To Say Nothing of the Dog

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

When, oh, when will I ever learn to ascertain my space-time location on arrival? Granted, I had a number of things on my mind, most particularly what I intended to say to Verity when I got the time, and what I needed to do right now, but that was no excuse.

“Where’s Mr. Dunworthy?” I said to Warder the minute we came through. I didn’t wait for the veils to rise. I grabbed Verity’s hand and fought my way through them to the console.

“Mr. Dunworthy?” Warder said blankly. She was dressed up, in a print dress and a curly hairdo that made her look almost pleasant.

“He’s in London,” Carruthers said, coming in. He was dressed up as well and had washed all the soot off. “I see you found Verity.” He smiled at her. “You didn’t happen to see if the bishop’s bird stump was there while you were in Coventry, did you?”

“Yes,” I said. “What’s Mr. Dunworthy doing in London?”

“Lady Schrapnell had a last-minute notion the bishop’s bird stump might have been stored in the same place as the treasures from the British Museum were during the Blitz, in an unused tunnel of the Underground.”

“It wasn’t,” I said. “Ring him up and tell him to come back here immediately. T.J. didn’t go with him, did he?” I said, looking at the bank of stack screens he’d run his Waterloo models on.

“No,” he said. “He’s changing his clothes. He should be back in a minute. What’s this all about?”

“Where’s Lady Schrapnell?” I said.

“Lady Schrapnell?” Warder said, as if she’d never heard of her.

“Yes. Lady Schrapnell,” I said. “Coventry Cathedral. The bane of our existence. Lady Schrapnell.”

“I thought you were trying to avoid her,” Carruthers said.

“I am trying to avoid her right now,” I said. “But in a few hours, I may want her. Do you know where she is?”

He and Warder exchanged glances. “At the cathedral, I would imagine.”

“One of you needs to find out for certain,” I said. “Ask her what her schedule for the rest of the day is.”

“Her schedule?” Carruthers said.

Warder, at the same time, said, “You go find her if you want her,” and it would obviously take more than a few curls to make her pleasant. “I’m not running the chance of her giving me something else to do! She’s already got me ironing all the altar cloths and—”

“Never mind,” I said. I didn’t need Lady Schrapnell right now, and there were other, more important things to check. “I need you to do something else for me. I need copies of the Coventry Standard and the Midlands Daily Telegraph for November fifteenth through—” I turned to Carruthers. “When did you come back from Coventry? What day?”

“Three days ago. Wednesday.”

“What day in Coventry?”

“December the twelfth.”

“From November the fifteenth through December the twelfth,” I said to Warder.

“That’s out of the question!” Warder said. “I’ve got the altar cloths to iron and three rendezvouses to bring in. And all the choir’s surplices to press. Linen! There are any number of fabrics she could have had the choir wear that wouldn’t wrinkle walking up the nave to the choir, but Lady Schrapnell had to have linen! ‘God is in the details,’ she said. And now you expect me to get copies of newspapers—”

“I’ll do it,” Verity said. “Do you want facsimiles or articles only, Ned?”

“Facsimiles,” I said.

She nodded. “I’ll do them at the Bod. I’ll be back directly,” she said, flashed me one of her naiad smiles, and was gone.

“Carruthers,” I said. “I need you to go to Coventry.”

“Coventry?” Carruthers said, backing up abruptly and crashing into Warder. “I’m not going back there. I had enough trouble getting out last time.”

“You don’t have to go to the air raid,” I said. “What I need—”

“And I’m not going anywhere in the vicinity. Remember the marrows field? And those bloody dogs? Forget it.”

“I don’t need you to go back in time,” I said. “All I need is some facts from the church archives. You can take the tube. I want you to find out—”

T.J. came in, and he was dressed up too, in a white shirt and his short academic robe. I wondered if Lady Schrapnell had imposed some sort of dress code.

“Just a minute, Carruthers,” I said. “T.J., I need you to do something. The model you did of the incongruity. I want you to change the focus.”

“Change the focus?” he said blankly.

“The site where the incongruity occurred,” I said.

“Don’t tell me there’s been another incongruity,” Warder said. “That’s all we need right now. I’ve got fifty linen surplices to press, three rendezvouses—”

“You said a self-correction could extend into the past, right, T.J.?” I said, ignoring her.

T.J. nodded. “Some of the models showed preemptive self-corrections.”

“And that the only instance you found of a significant object being removed from its space-time location was as part of a self-correction.”

He nodded again.

“And you said that our incongruity didn’t match any of the Waterloo models. I want you to see if it matches with the focus changed.”

T.J. obligingly sat down at the bank of computers and pushed the sleeves of his robe up. “To what?”

