To Say Nothing of the Dog

  “This is Mr. St. Trewes, Papa,” Tossie interceded hurriedly. “He and his friends have returned Princess Arjumand,” she said, holding the cat up for his inspection. “She was lost, and Mr. St. Trewes found her.”

  Colonel Mering looked at the cat with undisguised hatred. “Pah! Thought it had drowned, and good riddance.”

  “O Papa, you know you don’t mean that!” She nuzzled the cat. “He doesn’t mean the dweadful fings he says, does he, sweetum Juju? No, he doesn’t-wuzn’t.”

  The Colonel glared at Professor Peddick and then at me. “Suppose you’re table-rappers as well?”

  “No,” I said. “We were out on the river and our boat capsized and—”

  “Ohhh,” Mrs. Mering moaned from the couch and fluttered her eyes open. “Husband,” she said weakly, “is that you?” She reached out her hand to him. “O, Mesiel, the spirits!”

  “Humbug! Lot of foolishness. Ruins your nerves and your health. Wonder someone wasn’t hurt,” the Colonel said, taking her hand. Verity relinquished her place, and Colonel Mering sat down next to his wife. “Settles it. No more seances. Absolutely forbid them in my house.”

  “Baine!” he said to the butler, who had just come in carrying a dish of cream. “Throw out the books on spiritism.” He turned back to Mrs. Mering. “Forbid you to have any more to do with this medium Madame Idioskovitz.”

  “Iritosky,” Mrs. Mering corrected. “O, Mesiel, you must not,” she said, clutching at his hand. “You do not understand! You have always been a skeptic. But now you must believe. They were here, Mesiel. In this very room. I had just contacted Chief Gitchee-watha, Madame Iritosky’s spirit control, and asked him regarding Princess Arjumand’s fate, and—” she gave a screamlet just like Tossie’s before going on, “—and there they were, carrying the cat in their ghostly arms!”

  “Terribly sorry about that. Didn’t mean to frighten you like that,” Terence, who seemed to have caught the habit of chopping off subjects from Colonel Mering, said.

  “Who is that?” Mrs. Mering demanded of her husband.

  “Terence St. Trewes, at your service,” Terence said and doffed his boater, which unfortunately still had a good deal of water in the brim. It sent a shower over Mrs. Mering.

  “O, O, O,” she said, uttering a whole series of screamlets, and waving her hands helplessly against the deluge.

  “Most awfully sorry,” Terence said and started to offer her his handkerchief. It was even wetter, and he stopped just in time and pocketed it again.

  Mrs. Mering gave Terence a frosty look and turned back to her husband. “Everyone saw them!” She turned to the curate. “Reverend, tell Mesiel you saw the spirits!”

  “Well . . .” the curate said uncomfortably.

  “They were draped all in seaweed, Mesiel, and shining with an ethereal light,” she said, clutching her husband’s sleeve. “They had brought a message that poor Princess Arjumand had met a watery grave.” She pointed at the French doors. “They came through those very doors!”

  “Know we should have knocked,” Terence said. “Didn’t mean to barge in like that, but our boat went over and—”

  “Who is this impertinent young man?” she asked her husband.

  “Terence St. Trewes,” Terence explained.

  “Your spirits,” Colonel Mering said.

  “Terence St. Trewes,” Terence said. “And this is Mr. Ned Henry and—”

  “Spirits!” Colonel Mering said contemptuously. “Hadn’t had all the lights out and been playing at table-rapping, you’d have seen they were punters who’d had a ducking. Watery grave? Bah!”

  “Princess Arjumand’s quite all right, Mama,” Tossie said, thrusting the cat forward for her mother to see. “She isn’t drowned. Mr. St. Trewes found her and brought her home. Didn’t he, pwecious Juju? He did, yes, he did. He was so bwave, wasn’t he? He was, he was!”

  “ You found Princess Arjumand?” Mrs. Mering said.

  “Well, actually Ned was the one who—”

  She glared silencingly at me and then back at him, taking in our wet clothes and bedraggled state, and, presumably, our non-spiritual nature.

  I thought for a moment she might faint again, and Verity moved forward and took the stopper out of the smelling salts.

  Then Mrs. Mering sat up on the couch, fixed Terence with a frosty eye, and said, “How dare you impersonate a spirit, Mr. St. Trewes!”

