To Say Nothing of the Dog

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“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 had 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. Mering 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?”

“Not yet,” I said, looking round the nave. The flowers in front of the choir hoardings were in plain brass vases, and the sawdust-covered roses in the Cappers’ Chapel were in a silver bowl.

“Where is it supposed to be?”

“In the fall of 1940, standing against the parclose screen of the Smiths’ Chapel,” I said. “In the summer of 1888, I have no idea. It could be anywhere.” Including under one of those green tarps or somewhere behind the hoardings.

“Perhaps we should ask the curate where it is when he comes back,” she said anxiously.

“We can’t,” I said.

“Why not?”

“First, it’s not the sort of thing that would be in Baedeker. The average tourist, which is what we’re supposed to be, would never have heard of it. Second, it’s not the bishop’s bird stump yet. It only became the bishop’s bird stump in 1926.”

“What was it till then?”

“A cast-iron footed pedestal firugeal urn. Or possibly a fruit compote.”

The sound of hammering behind the hoardings stopped abruptly, and there was the ghostly sound of swearing.

Verity glanced at Tossie and Terence, who were pointing at a stained-glass window, and then asked, “What happened in 1926?”

“There was a particularly acrimonious Ladies’ Altar Guild meeting,” I said, “at which someone proposed the purchase of a bird stump, which was a sort of tall ceramic vase popular at the time, for the flowers in the nave. The bishop had recently instituted cost-cutting measures for the running of the cathedral, and the proposal was voted down on the grounds that it was an unnecessary expense and that there must be something around somewhere they could use; i.e., the cast-iron footed pedestal firugeal urn which had been in storage down in the crypt for twenty years. It was thereafter referred to somewhat bitterly as ‘the bishop’s notion of a bird stump,’ and eventually shortened to—”

“The bishop’s bird stump.”

“But if it wasn’t the bishop’s bird stump when Tossie saw it, how does Lady Schrapnell know what she saw?”

“She described it in considerable detail in her diaries over the years, and when Lady Schrapnell first proposed her project, an historian was sent back to identify it in the spring of 1940 from the descriptions.”

“Could the historian have stolen it?” she asked.

“No.”

“How can you be certain?”

“It was me.”

“Cousin,” Tossie called. “Do come see what we’ve found.”

“Perhaps she’s found it without us,” I said, but it was only another monument, this one with a row of four swaddled infants carved on it.

“Isn’t it cunning?” Tossie said. “Look at the dearum-dearum babies.”

The south door opened, and Baine came in, sopping wet and clutching the issue of The Light inside his coat.

“Baine!” Tossie called.

He came over, leaving a trail of water. “Yes, miss?”

“It’s chilly in here. Fetch my Persian shawl. The pink one, with fringe. And Miss Browns.”

“Oh, that isn’t necessary,” Verity said, looking pityingly at Baine’s bedraggled appearance. “I’m not cold at all.”

“Nonsense,” Tossie said. “Bring both of them. And see they don’t get wet.”

“Yes, miss,” Baine said. “I shall fetch them as soon as I’ve brought your mother her book.”

Tossie put her lips in a pout.

“Oh, look, Cousin,” Verity said before she could demand Baine go get the shawls now. “These misereres show the Seven Works of Mercy,” and Tossie obediently went into the Girdlers’ Chapel to admire them, followed by the black marble altar tomb, assorted fan vaulting, and a monument with a particularly long and illegible inscription.

Verity took the opportunity to pull me ahead. “‘What if it isn’t here?” she whispered.

“It’s here,” I said. “It didn’t disappear till 1940.”

“I mean, what if it isn’t here because of the incongruity? What if events have changed, and they’ve already moved it down to the crypt or sold it at a jumble sale?”

“The bazaar’s not till next week.”

“Which aisle did you say it was in in 1940?” she said, starting purposefully toward the back of the nave.

“This aisle,” I said, trying to catch up, “in front of the Smiths’ Chapel, but that doesn’t mean that’s where it is now—” I said, and stopped because it was.

It was obvious why they had put the bishop’s bird stump in this particular aisle. In 1888 the light in this part of the nave had been very dim, and one of the pillars blocked it from the view of the rest of the church.

And one of the ladies of the Altar Guild had done the best she could, obscuring the upper levels with large, drooping peonies and twining ivy over the centaurs and one of the sphinxes. It was also newer, and therefore shinier, which tended to hide some of the details. It didn’t look half bad.

“Good Lord,” Verity said. “Is that it?” Her voice echoed back and forth among the fan vaulting. “It’s absolutely hideous.”

