set the stack down without it falling over, “which doesn’t make any sense. There’s got to be increased slippage around the site. Here, let me show you.”

He started to lead me over to the comp setup and then stopped and went over to the console and asked Warder, “Was there slippage on Ned’s drop?”

“I haven’t had time to calculate it,” Warder said. “I’ve been trying to get Carruthers out!”

“Okay, okay,” T.J. said, holding up his hands defensively. “Could you please calculate it?”

He turned to me. “Ned, I want to show you—”

“What’s this about slippage on my drop?” I said. “There isn’t any slippage on return drops.”

“There was on Verity’s last drop,” he said.

“What’s causing it?”

“We don’t know yet,” he said. “We’re working on it. Come here. Let me show you what we’re doing.” He led me over to the comp setup. “Did Verity tell you about the Waterloo sims?”

“More or less,” I said.

“Okay, it’s very hard to make an accurate comp model of an historical event because so many factors are unknown, but Waterloo’s an exception. The battle’s been analyzed and every incident’s been described down to a microscopic level. Also,” he said, his black fingers typing rapidly, “it has several crisis points and a number of factors which could have made the battle go either way: the violent rainstorms on the sixteenth and seventeenth, General Grouchy’s failure to come up—”

“Napoleon’s bad penmanship,” I said.

“Exactly. Napoleon’s message to D’Erlon and the failure to take Hougoumont, among others.”

He hit more keys, leaning round to see the bank of stack screens behind him.

“All right, here’s what we’ve been looking at,” he said, picking up a lightpen and walking over to the center screen. “This is a sim of Waterloo as it actually happened.”

The screen showed a three-dimensional gray blur with lighter and darker areas. “This is the battle,” he said, switching on the pen and pointing it into the center of the three-dimensional blur. “And here,” he pointed at the edges, are the surrounding temporal and locational areas the battle affected.”

The light darted back to the center and rapidly pointed to several places. “Here you can see the battle at Quatre Bras, the fight for Wavre, the charge of the Old Guard, the retreat.”

I couldn’t see anything but assorted gray blurs. I felt the way I always do when a doctor shows me a scan. “Here you see the lungs, the heart—” I never see anything of the sort.

“What I’ve done is introduce simulated incongruities into the model and see how the sim changes,” he said.

He moved to the screen on the left. As near as I could tell, it looked identical to the one in the center. “In this one, for example, Napoleon sent an illegible order to D’Erlon to turn toward Ligny, with the result that he brought his men up behind Napoleon’s left flank instead of ahead of it and was mistaken for the enemy. I introduced a simulated historian here,” he said, pointing at gray, “who substituted a legible order for Napoleon’s note, and as you can see, it changed the picture radically.”

I would have to take his word for it.

“When the incongruity’s introduced, you get a pattern of radically increased slippage at the site,” he pointed with the lightpen, “and then slightly lower levels here and here surrounding the site, and then smaller peripheral patches as the system corrects itself.”

I squinted at the screen, trying to look intelligent.

“In this case, the system was able to self-correct almost immediately. D’Erlon issued the orders to his second-in-command, who gave them to a lieutenant, who couldn’t hear him for the artillery fire, and sent the troops up on the left flank after all, and the situation reverted to its original pattern.”

He pointed the lightpen at the top row of screens. “I tried a number of variables of varying severity. In this one, the historian breaks the lock on the gate at Hougoumont. In this one, he spoils an infantryman’s shot so Letort isn’t killed. In this one here, the historian intercepts a message between Blücher and Wellington,” he said, pointing at one screen after another. “They vary greatly in their impact on the situation and in how long it takes the continuum to self-correct.”

He pointed at more screens. “This one took a few minutes, this one took two days, and there doesn’t seem to be a direct correlation between the seriousness of the incongruity and its consequences. In this one,” he pointed at the far left bottom screen, “we shot Uxbridge to prevent his suicidal charge, and his second-in-command immediately took up the charge with the same result.

“On the other hand, in this one,” he indicated a screen in the second row, we had an historian dressed as a Prussian soldier stumble and fall during the fight for Ligny, and the self-correction was enormous, involving four regiments and Blücher himself.”