  “I . . . we . . . our boat went over, and . . .” he stammered.

  “Terence St. Trewes!” she went on, “what sort of name is that? Is it Irish?”

  The temperature had dropped several degrees in the room, and Terence shivered a bit as he answered, “No, ma’am. It’s an old family name. Dates back to the Conquest and all that. Knight who fought in the Crusades with Richard the Lionhearted, I believe.”

  “It sounds Irish,” Mrs. Mering said.

  “Mr. St. Trewes is the young man I told you about,” Tossie said, “whom I met on the river and asked to search for Princess Arjumand. And he’s found her!” She showed the cat to her mother.

  Mrs. Mering ignored her. “On the river?” she said, and her stare was pure liquid nitrogen. “Are you some sort of bargeman?”

  “No, ma’am,” Terence said. “I’m an undergraduate. Second year. At Balliol.”

  “Oxford!” Colonel Mering snorted. “Bah!”

  It looked like we were going to be tossed out on our ears in another couple of minutes, which might not be a bad thing, considering the way Tossie was carrying on about Terence. I wondered if this was some part of the continuum’s correcting itself now that “pwecious Juju” had been safely returned. I hoped so.

  I also hoped I would get a chance to talk to Verity before we were shown the gate. Since that first delighted look, she hadn’t even glanced at me, and I needed at least to know what she’d found out from T.J. and Mr. Dunworthy, if anything.

  “Do they teach you to break into people’s homes at Oxford?” Mrs. Mering said.

  “N-no,” Terence stammered. “You said, ‘Enter.’”

  “I was speaking to the spirits!” she said stiffly.

  “Suppose you’re studying some damned modern subject,” Colonel Mering said.

  “No, sir. Classics, sir. This is my tutor, Professor Peddick.”

  “We didn’t mean to intrude like this,” Professor Peddick said. “These young gentlemen were kindly taking me downriver to Runnymede when—”

  But the temperature had risen sharply, and the Colonel was smiling, or I thought he was, under his white mustache. “Not Professor Arthur Peddick? Wrote, ‘On the Physical Characteristics of the Japanese Shubunkin’?”

  Professor Peddick nodded. “Have you read it?”

  “Read it? Wrote you only last week about my globe-eyed nacreous ryunkin,” the Colonel said. “Astonishing coincidence, your showing up like this.”

  “Ah, yes,” Professor Peddick said, peering at him through his pince-nez. “I’ve been intending to answer your letter. Fascinating species, the ryunkin.”

  “Utterly amazing that your boat should capsize here, of all places,” the Colonel said. “What’s the likelihood of that happening? Astronomical.”

  I looked over at Verity. She was watching them and biting her Up.

  “You must come and see my Black Moor,” the Colonel said. “Excellent specimen. All the way from Kyoto. Baine, fetch a lantern!”

  “Yes, sir,” Baine said.

  “And a three-pound banded gudgeon,” the Colonel said, taking hold of Professor Peddick’s arm and leading him through the maze of furniture to the French doors. “Caught it only last week.”

  “Mesiel!” Mrs. Mering snapped from the couch. “Where on earth do you think you’re going?”

  “Out to the fishpond, my dear, to show Professor Peddick my goldfish.”

  “At this time of night?” she said. “Nonsense! He’ll catch his death in those wet clothes.”

  “Quite right,” Colonel Mering said, seeming to notice for the first tim
e that the sleeve he was holding onto was sopping wet. “Must get you into dry things. Baine,” he said to the butler, who was just leaving, “bring Professor Peddick some dry clothes at once.”

  “Yes, sir,” Baine said.

  “Mr. Henry and Mr. St. Trewes will both need fresh clothes as well,” Verity said.

  “Yes, miss.”

  “And bring some brandy,” Colonel Mering said.

  “And a fish,” Tossie said.

  “I doubt if these gentlemen have time for a glass of brandy,” Mrs. Mering said, turning the thermostat down again. “It’s extremely late, and they will be wanting to return to their lodgings. I presume you are staying at one of the river inns, Mr. St. Trewes? The Swan?”

  “Well, actually—” Terence began.