“Yes, well, that’s already been established. Keep it down.” I pointed at a pair of workmen at the back of the nave. One of them, in a blue shirt and blackened neckerchief, was shifting boards from one pile to another. The second, his mouth full of nails, was hammering loudly on a board laid across a sawhorse.

“Sorry,” Verity whispered contritely. “It was just rather a shock. I’d never seen it before.” She pointed gingerly at one of the decorations. “What is that, a camel?”

“A unicorn,” I said. “The camels are on this side, here, next to the depiction of Joseph’s being sold into Egypt.”

“And what’s that?” she said, pointing at a large group above a cast-iron garland of roses and thistles.

“The execution of Mary, Queen of Scots,” I said. “The Victorians liked art that was representational.”

“And crowded,” she said. “No wonder Lady Schrapnell was having trouble getting a craftsman to make a reproduction.”

“I had made sketches,” I said. “I think the craftsmen refused on moral grounds.”

Verity surveyed it intently, her head to one side. “That cannot possibly be a seahorse.”

“Neptune’s chariot,” I said. “And this over here is the Parting of the Red Sea. Next to Leda and the Swan.”

She reached out and touched the swan’s outstretched wing. “You were right about it being indestructible.”

I nodded, looking at its cast-iron solidity. Even the roof falling in on it would scarcely have dented it.

“And hideous-looking things are never destroyed,” she went on. “It’s a law. St. Pancras Station wasn’t touched in the Blitz. And neither was the Albert Memorial. And it is hideous.”

I agreed. Even the drooping peonies and the ivy couldn’t hide that fact.

“Oh!” Tossie said behind us, in a transport of joy. “That’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen!”

She fluttered up, Terence in tow, and stood gazing at it, her gloved hands clasped under her chin. “Oh, Terence, isn’t it the most cunning thing you’ve ever seen?”

“Well…” Terence said dubiously.

“Look at the darling cupids! And the Sacrifice of Isaac! O! O!” She uttered a series of screamlets that made the workman doing the hammering look up in irritation. He saw Tossie, spit his nails out onto the floor, and nudged his companion. The companion looked up from his sawing. The hammerer said something to him that made him burst into a wide and toothless smile. He tipped his cloth cap to Tossie.

“I know,” I murmured to Verity. “Get their names.”

As the workmen were under the impression that I was going to report them to the curate for leering, it took some time, but when I got back, Tossie was still going on about the bishop’s bird stump.

“O, look!” she mini-screamed. “There’s Salome!”

“Widge and Baggett,” I whispered to Verity. “They don’t know the curate’s name. They refer to him as Bug-Eyes.”

“And look,” Tossie exclaimed. “There’s the platter, and there’s John the Baptist’s head!”

And this was all very well, but so far it didn’t look like a life-changing experience. Tossie had ooh-ed and ahh-ed like this over the china wooden shoe at the jumble sale. And over Miss Stiggins’s cross-stitched needlecases. And even if she was having an Epiphany (depicted above Neptune and his chariot on the side facing the pillar), where was Mr. C?

“O, I do wish I had one,” Tossie enthused. “For our dear home, Terence, after we’re married. One exactly like it!”

“Isn’t it rather large?” Terence said.

The south door banged open, and Baine came in, looking like something from the wreck of the Hesperus, and carrying an oilcloth-wrapped parcel.

“Baine!” Tossie called, and he squelched his way over to us.

“I’ve brought your shawl, miss,” he said, folding the tarp back from a corner of a pew and setting the bundle down and beginning to unwrap it.

“Baine, what do you think of this?” Tossie said, indicating the bishop’s bird stump. “Don’t you agree it’s the most beautiful piece of art you’ve ever seen?”

Baine straightened and looked at it, blinking water out of his eyes.

There was a considerable pause while Baine wrung out his sleeve. “No.”

“No?” Tossie said, making it into a screamlet.

“No.” He bent over the pew, opening the oilcloth to reveal the shawls, neatly folded and perfectly dry. He straightened again, reached inside his coat for a damp handkerchief, wiped his hands on it, and picked the pink shawl up by the corners. “Your shawl, miss,” he said, holding it out to her.

“I don’t want it now,” Tossie said. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“I mean the sculpture is a hideous atrocity, vulgarly conceived, badly designed, and shoddily executed,” he said, folding the shawl carefully and bending to lay it back in the bundle.

“How dare you say that?” Tossie said, her cheeks very pink.