He moved to a screen in the center. “In this one, we changed the circumstances at La Sainte Haye. The thatched roofs caught fire from the artillery shells, and a chain of men with soup kettles full of water managed to put the fires out.”

He pointed at a spot near the center. “I introduced an historian here to steal one of the soup kettles. It created a major incongruity, and the interesting thing is that the self-correction didn’t just involve increased slippage here and here,” the light pointed at the top of the screen, “but here, before 1814.”

“It went back in the past and corrected itself?”

“Yes,” he said. “In the winter of 1812, there was a bad snowstorm, which caused a deep rut in the road in front of La Sainte Haye, which caused an oxcart passing over it to lose part of its load, including a small wooden keg full of beer, which a servant found and carried home to La Sainte Haye. The keg, with the top hacked off, was substituted for the missing soup kettle in the bucket brigade, the fires were put out, and the incongruity was repaired.”

He went back to the comp, hit more keys, and brought up a new set of screens. “This one, where Gneisenau retreats to Liege, and this one, in which the historian helps push a cannon out of the mud, show self-corrections in the past, too.”

“That’s why you had Verity do drops in May?” I said. “Because you think the incongruity may have attempted to adjust itself before it happened?”

“But we haven’t found any slippage anywhere except for your drop,” he said, sounding frustrated. “Every one of these,” he waved at the screen, no matter how large or how small the self-correction, has the same basic pattern: radically increased slippage at the site, moderately increased slippage in the immediate area, and then isolated pockets of slippage farther from the site.”

“Which doesn’t match our incongruity at all,” I said, staring at the screen.

“No,” T.J. said, “it doesn’t. The slippage on Verity’s drop was nine minutes, and I haven’t been able to find any radical increase in slippage anywhere near the site. The only slippage at all is the cluster in 2018, and it’s much greater than it should be, that far from the site.”

He went to the comp, typed something in, and came back to the left-hand screen, which had changed slightly. “The only one that’s been close is this one,” he said. “We had the historian fire an artillery shell that killed Wellington.”

He felt in his pockets for the lightpen, couldn’t find it, and settled for his finger. “See this? Here and here, you have radically increased slippage, but it can’t contain the altering events and discrepancies which develop here and here and here,” he said, pointing at three spots close to the focus, “and the amount of slippage drops off sharply here, and you can see here,” he pointed farther out, “the backups start to fail, and the net begins to malfunction as history starts to alter course.”

“And Napoleon wins the battle of Waterloo.”

“Yes,” he said. “You can see the parallels to your incongruity here,” he pointed at darker gray, “where there’s a pocket of increased slippage nearly seventy years from the site, and here,” he pointed at a spot of lighter gray, “in the lack of slippage at a short distance from the site.”

“But there’s still radically increased slippage at the site,” I said.

“Yes,” he said grimly. “In every single incongruity we’ve tried. Except yours.”

“But at least you’ve been able to prove that incongruities are possible,” I said. “That’s something, isn’t it?”

“What?” he said blankly. “These are all just mathematical sims.”

“I know, but you’ve shown what would happen if—”

He was shaking his head violently. “What would happen if we really tried to send an historian to Waterloo to intercept a message or shoot a horse or give directions is that the net wouldn’t open. Historians have been trying for over forty years. No one can get within two years and a hundred miles of Waterloo.” He waved angrily at the banks of screens. “These sims are all based on a net without any safeguards.”

So we were right back where we started.

“Could something have overridden the safeguards on Verity’s drop?” I said. “Or made them malfunction?”

“That was the first thing we checked. There was no sign of anything but a perfectly normal drop.”

Mr. Dunworthy came in, looking worried. “Sorry I took so long,” he said. “I went to see if the forensics expert had made any progress on either the name or the date.”

“Has she?” I said.

“Where’s the recruit?” Warder cut in crabbily before Mr. Dunworthy could answer. “He was supposed to come back with you.”

“I sent him over to the cathedral to keep Lady Schrapnell occupied so she wouldn’t come over while Ned was here,” he said.

And I trusted him to do that about as much as I trusted him to find his way home, so we’d better make this short.