  “Won’t hear of it. Nasty, common places. Appalling drains. Must stay here,” Colonel Mering said, putting up his hand to ward off objections. “Plenty of room for you and your friends. Must stay as long as you like. Excellent trolling deeps here. Baine, tell Jane to make up rooms for these gentlemen.”

  Baine, who was trying to pour the brandy, fetch a lantern, and outfit half the people in the room, promptly said, “Yes, sir,” and started out of the room.

  “And bring in their luggage,” Colonel Mering said.

  “I’m afraid we haven’t any luggage,” Terence said. “When our boat capsized, we were lucky to make it to shore with our lives.”

  “Lost a beautiful albino gudgeon,” Professor Peddick said. “Extraordinary dorsal fins.”

  “Shall have to catch it again,” Colonel Mering said. “Baine, go see if you can salvage the boat and their belongings. Where’s that lantern?”

  It was a wonder Baine wasn’t reading Marx, as downtrodden as he was. No, Marx was still writing it. In the Reading Room of the British Museum.

  “I’ll fetch it, sir.”

  “You will not,” Mrs. Mering said. “It’s far too late for fishpond excursions. I’m certain these gentlemen,” the temperature plummeted, “are tired after their adventure. Boating! In the middle of the night. It’s a wonder you weren’t all swept over a weir and drowned,” she said, looking as though she wished that that had happened. “I’m sure these gentlemen are exhausted.”

  “Quite right,” the curate said, “so I will take my leave. Good night, Mrs. Mering.”

  Mrs. Mering extended her hand. “O, Reverend, I am so sorry there were no manifestations tonight.”

  “Next time I do not doubt we shall be more successful,” he said to Mrs. Mering, but he was looking at Tossie. “I shall look forward to our next excursion into the metaphysical. And of course to seeing you both day after tomorrow. I am certain it will be a brilliant success with you and your lovely daughter assisting.”

  He leered at Tossie, and I wondered if this might be the mysterious Mr. C.

  “We are delighted to assist in any way,” Mrs. Mering said.

  “We are rather short of tablecloths,” the curate said.

  “Baine, take a dozen tablecloths to the vicarage at once,” she said.

  It was no wonder Baine had taken to pet-drowning in his spare time. Clearly justifiable homicide.

  “I am delighted to have met all of you,” the curate said, still looking at Tossie. “And if you are all still here the day after tomorrow, I should like to extend an invitation to our—”

  “I doubt the gentlemen will be staying that long,” Mrs. Mering said.

  “Ah,” the curate said. “Well, then, good night.”

  Baine handed him his hat, and he took his departure.

  “You should have said good night to the Reverend Mr. Arbitage,” Mrs. Mering said to Tossie, and there went that theory.

  “Professor Peddick, you must at least see my globe-eyed nacreous ryunkin tonight,” Colonel Mering said. “Baine, where’s the lantern? Excellent coloration—”

  “Aiyyyy!” Mrs. Mering said.

  “What?” Terence said, and everyone turned and looked at the French doors as if expecting another ghost, but there was nothing there.

  “What is it?” Verity said, reaching for the smelling salts.

  “That!” Mrs. Mering said, pointing dramatically at Cyril, who was warming himself at the fire. “Who let that dreadful creature in?”

  Cyril stood up, looking offended.

  “I . . . I did,” Terence said, hurrying over to grab Cyril by the collar.

  “This is Cyril,” Verity said. “Mr. St. Trewes’s dog.”

  It was unfortunate that it was at that moment that Cyril’s doggy nature asserted itself, or perhaps he was simply unnerved, as we all were, by Mrs. Mering. He shook himself all over, his jowls flapping wildly.

  “O, dreadful dog!” Mrs. Mering cried, flinging up her hands even though he was half a room away. “Baine, take him outside at once!”

  Baine started forward, and the thought crossed my mind that he might be some sort of serial pet murderer. “I’ll take him out,” I said.

  “No, I will,” Terence said. “Come along, Cyril.”

  Cyril looked at him disbelievingly.

  “Terribly sorry,” Terence said, tugging on Cyril’s collar. “He was in the boat with us when it went over, and—”

  “Baine, show Mr. St. Trewes the stable. Out!” Mrs. Mering said to Cyril, and he took off for the French doors like a shot, Terence right behind him.

  “De naughty bad doggums is aww gone and dearum Juju don’t have to be afwaid no more,” Tossie said.