Baine straightened. “I beg your pardon, miss. I thought you were asking my opinion.”

“I was, but I expected you to tell me you thought it was beautiful.”

He bowed slightly. “As you wish, miss?’ He looked at it, his face impassive. “It is very beautiful.”

“I don’t wish,” she said, stamping her little foot. “How can you not think it’s beautiful? Look at the cunning little Babes in the Wood! And the sweet little sparrow with a strawberry leaf in its mouth!”

“As you wish, miss.”

“And stop saying that,” she said, her ruffles quivering with rage. “Why do you say it’s an atrocity?”

“This,” he extended his hand toward the bishop’s bird stump, “is cluttered, artificial, and,” he looked pointedly at the Babes in the Wood, “mawkishly sentimental, intended to appeal to the aesthetically uneducated middle class.”

Tossie turned to Terence. “Are you going to allow him to say such things?” she demanded.

“It is a bit cluttered,” Terence said. “And what’s that supposed to be?” he added, pointing to the Minotaur, “A horse or a hippopotamus?”

“A lion,” Tossie said, outraged. “And there’s Androcles taking a thorn out of its paw.

I looked at Verity. She was biting her lip.

“And it is not mawkishly sentimental,” Tossie said to Baine.

“As you wish, miss.”

His life was saved by the timely arrival of the curate and Mrs. Mering from behind the hoardings.

“The Roman cavalry,” Verity murmured.

“Directly beneath Bacchus, holding a bunch of grapes,” I murmured back.

“I do hope you will consider having a jumble sale at your bazaar,” Mrs. Mering was saying, steering the curate toward us. “People have so many treasures in their attics that make excellent jumble sale items.”

She stopped at the sight of the bishop’s bird stump. “Something like this, for instance. Or an umbrella stand. Vases are so useful. We had a china one with a painted waterfall at our fête which sold for—”

Tossie interrupted her. “You think this is beautiful, don’t you?” she said to the curate.

“Indeed I do,” he said. “I consider it an example of all that is best in modern art,” he said. “Excellent representations and a high moral tone. Particularly the depiction of the Seven Plagues of Egypt. It was donated a number of years ago by the Trubshaw family on the death of Emily Jane Trubshaw. She had purchased it at the Great Exhibition, and it was her most treasured possession. The vicar tried to dissuade them from donating. He felt it should remain in the family’s possession, but they were adamant?”

“I think it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Tossie said.

“I quite agree,” the curate said. “It has always reminded me of the Albert Memorial?’

“I adore the Albert Memorial,” Tossie said. “I glimpsed it when we went to Kensington to hear Mrs. Guppy speak on ectoplasm, and I couldn’t rest until Papa had taken me to see it. I love the mosaics and the gilt spire!” She clasped her hands together. “And the statue of the Prince, reading the catalogue of the Great Exhibition!”

“It is an extraordinary monument,” Terence said.

“And indestructible,” Verity murmured.

“I find the sculptures representing the four continents particularly well-rendered,” the curate said, “though in my opinion Asia and Africa are scarcely suitable for young ladies?’

Tossie colored prettily. “I thought the elephant was absolutely cunning. And the frieze of great scientists and architects?’

“Have you ever seen St. Pancras Railway Station?” the curate asked. “I consider that an extraordinary example of architecture as well. Perhaps you’d care to see the work we’re doing on the church?” he asked her. “It is not, of course, on a par with the Albert Memorial, but J.O. Scott has done some excellent work.” He took Tossie’s arm and led her up to the choir. “The galleries have been cleared and all the box pews have been removed.”

He pointed up at the clerestory arches above, still holding onto Tossie’s arm. “Scott has had iron girders inserted in each of the timber beams to tie the clerestory walls together and make them much stronger. It is a classic example of how superior modern building materials are, compared to old-fashioned stone and wood.”

“Oh, I think so, too,” Tossie said eagerly.

Actually, it was a classic example of trying to turn the Titanic. When the cathedral caught fire on the night of November fourteenth, the iron girders had buckled and bent and then collapsed, taking the clerestory arches and the internal colonnades with them. Without the girders, the church might have remained standing. The outer walls and the tower, which hadn’t been renovated to make them stronger, had.

“After we’ve completed the renovations,” the curate was saying to Tossie, we will have a church befitting this modern age, a church which will be treasured hundreds of years from now. Would you like to see the renovations we are doing on the tower?”

“Oh, yes,” Tossie nodded, making her curls bob prettily.