“Has the forensics expert decoded Mr. C’s name?”

“No. She’s narrowed the number of letters down to eight, and she’s located the Coventry entry, and is working on the date.”

Well, that was something. “We need it as soon as possible,” I said. “Terence and Tossie got engaged yesterday.”

“Oh, dear,” Mr. Dunworthy said, and looked around as if he would have liked to sit down. “Betrothal was a very serious matter in Victorian days,” he said to T.J.

He turned back to me. “Ned, the two of you still don’t have any leads as to Mr. C’s identity?”

“No, and we still haven’t been able to get hold of the diary,” I said. “Verity’s hoping Mr. C comes to the church fête today.”

I tried to think if there was anything else I should tell or ask them. “T.J., you said something about slippage on the return drops?”

“Oh, yes. Warder!” he called across to the console, where she was violently pounding keys. “Have you figured the slippage yet?”

“I am trying to—”

“I know, I know, you’re trying to get Carruthers out,” T.J. said.

“No,” she said. “I am trying to bring Finch through.”

“It can wait,” T.J. said. “I need the slippage on Ned’s return drop.”

“All right!” she said, her seraphim’s hundred eyes flashing. She beat on the keys for half a minute. “Three hours, eight minutes.”

“Three hours!” I said.

“It’s better than Verity’s last drop,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “That was two days.”

T.J. held his hands out, palms up, and shrugged. “There hasn’t been any on any of the sims.”

I thought of something. “What day is it?”

“Friday,” T.J. said.

“It’s nine days till the consecration,” Mr. Dunworthy said, thinking. “The fifth of November.”

“Nine days!” I said. “Good Lord! And I don’t suppose the bishop’s bird stump has turned up?”

Mr. Dunworthy shook his head. “Things don’t look good, do they, Ensign Klepperman?”

“There’s one thing that does,” T.J. said, darting back to the comp and hitting keys. “I did a bunch of scenarios on the Berlin bombing.” The screens changed to a slightly different pattern of gray blurs. “Missing the target, plane getting hit, pilot getting hit, even eliminating the pilot and plane altogether, and none of them affects the outcome. London still gets bombed.”

“That is good news,” Mr. Dunworthy said wryly.

“Well, it’s something anyway,” I said, wishing I could believe it.

The net shimmered, and Finch appeared. He waited for Warder to raise the veils and then came straight over to Mr. Dunworthy and said, “I have excellent news regarding the—” He stopped and looked at me. “I will be in your office, sir,” he said and went out hastily.

“I want to know what Finch is up to,” I said. “Did you send him back to drown Princess Arjumand?”

“Drown—?” T.J. said, and started to laugh.

“Did you?” I demanded. “And don’t tell me you’re not at liberty to say.”

“We are not at liberty to tell you what Finch’s mission is,” Mr. Dunworthy said, “but I can tell you, Princess Arjumand is perfectly safe, and that you will be pleased with the results of Finch’s mission.”

“If Henry’s going back,” Warder said irritably from the console, “I need to send him now so I can start the half-hour intermittent on Carruthers.”

“We need the forensics expert’s information as soon as you have it,” I said to Mr. Dunworthy. “I’ll try to come through tonight or tomorrow.”

Mr. Dunworthy nodded.

“I don’t have all day,” Warder said. “I am trying—”

“All right,” I said, and went over to the net.

“What time do you want to be sent back to?” Warder asked. “Five minutes after you left?”

Hope suddenly leaped up like one of Wordsworth’s rainbows. “I can go back to whenever I want?”

“It’s time travel,” Warder said. “I haven’t got all—”

“Half-past four,” I said. With luck, there would be twenty minutes’ slippage, and the fête would be completely over.

“Half-past four?” Warder said, looking belligerent. “Won’t someone have missed you?”

“No,” I said. “Terence will be delighted he doesn’t have to go back to the Pony Ride.”

Warder shrugged and began setting up the coordinates. “Step in the net,” she said, and hit the “send” key.