“Coventry Cathedral,” I said. “November the fourteenth—”

“November the fourteenth?” T.J. and Carruthers interrupted in unison. Warder gave me one of those “how-many-drops-have-you-had?” looks.

“November the fourteenth,” I said firmly. “1940. I don’t know the exact time. Sometime after 7:45 PM. and before eleven. My guess is half-past nine.”

“But that’s during the air raid,” Carruthers said, “the place none of us could get anywhere near.”

T.J. said, “What’s this all about, Ned?”

“The Fountain Pen Mystery and Hercule Poirot,” I said. “We’ve been looking at this the wrong way round. What if the rescue of the cat wasn’t the incongruity? What if it was part of the continuum’s self-correction and the real incongruity had happened earlier? Or later?”

T.J. began feeding in figures.

“There wasn’t any increased slippage on Verity’s drop,” I said, “even though five minutes either way would have kept her from rescuing Princess Arjumand. So would the net’s failure to open, but neither line of defense worked. And why did the slippage on my drop send me to Oxford to meet Terence, keep him from meeting Maud, and loan him the money for the boat so he could go meet Tossie? What if it was because the continuum wanted those things to happen? And what if all the signs we saw as indications of breakdown — my being bounced to the Middle Ages, Carruthers being trapped in Coventry — were all part of the self-correction, as well?”

A table of coordinates came up. T.J. scanned the columns, fed in more figures, scanned the new patterns. “Only the focus?” he said.

“You said discrepancies only occurred in the immediate vicinity of the site,” I said to T.J. “But what if the site wasn’t Muchings End? What if it was the raid on the cathedral, and what Verity and I saw was a discrepancy, was the course of events that would have happened if the incongruity hadn’t been repaired?”

“Interesting,” T.J. said. He rapidly fed in more figures.

“Only the focus,” I said. “Same events, same slippage.”

“This will take a while,” he said, feeding in more figures.

I turned to Carruthers. “Here’s what I need you to find out in Coventry.” I reached round Warder for a handheld and spoke into it. “I want the names of the cathedral staff, lay and clerical, in 1940,” I said, “and the cathedral’s marriage records for 1888 through—” I hesitated a moment, thinking, and then said, “—1888 through 1915. No, 1920, to be on the safe side.”

“What if the records were destroyed in the raid?”

“Then get the C of E’s list of church livings for 1940. That will have been on file in Canterbury and a number of other places. They can’t all have been hit by the Blitz.”

I hit the handheld’s print key, watched it spit out the list, and tore it off. “I need these as soon as possible.”

Carruthers stared at it. “You expect me to go now?”

“Yes,” I said. “This is important. If I’m right, we’ll have the bishop’s bird stump in time for the consecration.”

“Then you’d better hurry,” Warder said dryly. “It’s in two hours.”

“The consecration?” I said blankly. “That’s impossible,” and finally asked what should have been my first question on stepping out of the net. “What day is it?”

Verity ran in, carrying an armful of facsimile sheets. She’d changed into a slat dress and plimsolls. Her legs were just as long as I’d imagined them. “Ned, the consecration’s in a few hours!”

“I just found that out,” I said, trying to think what to do. I’d counted on having a couple of days to collect evidence to support my theory, but now there would scarcely be time to get to Coventry and back—

“Can I help?” Verity said.

“We need proof the incongruity’s been fixed,” I said. “I intended to send Carruthers—”

“I can go,” Verity said.

I shook my head. “There isn’t time. When does the consecration start?” I asked Warder.

“Eleven o’clock,” she said.

“And what time is it now?”

“A quarter past nine.”

I looked over at T.J. “How long till you have the sim?”

“Another minute,” T.J. said, his fingers flying. “Got it.” He hit “return,” the columns of coordinates disappeared, and the model came up.

I don’t know what I’d expected. The model that came up on the screen looked just like all the others — a shapeless, shadowy blur.

“Well, will you look at that?” T.J. said softly. He hit some more keys. “This is the new focus,” he said, “and this is a superimpose of the Waterloo soup kettle sim.”

He spoke into the comp’s ear. Both models came up, one over the other, and even I could see that they matched.

“Do they match?” Warder said.

“Yeah,” T.J. nodded slowly. “There are a few minor differences. The slippage at the site isn’t as great, and you can see it’s not an exact match here and here,” he said, pointing at nonexistent shapes. “And I don’t know what this is,” he pointed at nothing in particular, “but it definitely looks like a self-correction pattern. See how the slippage lessens as it approaches 1888, and then ceases altogether on—”

“June eighteenth,” I said.