  “O, this is all too much!” Mrs. Mering said, putting her hand dramatically to her forehead.

  “Here,” Verity said, sticking the smelling salts under her nose. “I’ll be glad to show Mr. Henry to his room.”

  “Verity!” Mrs. Mering said in a voice that left no question of her being related to Lady Schrapnell. “That is quite unnecessary. The maid can show Mr. Henry to his room.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Verity said meekly and started across the room, catching her skirts up expertly so they didn’t brush against the claw-footed table legs or the scrollwork aspidistra stand. As she reached for the bellpull’s tassel, she murmured, “I am so glad to see you. I’ve been worried sick.”

  “I—” I said.

  “Take me up to my room, Tossie,” Mrs. Mering said. “I am feeling quite overcome. Verity, tell Baine I want a cup of chamomile tea. Mesiel, don’t bother Professor Peddick with your silly fish.”

  Colleen appeared in the midst of her giving orders and was told to take me up to my room.

  “Yes, ma’am,” she said, bobbed a curtsey and led me up the stairs, stopping at the bottom to light a lamp.

  The decorating notion that “Less is more” had apparently not been invented yet. The walls next to the stairway and above it were solid with gilt-framed portraits of various Mering ancestors in gold lace, knee-breeches, and armor, and the corridor was lined with an umbrella stand, a bust of Darwin, a large fern, and a statue of Laocoön entangled with an enormous snake.

  Colleen led me halfway down the corridor and stopped outside a painted door. She opened it, curtsied, and held it open for me. “Your bedroom, sir,” she said. Her Irish brogue made the “sir” sound like “sorr.”

  This room was not quite so crowded as the parlor. It only had a bed, a washstand, a nightstand, a wooden chair, a chintz-covered chair, a bureau, a looking-glass, and an enormous wardrobe which covered one entire wall—a blessing since the wallpaper consisted of trellises up which crawled enormous blue morning glories.

  The maid set the lamp on the nightstand and darted across the room to take the pitcher off the washstand. “I’ll just be bringin’ you your hot water, sorr,” she said, and ducked out.

  I looked round the room. The Victorian interior decorating motto was apparently “No stone uncovered.” The bed was covered with a bedspread which was in turn covered with a white openwork crocheted thing, the dressing table and the bureau were topped with bouquets of dried flowers and white linen scarves edged with tatting, and the nightstand was draped with a pai
sley shawl over which lay a crocheted doily.

  Even the toilet articles on the bureau had knitted covers. I took them out and examined them, hoping they weren’t as obscure as the kitchen utensils had been. No, those were brushes and that was a shaving brush and a mug with soap in it.

  Twentieth Century has us use long-term depils on our drops, since shaving conditions are usually primitive, and I’d used one when I started my jumble sales, but it wouldn’t last the whole time I was here. Had the safety razor been invented in 1888?

  I took the knitted case off an enameled box and opened it and got my answer. In it lay two ivory-handled straight-edge razors with lethal-looking blades.

  There was a knock on the door. I opened it, and the maid came in, lugging the pitcher, which was nearly as large as she was. “Your hot water, sorr,” she said, setting the pitcher down and bobbing another curtsey. “If you’ll be needing anything else, just ring the bell there.”

  She waved vaguely at a long ribbon embroidered with violets hanging above the bed, and it was a good thing I’d seen Tossie use a bellpull, or I would have taken it for part of the decorations.

  “Thank you, Colleen,” I said.

  She stopped in mid-bob, looking uncomfortable. “Begging your pardon, sorr,” she said, twisting the skirt of her apron in her hands, “it’s Jane.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Sorry. I must have misunderstood. I thought your name was Colleen.”

  She twisted some more. “No, sorr, it’s Jane, sorr.”

  “Well, then, thank you, Jane,” I said.

  She looked relieved. “Good night, sorr,” she said, bobbed her way out, and shut the door.

  I stood there, looking at the bed almost in awe, scarcely able to believe I was actually going to get what I had come to the Victorian era for—a good night’s sleep. It seemed almost too good to be true. A soft bed, warm covers, blissful unconsciousness. No rocks, no missing cats to search for, no rain. No jumble sales, no bishop’s bird stump, no Lady Schrapnell.