The net shimmered, and I straightened my boater and tie and strode happily back to the fête. It was still overcast, so I couldn’t see the sun to tell what time it was, and my watch was useless, but the crowd seemed a bit thinner. It must be at least half-past three. I went over to the jumble sale stall to report to Verity that I had nothing to report.

She wasn’t there. The stall was being tended by Rose and Iris Chattisbourne, who tried to sell me a silver sugar hammer.

“She’s in the tea tent,” they said, but she wasn’t there either.

Cyril was, hoping against hope someone would drop a sandwich, and giving the impression that he’d been there all day. I bought him a currant bun and myself a rock cake and a cup of tea and took them back over to the Treasure Hunt.

“You weren’t gone very long,” Terence said. “I told you to take as long as you liked.”

“What time is it?” I said with a sinking feeling. “My watch— stopped.”

“ ‘It was the very best butter,’ ” Terence quoted. “It’s five past twelve. I don’t suppose you’d like to take the Pony Ride for a bit?” he said hopefully.

“No,” I said.

He wandered morosely off toward the drive, and I sipped my tea and ate my rock cake and thought about the unfairness of Fate.

It was a very long afternoon. Eglantine, who had cadged another fivepence from one of her sisters, spent most of the afternoon squatting next to the sand, plotting her strategy.

“I don’t think any of the squares has the Grand Prize in it,” she said, after she’d squandered tuppence on Number Two.

“It does,” I said. “I put it in there myself, whether you believe me or not.”

“I do believe you,” she said. “The Reverend Mr. Arbitage saw you do it. But someone might have stolen up and taken it when nobody was here.”

“Someone’s been here the entire time.”

“They might have sneaked in and out the back way,” she said. “While we were talking.”

She went back to squatting, and I went back to my rock cake, which was even harder than the rock cake I’d had at the Prayers for the RAF Service and Baked Goods Sale, and thought about the bishop’s bird stump.

Had someone sneaked it out the back way when nobody was looking? I had said no one would want it, but look at the things people bought at jumble sales. Perhaps a looter had taken it out of the rubble, after all. Or perhaps Verity was right, and it had been taken out of the cathedral sometime before the raid. Either it had been in the cathedral during the raid, or it hadn’t, I thought, looking at the squares of sand. Those were the only two possibilities. And either way it had to be somewhere. But where? In Number Eighteen? Number Twenty-five?

At half-past one the curate came to spell me so I could “have a proper luncheon” and “have a look at the fête.” The “proper luncheon” consisted of a fish paste sandwich (which I gave half of to Cyril) and another cup of tea, after which I made the rounds of the stalls. I won a red glass ring at the fishing pond, bought a quilted tea cozy, a pomander made from an orange stuck full of cloves, a china crocodile, and a jar of calves’ foot jelly, told Verity I hadn’t got the date or Mr. C’s name, and went back to the Treasure Hunt. When Eglantine wasn’t looking, I buried the crocodile in Number Nine.

The afternoon wore on. People chose Four, Sixteen, Twenty-one, and Twenty-Nine, and actually found two of the shillings. Eglantine spent the rest of her fivepence to no avail and stomped off in a huff. At one point, Baine came up with Princess Arjumand and dumped her in my arms.

“Could you possibly watch her for a bit, Mr. Henry?” he said. “Mrs. Mering wishes me to run the coconut shy, and I fear Princess Arjumand cannot be left alone even for a moment,” he said, looking hard at her.

“The globe-eyed nacreous ryunkin again?” I said.

“Yes, sir.”

A large box full of sand didn’t seem like a terribly good place for her either. “Why can’t you spend the entire day sleeping on the fancy goods display like that calico cat at the Nativity of the Virgin Mary jumble sale?” I said.

“More,” she said, and rubbed her nose against my hand.

I petted her, thinking what a pity it was that she hadn’t drowned and achieved nonsignificance, so that the net would have slammed shut when I tried to return her, and I could have kept her.

Of course, I couldn’t really have kept her. Some billionaire would have snapped her up, and one cat couldn’t replace an entire extinct species, even with cloning. But still, I thought, scratching her behind the ears, she was a very nice cat. Except, of course, for the nacreous ryunkin. And Professor Peddick’s double-gilled blue chub.