T.J. typed in some figures. “June eighteenth. I’ll need to run slippage checks and probabilities, and find out what this is,” he said, tapping the nothing-in-particular, “but it definitely looks like that was the incongruity.”

“What was?” Carruthers said. “And who caused it?”

“That’s what I needed you to find out in Coventry,” I said, looking at my useless pocket watch. “But there’s no time.”

“Of course there’s time,” Verity said. “This is a time travel lab. We can send Carruthers back to get the information.”

“He can’t go back to 1940,” I said. “He’s already been there. And the last thing we need is to cause another incongruity.”

“Not to 1940, Ned. To last week.”

“He can’t be in two places at once,” I said and realized he wouldn’t be. Last week he’d been in 1940, not 2057. “Warder, how long will it take you to calculate a drop?” I said.

“A drop! I’ve already got three rendez—”

“I’ll press the surplices,” Verity said.

“I need him to go back for— how long do you think it’ll take you? A day?”

“Two,” Carruthers said.

“For two days. Weekdays. The church archives aren’t open on weekends. And it has to be two days he was in 1940. And then bring him back here immediately.”

Warder looked stubborn. “How do I know he won’t get trapped in Coventry again?”

“Because of that,” I said, pointing at the comp. “The incongruity’s fixed.”

“It’s all right, Peggy,” Carruthers said. “Go ahead and calculate it.” He turned to me. “You’ve got the list of what I need to find out?”

I gave it to him. “And one other thing. I need a list of the heads of all the ladies’ church committees in 1940.”

“I don’t have to look up the head of the Flower Committee. I know who it was,” he said. “That harpy Miss Sharpe.”

“All the ladies’ church committees, including the Flower Committee,” I said.

Verity handed him a pencil and a jotter. “So you won’t be tempted to bring any paper from last week through the net with you.”

“Ready?” Carruthers said to Warder.

“Ready,” she said warily.

He positioned himself in the net. Warder came over and smoothed his collar. “You be careful,” she said, straightening his tie.

“I’ll only be gone a few minutes,” he said, grinning fatuously. “Won’t I?”

“If you’re not,” Warder said, smiling, “I’ll come and get you myself.”

“I wouldn’t have believed it,” I murmured to Verity.

“Time-lag,” she said.

“I’ve got it set on a ten-minute intermittent,” Warder cooed.

“I won’t stay a minute longer than I have to,” Carruthers said. “I’ve got to come back as soon as I can so I can take you to the consecration.” He took her in his arms and gave her a lingering kiss.

“Look, I’m sorry to break up this tender scene,” I said, “but the consecration’s in two hours.”

“All right,” Warder snapped, gave one last smoothing to Carruthers’s collar, and stomped back to the console. Love may conquer all, but old dispositions die hard, and I hoped Baine intended to live near a river in the States.

Warder lowered the veils and Carruthers disappeared. “If he’s not back safely in ten minutes,” she said, “I’m sending you to the Hundred Years’ War.” She turned on Verity. “You promised you’d press the surplices.”

“In a minute,” I said, handing Verity one of the facsimile sheets.

“What are we looking for?” Verity said.

“Letters to the editor. Or an open letter. I’m not certain.”

I leafed through the Midlands Daily Telegraph. An article about the King’s visit, a casualties list, an article beginning, “There is heartening evidence of Coventry’s revival.”

I picked up the Coventry Standard. An advertisement for ARP Sandbags, Genuine Government Size and Quality 36s 6d per hundred. A picture of the ruins of the cathedral.

“Here are some letters,” Verity said, and handed me her sheet.

A letter praising the fire service for their courage. A letter asking if anyone had seen Molly, “a beautiful ginger cat, last seen the night of 14 November, in Greyfriars Lane,” a letter complaining about the ARP wardens.

The outside door opened. Verity jumped, but it wasn’t Lady Schrapnell. It was Finch.

His butler’s frock coat and his hair were flecked with snow, and his right sleeve was drenched.

“Where have you been?” I asked. “Siberia?”

“I am not at liberty to say,” he said. He turned to T.J. “Mr. Lewis, where is Mr. Dunworthy?”

“In London,” T.J. said, staring at the comp screen.

“Oh,” he said, disappointed. “Well, tell him—” he looked warily at us, “—the mission is completed,” he wrung out his sleeve, “even though the pond was solid ice, and the water was freezing. Tell him the number of the—” another look at us, “—the number is six.”

“And I don’t have all day,” Warder said. “Here’s your bag.” She handed him a large burlap sack. “You can’t go through like that,” she said disgustedly. “Come on. I’ll get you dried off.” She led him into the prep room. “I’m not even the tech. I’m only substituting. I’ve got altar cloths to iron, I’ve got a ten-minute intermittent to run—” The door shut behind them.