There was a sound from over by the south door, and I looked up. It was a young woman in a gray dress. She had a large basket and a long nose, and she strode across the nave to the bishop’s bird stump with sharp, staccato-sounding steps, like rifle shots.

“Miss Sharpe,” the curate said, looking caught out. “Allow me to introduce—”

“I only came to deliver these for the bazaar,” Miss Sharpe said. She thrust the basket at him and then withdrew it when she saw the curate was holding Tossie’s arm. “It is penwipers. Two dozen.” She turned. “I will leave them in the vestry.”

“Oh, but can you not stay, Miss Sharpe?” the curate said, extricating his arm from Tossie’s. “Miss Mering, allow me to introduce Miss Delphinium Sharpe.”

I wondered if she was a relation of Mrs. Chattisbourne’s.

“I was so hoping we could discuss the arrangement of the stalls for the bazaar, Miss Sharpe,” the curate said.

“I shall not be able to attend the fête. I will leave these in the vestry,” she said again. She turned and started her rifle-fire way back across the nave.

“We should love to see St. Pancras Railway Station, shouldn’t we, Mama?” Tossie said. A door slammed loudly.

“It’s a sterling example of neo-Gothic,” the curate said, flinching a little. “I feel that architecture should reflect society, particularly churches and railway stations.”

“Oh, so do I,” Tossie said.

“I…” Mrs. Mering said, and Tossie and the curate both turned to look at her. She was looking at the bishop’s bird stump, and she had an odd, tentative look on her face.

“What is it, Mama?” Tossie said.

Mrs. Mering put her hand uncertainly to her bosom and frowned slightly, the way people do when they are trying to decide whether they have chipped a tooth.

“Are you ill?” Terence said, taking hold of her arm.

“No,” she said. “I’ve just had the oddest feeling… it…” She frowned. “I was looking at the…” she waved the hand that had been on her bosom at the bishop’s bird stump, “…and all at once, I…”

“You received a spirit message?” Tossie said.

“No, not a message,” Mrs. Mering said, probing at the tooth. “It… I had the oddest feeling…”

“A premonition?” Tossie prompted.

“Yes,” Mrs. Mering said thoughtfully. “You…” She frowned, as if trying to remember a dream, and then turned and stared at the bishop’s bird stump. “It had… We must go home at once.”

“Oh, but you can’t go yet,” Verity said.

“I so wanted to discuss the Treasure Hunt with you,” the curate said, looking disappointedly at Tossie. “And the arrangement of the fancy goods tables. Can’t you at least stay to tea?”

“Baine!” Mrs. Mering said, ignoring both of them.

“Yes, madam,” Baine, who had gone back over by the south door, said.

“Baine, we must return home at once,” Mrs. Mering said, and started across the nave toward him.

Baine hurried to meet her, bringing an umbrella. “Has something happened?” he said.

“I have had a Warning,” Mrs. Mering said, looking much more like herself. “When is the next train?”

“In eleven minutes,” he said immediately. “But it is a local train. The next express to Reading isn’t till 4:18.”

“Bring the carriage round,” she said. “Then run ahead to the station and tell them to hold the train for us. And take down that umbrella. It’s bad luck to have an open umbrella indoors. Bad luck!” She clutched her heart. “Oh, what if we are too late?”

Baine was struggling to get the umbrella furled. I took it from him, and he nodded gratefully and took off for the station, running.

“Wouldn’t you like to sit down, Aunt Malvinia?” Verity asked.

“No, no,” Mrs. Mering said, shaking off her hand. “Go and see if the carriage is here yet. Is it still raining?”

It was, and the carriage was. Terence and the driver helped her down the steps and bundled her and her travelling skirts into it.

I took advantage of the momentary delay to shake the curate’s hand. “Thank you so much for showing us the church, Mr.—?” I said.

“Mr. Henry!” Mrs. Mering called from the carriage. “We shall miss our train.”

The south door banged open, and Miss Sharpe emerged and walked rapidly down the steps past us and up Bayley Street. The curate looked after her.

“Goodbye,” Tossie said, leaning out the window. “I should so love to see St. Pancras.”

I tried again, my foot on the carriage step. “Good luck with your church bazaar, Mr.—?”

“Thank you,” he said absently. “Goodbye, Mrs. Mering, Miss Mering. If you will excuse me—” He hurried after Miss Sharpe. “Miss Sharpe!” he called. “Wait! Delphinium! Dellie!”

“I don’t believe I caught your name—” I said, leaning out the window.

“Mr. Henry!” Mrs. Mering snapped. “Driver!” And we rattled off.