Finch came hurrying up. He looked hastily round and then leaned forward and said, “I have a message for you from Mr. Dunworthy. He said to tell you he spoke to the forensics expert, and she’s deciphered the date of the trip to Coventry. He said—”

“Mama says you’re to let me have three more tries,” Eglantine said, appearing out of nowhere, “and she will give you fivepence when the fête closes.”

Finch looked nervously at Eglantine. “Is there somewhere we could speak privately, sir?” he said.

“Eglantine,” I said. “How would you like to run the Treasure Hunt for a few minutes?”

She shook her head virtuously. “I wish to dig. The person in charge isn’t allowed to win prizes. I wish Number Two.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “This gentleman was ahead of you. Mr. Finch, what square would you like?”

“Square?” Finch said.

“A square to dig in,” I said, indicating the sandbox. “As there are thirty squares, most people choose a date. If it’s one of those listed here,” I added, remembering the date might be the thirty-first. “Did you have a specific date in mind, Mr. Finch?”

“Oh,” Finch said, the light dawning. “The date. I would like square Number—”

“He hasn’t paid,” Eglantine said. “You must pay tuppence first to dig.” Finch fished in his pockets. “I’m afraid I haven’t any—”

“Butlers get a free try,” I said. “What number—?”

“That isn’t fair,” Eglantine wailed. “Why should butlers get a free try?”

“It’s a church fête rule,” I said.

“You didn’t give Mrs. Mering’s butler a free try,” she said.

“He took his on the coconut shy,” I said, handing Finch the shovel. “The date, Mr. Finch?”

“Fifteen, please, Mr. Henry,” he said quickly.

“Fifteen?” I said. “Are you certain?”

“You can’t choose Fifteen,” Eglantine said. “It’s already been chosen. And so have Sixteen and Seventeen. You can’t choose a number which has already been chosen. It’s against the rules.”

“Fifteen,” Finch said firmly.

“But that’s impossible,” I said. “The fifteenth is tomorrow.”

“And you can’t buy Six or Twenty-two,” Eglantine said, “because I’m going to buy them.”

“Was she absolutely certain?” I said.

“Yes, sir,” Finch said.

“What about the month? Could it have been July? Or August?” even though I knew it wasn’t. Verity had told me that day at Iffley the trip to Coventry had been in June.

“I would pick one of the corners,” Eglantine said. “Thirty or One.”

“And you’re certain it’s the fifteenth? Tomorrow?”

“Yes, sir,” Finch said. “Mr. Dunworthy sent me through immediately to tell you.”

“I’ve got to tell Verity,” I said. “Finch, shut up shop.”

“You can’t,” Eglantine wailed. “I get three more chances.”

“Let her dig in three more squares and then close down,” I said and took off for the jumble sale stall before either of them could protest, skirting round the back way so I wouldn’t be waylaid by Mrs. Mering or the Chattisbourne girls.

Verity was selling the stringless banjo to a young man in a derby and a handlebar mustache. I picked up an unidentifiable utensil with a large serrated wheel and two sets of curved blades and pretended to know what it was till the young man left.

“A Mr. Kilbreth,” Verity said. “Spelled with a ‘K.’ ”

“The forensics expert’s deciphered the date of the trip to Coventry,” I said before anyone could come up and interrupt us. “It’s the fifteenth of June.”

She looked shocked. “But that’s impossible. The fifteenth is tomorrow.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

“How did you find out? Did you go through again?”

“No. Finch came and told me.”

“And he’s certain?”

“Yes. So what do we do?” I said. “I don’t suppose I could simply suggest an outing to Coventry tomorrow morning? To see the sights?”

Verity shook her head. “The day after an activity like this is spent rehashing it with the Chattisbournes and the curate and the Widow Wallace. They’d never be willing to go off and miss that. It’s the best part of the fête.”

“What about fish?” I said.

“Fish?”

“We could tell the Colonel and Professor Peddick there are excellent shallows or deeps or gravel bottoms for bream or something. Isn’t Coventry on a river? The Colonel and Professor Peddick can’t resist anything with fish involved.”