“What was that all about?” I said.

“Here,” Verity said, handing me a facsimile sheet. “More letters to the editor.”

Three letters commenting on the King’s visit to Coventry, one complaining about the food at the mobile canteens, one announcing a jumble sale at St. Aldate’s for the victims of the air raid.

Finch, dried and combed, came back in with Warder, who was still complaining. “I don’t see why you have to bring them all through today,” she said, marching over to the console to punch keys. “I’ve got three rendezvouses to bring in, fifty—”

“Finch,” I said. “Do you know if Mrs. Bittner intends to attend the consecration?”

“Mr. Dunworthy had me send her an invitation,” he said, “and I should have thought she, of all people, would have wanted to see Coventry Cathedral restored, but she wrote to say she was afraid it would be too fatiguing.”

“Good,” I said, and picked up the Standard for the twelfth and paged through it. No letters. “What about the Telegraph?” I asked Verity.

“Nothing,” she said, putting them down.

“Nothing,” I said happily, and Carruthers appeared in the net, looking bemused.

“Well?” I said, going over to him.

He reached in his pocket for the jotter and handed it to me through the veils. I flipped it open and started down the list of church officials, looking for a name. Nothing. I turned the page to the church livings.

“The head of the Flower Committee in 1940 was a Mrs. Lois Warfield,” Carruthers said, frowning.

“Are you all right?” Warder said anxiously. “Did something happen?”

“No,” I said, scanning the church livings. Hertfordshire, Surrey, Northumberland. There it was. St. Benedict’s, Northumberland.

“There was no Miss Sharpe on any of the committees,” Carruthers said, or on the church membership roster.”

“I know,” I said, scribbling a message on one of the pages of the jotter. “Finch, ring up Mr. Dunworthy and tell him to come back to Oxford immediately. When he gets here, give him this.” I tore it out, folded it over, and handed it to him. “Then find Lady Schrapnell and tell her not to worry, Verity and I have everything under control and not to begin the consecration till we get back.”

“Where are you going?” Finch said.

“You promised you’d iron the choirboys’ surplices,” Warder said accusingly.

“We’ll try to be back by eleven,” I said, taking Verity’s hand. “If we’re not, stall.”

“Stall!” Finch said, horrified. “The Archbishop of Canterbury’s coming. And Princess Victoria. How am I supposed to stall?”

“You’ll think of something. I have the highest faith in you, Jeeves.”

He beamed. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “Where shall I tell Lady Schrapnell you’ve gone?”

“To fetch the bishop’s bird stump,” I said, and Verity and I took off at a lope for the tube station.

The sky outside was gray and overcast. “Oh, I hope it doesn’t rain for the consecration,” Verity said as we ran.

“Are you joking?” I panted. “Lady Schrapnell would never allow it.”

The tube station was jammed. Masses of people, wearing hats and ties and carrying umbrellas, poured up the steps.

“A cathedral!” a girl in braids carrying a Gaia Party sign grumbled as she swept past me. “Do you know how many trees we could have planted in Christ Church Meadow for the cost of that building?”

“At any rate, we’re going out of town,” I called to Verity, who’d gotten separated from me. “The trains out of Oxford should be less crowded.”

We pushed our way over to the escalators. They were no better. I lost sight of Verity and finally found her a dozen steps below me. “Where’s everyone going?” I called.

“To meet Princess Victoria,” the large woman carrying a Union Jack on the step behind me said. “She’s travelling up from Reading.”

Verity had reached the bottom of the escalator. “Coventry!” I called to her, pointing over the heads of the crowd toward the Warwickshire Line.

“I know,” Verity shouted back, already headed down the corridor.

The corridor was jammed, and so was the platform. Verity pushed her way over to me. “You’re not the only one who’s good at solving mysteries, Sherlock,” she said. “I’ve even figured out what Finch is up to.”

“What?” I said, but a train was pulling in. The crowd surged forward, pushing us apart.

I fought my way over to her again. “Where are all these people going? Princess Victoria’s not in Coventry.”

“They’re going to the protest,” a boy in braids said. “Coventry’s holding a rally to protest the disgraceful theft of their cathedral by Oxford.”

“Really?” Verity said sweetly. “Where’s it being held? In the shopping center?” and I could have kissed her.

“You realize,” she said, pushing a hand-painted sign that read, “Architects Against Coventry Cathedral” out of her face, “that there’s probably a time-traveller from a hundred years in the future in this crowd who thinks this is all unbelievably quaint and charming.”

“That’s impossible,” I said. “What is Finch up to?”

“He’s been—” she started, but the doors were opening and people were jamming onto the train.

We got separated again in the process, and I found myself half a car away from her, shoved into a seat between an old man and his middle-aged son.

“But why rebuild Coventry Cathedral, of all things?” the son was complaining. “If they had to rebuild something that had been destroyed, why not the Bank of England? That would have been of some use at least. What good’s a cathedral?”

“ ‘God works in a mysterious way,’ ” I quoted, “ ‘His wonders to perform.’ ”

Both of them glared at me.

“James Thomson,” I said. “The Seasons.”

They glared some more.

“Victorian poet,” I said, and subsided between them, thinking about the continuum and its mysterious ways. It had needed to correct an incongruity, and it had done so, putting into action its entire array of secondary defenses, and shutting down the net, shifting destinations, manipulating the slippage so that I would keep Terence from meeting Maud, and Verity would arrive at the exact moment Baine threw the cat in. To save the cat that killed the rat that ate the malt that lay in the house that Jack built.

“Coventry,” the station sign read, and I fought my way out from between the bankers and off the train, motioning to Verity to get off, too. She did, and we fought our way up the escalators and out into Broadgate in front of the statue of Lady Godiva. It looked even more like rain. The protesters were putting their umbrellas up as they started for the shopping center.

“Should we ring her up first?” Verity said.

“No.”

“You’re sure she’ll be at home?”

“I’m sure,” I said, not at all certain.

But she was, though it took her a little time to open the door.

“Sorry, I’m having a bout of bronchitis,” Mrs. Bittner said hoarsely, and then saw who we were. “Oh,” she said.

She stood back so we could enter. “Come in. I’ve been expecting you.” She held out her veined hand to Verity. “You must be Miss Kindle. I understand you are a fan of mystery novels, too.”

“Only those of the Thirties,” Verity said apologetically.

Mrs. Bittner nodded. “They are quite the best.” She turned to me. “I read a great many mystery novels. I am particularly fond of those in which the criminal nearly gets away with the crime.”

“Mrs. Bittner,” I said, and didn’t know how to go on. I looked helplessly at Verity.

“You’ve puzzled it out, haven’t you?” Mrs. Bittner said. “I was afraid you would. James told me you were his two best pupils.” She smiled. “Shall we go into the drawing room?”

“I… I’m afraid we haven’t much time…” I stammered.

“Nonsense,” she said, starting down the corridor. “The criminal is always given a chapter in which to confess his sins.”

She led us into the room where I’d interviewed her. “Won’t you sit down?” she said, indicating a chintz-covered sofa. “The famed detective always gathers the suspects together in the drawing room,” she said, moving slowly toward a sideboard considerably smaller than the Merings’, steadying herself on the furniture, “and the criminal always offers them a drink. Would you care for some sherry, Miss Kindle? Would you care for some sherry, Mr. Henry? Or sirop de cassis? That’s what Hercule Poirot always drank. Dreadful stuff. I tried it once when I’d been reading Agatha Christie’s Murder in Three Acts. Tastes like cough medicine.”

“Sherry, thank you,” I said.

Mrs. Bittner poured two glasses of sherry and turned to hand them to us. “It caused an incongruity, didn’t it?”

I took the glasses from her, handed one to Verity, and sat down beside her. “Yes,” I said.

“I was so afraid it had. And when James told me last week about the theory regarding nonsignificant objects being removed from their space-time location, I knew it must have been the bishop’s bird stump.” She shook her head, smiling. “Everything else that was in the cathedral that night would have burned to ashes, but I could see by looking at it that it was indestructible.”

She poured herself a glass of sherry. “I tried to undo what I’d done, you know, but I couldn’t get the net to open, and then Lassiter — that was the head of faculty — put on new locks, and I couldn’t get into the lab. I should have told James, of course. Or my husband. But I couldn’t bear to.” She picked up the glass of sherry. “I told myself the net’s refusing to open meant that there hadn’t been an incongruity after all, that no harm had been done, but I knew it wasn’t true.”

She started for one of the chintz-covered chairs, moving slowly and carefully. I jumped up and took the glass of sherry for her till she had sat down.

“Thank you,” she said, taking it from me. “James told me what a nice young man you were.” She looked at Verity. “I don’t suppose either of you have ever done something you were sorry for afterward? Something you’d done without thinking?”

She looked down at her sherry. “The Church of England was shutting down the cathedrals that couldn’t support themselves. My husband loved Coventry Cathedral. He was descended from the Botoner family who built the original church.”

And so are you, I thought, realizing now who it was Mary Botoner had reminded me of, standing there in the tower arguing with the workman. You’re a descendant of the Botoners, too.