“I don’t know,” Verity said thoughtfully, “but you’ve given me an idea. I don’t suppose you can crack your toes, can you?”

“What?”

“That’s how the Fox sisters did it. Never mind, we can do it with—” She began rummaging through the jumble sale items, looking for something. “Oh, good, it’s still here,” she said, and picked up the metal sugared-violets box.

“Here, buy this,” she said, thrusting it at me. “I haven’t any money.”

“What for?”

“I’ve got an idea,” she said. “Buy it. It’s fivepence.”

I obligingly handed her a shilling.

“I was going to buy that,” Eglantine said, appearing out of nowhere.

“I thought you were over at the Treasure Hunt digging,” I said.

“I was,” she said. “Squares Ten, Eleven, and Twenty-seven. The treasure wasn’t in any of them. I don’t believe it’s in any of them. I don’t believe you ever put the treasure in it.” She turned to Verity. “I told you this morning I wanted to buy the sugared-violets box.”

“You can’t,” Verity said. “Mr. Henry's already bought it. Be a good girl and go find Mrs. Mering for me. I need to speak with her.”

“It is just the right size to keep buttons in,” Eglantine said. “And I told you this morning I wanted to buy it.”

“Wouldn’t you rather have a nice book?” Verity said, offering her An Old-Fashioned Girl.

“Here’s tuppence,” I said. “If you’ll go fetch Mrs. Mering, I’ll tell you where the treasure is.”

“That’s against the rules,” she said.

“Giving a clue isn’t,” I said. I leaned down and whispered in her ear, “The battle of Waterloo.”

“The day or the year?”

“That’s for you to figure out.”

“Will you give me clues to the squares the shilling is in?”

“No,” I said. “And fetch Mrs. Mering before you start digging.”

She ran off.

“Quick, before she comes back,” I said, “what’s your idea?”

She took the sugared-violets box from me, removed the lid, and held the box and lid apart, like a pair of cymbals, and then brought them together with a tinny rap.

“A séance,” she said.

“A séance?” I said. “That’s your idea? I’m sorry I didn’t let Eglantine buy the box.”

“You said the Colonel and Professor Peddick couldn’t resist anything having to do with fish,” she said. “Well, Mrs. Mering can’t resist anything to do with the spirits or séances—”

“Séance?” Mrs. Mering said, swooping up in her Coat of Many Colors. “Are you proposing a séance, Verity?”

“Yes, Aunt Malvinia,” Verity said, hastily wrapping the box and lid in tissue paper, putting it in the wicker swan, and handing them both to me.

“I’m certain you’ll enjoy your purchases, Mr. Henry,” she said, and turned back to Mrs. Mering. “Mr. Henry was just telling me he has never sat in on a séance.”

“Is that true, Mr. Henry?” Mrs. Mering said. “O, then we must certainly have one tonight just for you. I must ask the Reverend Mr. Arbitage if he can attend. Mr. Arbitage!” she called, and hurried off.

“Give me the violets box,” Verity whispered.

I turned slightly so no one could see our hands and passed her the tissue-wrapped box. “What are you going to use it for?”

“Table-rapping,” she whispered, sticking it in her reticule. “Tonight we are going to receive a spirit message telling us to go to Coventry.”

“You’re certain this will work?” I said.

“It worked for Madame Iritosky,” she said. “And D. D. Home and the Fox sisters and Florence Cook. It fooled the scientist William Crookes and Arthur Conan Doyle. Mrs. Mering thought you were a spirit. It will work for us. What could possibly go wrong?”

Mrs. Mering bustled up, robes fluttering. “The Reverend Mr. Arbitage is conducting the cake raffle. I shall have to remember to ask him later. O, Mr. Henry,” she said, taking my arm. “I know we shall have a good séance. I can feel the presence of the spirits hovering near already.”

Actually it was Baine, who had come up behind her and was waiting for an opening to speak.

“Perhaps it is the same spirit you heard the night before last, Mr. Hen — what is it, Baine?” Mrs. Mering said impatiently.

“Madame Iritosky, madam,” he said.

“Yes, yes, what about her?”

“She’s here.”