“The cathedral was his life,” she went on. “He always said that it wasn’t the church building that mattered, but what it symbolized, yet the new cathedral, ugly as it was, was everything to him. I thought if I could bring back some of the treasures from the old cathedral,” she said, “it would be good publicity. The tourists would flock to see them, and the cathedral wouldn’t have to be sold. I thought it would kill my husband if it had to be sold.”

“But hadn’t Darby and Gentilla proved it was impossible to bring things forward through the net?”

“Yes,” she said, “but I thought since the things had ceased to exist in their own space-time, they might come through. Darby and Gentilla had never tried to bring through anything that didn’t still exist in its own time.” She twisted the stem of the glass in her hands. “And I was fairly desperate.”

She looked up. “So I broke into the lab late one night, went back to 1940, and did it. And the next day, James telephoned to tell me that if I wanted a job, that Lassiter had authorized a series of drops to Waterloo, and then he told me—” She stopped, staring into the past. “—he told me that Shoji had had a breakthrough in temporal theory, that he’d discovered why it was impossible to bring things forward through the net, that such an action would cause an incongruity that could change the course of history, or worse.

“So you tried to take it back?” Verity said.

“Yes. And I went and saw Shoji and made him tell me as much as I could about incongruities without making him suspicious. It was all bad, but the worst was that he told me they’d been able to adapt the net to safeguard against them, and weren’t we lucky one hadn’t happened before we did, we could have caused the collapse of the entire space-time continuum.”

I looked over at Verity. She was watching Mrs. Bittner, her beautiful face sad.

“So I hid the swag, as they say in the mystery novels, and waited for the world to end. Which it did. The cathedral was deconsecrated and sold to the Church of the Hereafter and then turned into a shopping center.”

She stared into her sherry. “The irony is that it was all for nothing. My husband loved Salisbury. I had been so convinced that losing Coventry Cathedral would kill him, but it didn’t. He truly meant that about churches being only a symbol. He didn’t seem to mind even when they built a Marks and Spencer’s on the ruins.” She smiled warmly. “Do you know what he said when he heard Lady Schrapnell was rebuilding the old cathedral? He said, ‘I hope this time they get the spire on straight.’ ”

She set her glass down. “After Harold died, I came back here. And two weeks ago James telephoned and asked me if I could remember anything about the drops we’d done together, that there was an area of increased slippage in 2018, and he was afraid it was due to an incongruity. I knew then it was just a matter of time before I was found out, even though he had the wrong incongruity.” She looked up at us. “James told me about the cat and Tossie Mering. Did you manage to get Lady Schrapnell’s great-great-grandmother married to the mysterious Mr. C?”

“Not exactly,” I said. “She did marry him, but it was no thanks to us.”

“It was the butler,” Verity said, “under an assumed name.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Bittner said, clapping her veined hands together. “The old solutions are always the best. The butler, the case of mistaken identity, the least likely suspect—” She looked at us both meaningfully, “—the purloined letter.” She stood up. “I hid it in the attic.”

We started up the stairs. “I was afraid moving it might make things worse, she said, taking the steps slowly, “so I left the loot here when we went to Salisbury. I made certain it was well-hidden, and I took care to rent the house to people without children — children are so curious, you know — but I was always afraid someone would come up here and find it and do something that would change the course of history.” She turned back, holding onto the banister, and looked at me. “But it already had, hadn’t it?”

“Yes,” I said.

She didn’t say anything more. She seemed to be concentrating all her effort on climbing the stairs. When we reached the first floor, she led us down a corridor past a bedroom and opened a narrow door onto another, steeper flight of stairs. “This leads up to the attic,” she said, panting a little. “I’m sorry. I need to rest a bit before going on. There’s a chair in the bedroom.”

I ran to fetch it, and she sat down on it. “Would you like a glass of water?” Verity asked.

“No, thank you, dear,” she said. “Tell me about the incongruity I caused.”

“You weren’t the only person who considered the bishop’s bird stump indestructible,” I said. “So did the chairman of the Flower Committee named—”

“Delphinium Sharpe,” Verity said.

I nodded. “She had been there the night of the raid, standing guard by the west door, and she knew the bishop’s bird stump couldn’t have been carried out. When it wasn’t found in the rubble or among the things the fire watch had saved, she concluded it had been stolen some time before the raid and that the thief must have known about the raid in advance, knowing he could get away with it. She was quite vocal with her theory—”

“She even wrote a letter to the editor of one of the Coventry papers,” Verity put in.

I nodded. “This next part is only a theory, like Miss Sharpe’s,” I said. “The only evidence we have is Carruthers’s testimony, the list of ladies’ church committees for 1940, and a letter to the editor that wasn’t in either of the Coventry papers.”

Mrs. Bittner nodded sagely. “The incident of the dog in the nighttime.”

“Exactly,” I said. “The Nazis made it a practice to obtain and read Allied newspapers, looking for any intelligence information that might be inadvertently revealed. I think Miss Sharpe’s letter and the words ‘advance warning of the raid’ must have caught the eye of someone in Nazi intelligence who was worried about the Nazi code system being compromised, and that inquiries were subsequently made, inquiries that revealed the High Command had dispatched RAF fighters to Coventry that night and had attempted to jam the pathfinder beams.”

“And the Nazis realized we had Ultra,” Verity said, “and changed the Enigma machine.”

“And we lost the campaign in North Africa,” I said, “and possibly the D-Day invasion—”

“And the Nazis won the war,” Mrs. Bittner said bleakly. “Only they didn’t. You stopped them.”

“The continuum stopped them with its system of secondary defenses, which is almost as good as Ultra’s,” I said. “The one thing that didn’t fit in this whole mess was the slippage on Verity’s drop. If there hadn’t been any slippage, that might have meant the continuum’s defenses had somehow broken down, but there had been. But not enough to fit Fujisaki’s theory that incongruities occur when the slippage required is more than the net can supply. The net could easily have supplied fourteen minutes of slippage, or four, which would have been all that would have been necessary to keep the incongruity from ever happening. So the only logical conclusion was that it had intended for Verity to go through at that exact moment—”

“Are you saying the continuum arranged for me to save Princess Arjumand?” Verity said.

“Yes,” I said. “Which made us think you’d caused an incongruity and we had to fix it, which is why we arranged a séance to get Tossie to Coventry to see the bishop’s bird stump and write in her diary that the experience had changed her life—”

“And Lady Schrapnell would read it,” Verity said, “and decide to rebuild Coventry Cathedral and send me back to Muchings End to find out what happened to the bishop’s bird stump, so I could save the cat—”

“So I could be sent back to return it and overhear a conversation about mystery novels in Blackwell’s and spend a night in a tower—”

“And solve the mystery of the bishop’s bird stump,” Mrs. Bittner said. She stood up and started up the stairs. “I’m glad you did, you know,” she said, leading the way up the narrow stairs. “There is nothing heavier than the weight of a secret crime.”

She opened the door to the attic. “I should have been found out soon at any rate. My nephew’s been lobbying me to move into a single-floor flat.”

Attics in books and vids are always picturesque places, with a bicycle, several large plumed hats, an antique rocking horse, and, of course, a steamer trunk for storing the missing will or the dead body in.

Mrs. Bittner’s attic didn’t have a trunk, or a rocking horse, at least that I could see. Though they might easily have been there, along with the lost Ark of the Covenant and the Great Pyramid of Giza.

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Bittner said, looking round in dismay. “I’m afraid it’s more The Sittaford Mystery than ‘The Purloined Letter.’ ”

“Agatha Christie,” Verity explained. “Nobody noticed the evidence because it’d been stuck in a cupboard with a bag of golf clubs and tennis rackets and a lot of other things.”

“A lot of other things” was putting it mildly. The low-raftered room was crammed from end to end with cardboard cartons, stacked lawn chairs, old clothes hanging from an exposed pipe, jigsaw puzzles of the Grand Canyon and the Mars colony, a croquet set, squash rackets, dusty Christmas decorations, books, and an assortment of bedspread-draped furniture, all stacked on top of each other in sedimentary layers.

“Could you reach me down that chair?” Mrs. Bittner said, pointing at a Twentieth Century plastiform atrocity perched on top of a washing machine. “I have difficulty standing for very long.”

I got it down, disentangling a trowel and several coat hangers from its aluminum legs, and dusted it off for her.

She sat down, easing herself into it gingerly. “Thank you,” she said. “Hand that tin box to me.”

I handed it to her reverently.

She set it down beside her on the floor. “And those large pasteboard boxes. Just push them aside. And those suitcases.”

I did, and she stood up and walked down the little aisle my shifting the boxes had made and into darkness.

“Plug in a lamp,” she said. “There’s an outlet over there.” She pointed at the wall behind an enormous plastic aspidistra.

I reached for the nearest lamp, a massive affair with a huge pleated shade and a squat, heavily decorated metal base.

“Not that one,” she said sharply. “The pink one.”

She pointed at a tall, early Twenty-First Century fringed affair.

I plugged it in and switched on the hard-to-find knob, but it didn’t do much good. It lit the fringe and Verity’s Waterhouse face, but not much else.

Apparently Mrs. Bittner thought so, too. She went over to the ornate metal lamp. “The Masqued Murder,” she said.

Verity leaned forward. “Evidence disguised as something else,” she murmured.

“Exactly,” Mrs. Bittner said, and lifted the pleated shade off bishop’s bird stump.

It was too bad Lady Schrapnell wasn’t here. And Carruthers. All that time we had spent searching for it in the rubble, and it was here all along. Removed for safekeeping, as Carruthers had suggested, and not a mark on it. The Red Sea still parted; Springtime, Summer, Autumn, and Winter still held their respective garlands of apple blossoms, roses, wheat, and holly; John the Baptist, his head still on the platter, still stared reproachfully at King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. Gryphons, poppies, pineapples, puffins, the Battle of Prestonpans, all of it intact and not even dusty.

“Lady Schrapnell will be so pleased,” Verity said. She squeezed down the aisle to look at it more closely. “Good heavens. That side must have been facing the wall. What are those? Fans?”

“Clams. Clams inscribed with the names of important naval battles,” I said. “Lepanto, Trafalgar, the Battle of the Swans.”

“It’s difficult imagining it changing the course of history,” Mrs. Bittner said, peering at Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in the fiery furnace. “It doesn’t improve with age, does it? Like the Albert Memorial.”

“With which it has a good deal in common,” Verity said, touching an elephant.

“I don’t know,” I said, cocking my head to look at it sideways. “I’m beginning to feel a certain affection for it.”

“He’s time-lagged,” Verity said. “Ned, the elephant’s carrying a howdah full of pineapples and bananas to an eagle with a fish fork.”

“It’s not a fish fork,” I said. “It’s a flaming sword. And it’s not an eagle, it’s an archangel, guarding the entrance to the Garden of Eden. Or possibly the Zoo.”

“It is truly hideous,” Mrs. Bittner said. “I don’t know what I was thinking of. After all those trips, I was probably a bit time-lagged myself. And there was a good deal of smoke.”

Verity turned to stare at her, and then at me.

“How many trips did you make?” she said finally.

“Four,” Mrs. Bittner said. “No, five. The first one didn’t count. I came through too late. The whole nave was on fire, and I was nearly overcome by smoke inhalation. I still have trouble with my lungs.”

Verity was still staring at her, trying to take it in. “You made five trips to the cathedral?”

Mrs. Bittner nodded. “I only had a few minutes between the time the fire watch left and the fire got out of hand, and the slippage kept putting me later than I wanted. Five was all I had time for.”

Verity looked disbelievingly at me.

“Hand me down the bandbox,” Mrs. Bittner told her. “The second time I nearly got caught.”

“That was me,” I said. “I saw you running toward the sanctuary.”

“That was you?” she said, laughing, her hand on her chest. “I thought it was Provost Howard, and I was going to be arrested for a looter.”

Verity handed her the bandbox, and she took off the lid and began rummaging through the tissue paper. “I took the bishop’s bird stump on the last trip. I was trying to reach the Smiths’ Chapel, but it was on fire. I ran across to the Dyers’ Chapel and got the bronze candlesticks off the altar, but they were too hot. I dropped the first one, and it rolled away under one of the pews.”

And I found it, I thought, and thought it had been blown there by concussion.

“I went after it,” she said, digging matter-of-factly through tissue paper, “but the rafters were coming down, so I ran back up the nave, and I saw that the organ was on fire, it was all on fire — the woodwork and the choir and the sanctuary — that beautiful, beautiful cathedral — and I couldn’t save any of it. I didn’t think, I just grabbed the nearest thing I could find, and ran for the net, spilling chrysanthemums and water everywhere.” She took out a wad of tissue paper and unwrapped a bronze candlestick. “That’s why there’s only one.”

Mr. Dunworthy had said she was absolutely fearless, and she must have been, darting back and forth between crashing beams and falling incendiaries, the net opening on who-knows-what and no guarantee it would stay open, no guarantee the roof wouldn’t fall in. I looked at her in admiration.

“Ned,” she ordered, “bring me that painting. The one with the bedspread over it.”

I did, and she pulled the bedspread off a painting of Christ with the lost lamb in his arms. Verity, standing beside me, clasped my hand.

“The rest of the things are over there,” Mrs. Bittner said. “Under the plastic.”

And they were. The embroidered altar cloth from the Smiths’ Chapel. An engraved pewter chalice. A Sixteenth-Century wooden chest. A small statue of St. Michael. A mediaeval enameled pyx. A silver candelabrum with the candles still in it. A misericord carved with one of the Seven Works of Mercy. The capper’s pall. A Georgian altar plate. And the wooden cross from the Girdlers’ Chapel, with the image of a child kneeling at the foot of it.

All the treasures of Coventry Cathedral.