To Say Nothing of the Dog

  Mrs. Mering had apparently decided Professor Peddick was alive, at least for the moment. “Tell me, Professor Peddick,” she said in a voice that could have used several shawls, “before departing on this ‘tour,’ did you intend to inform your family of your plans? Or allow them to continue to wear mourning, as you have done thus far?”

  “Mourning?” Professor Peddick said, pulling out his pince-nez.

  “Beg pardon, my dear?” the Colonel said.

  There was another extremely apt peal of thunder.

  “Mesiel,” Mrs. Mering said, “you have been nursing a viper in your bosom.” She extended an accusing finger toward Professor Peddick. “This man has deceived those who befriended him, who took him in, but far, far worse, he has deceived his own loved ones.”

  Professor Peddick took off his pince-nez and peered through them. “Viper?”

  It occurred to me that we could stand here all night and Professor Peddick never get any closer to comprehending the calamity that had befallen him, and I wondered if I should attempt to intervene, particularly since the rain was starting up again.

  I glanced at Verity, but she was looking hopefully up the empty drive.

  “Professor Peddick,” I began, but Mrs. Mering was already thrusting the Oxford Chronicle at him.

  “Read that,” she commanded.

  “Feared drowned?” he said, putting on his pince-nez and then taking them off again.

  “Didn’t you send your sister a telegram?” Terence asked. “Telling her you were going downriver with us?”

  “Telegram?” he said vaguely, turning over the Chronicle as though the answer might be on the back.

  “Those telegrams you sent at Abingdon,” I said. “I asked you if you’d sent your telegrams, and you said you had.”

  “Telegrams,” he said. “Ah, yes, I remember now. I sent a telegram to Dr. Maroli, the author of a monograph on the signing of the Magna Carta. And one to Professor Edelswein in Vienna.”

  “You were supposed to send one to your sister and your niece,” Terence said, “letting them know your whereabouts.”

  “Oh, dear,” he said. “But Maudie’s a sensible girl. When I didn’t come home, she’d know I’d gone on an expedition. Not like most women, fretting and stewing and thinking you’ve been run over by a tram.”

  “They didn’t think you’d been run over by a tram,” Mrs. Mering said grimly. “They thought you’d drowned. The funeral is tomorrow at ten o’clock.”

  “Funeral?” he said, peering at the newspaper. “Services at ten o’clock. Christ Church Cathedral,” he read. “Why on earth would they have a funeral? I’m not dead.”

  “So you say,” Mrs. Mering said suspiciously.

  “You must send them a telegram immediately,” I said before she could ask to feel his arm.

  “Yes, immediately,” Mrs. Mering said. “Baine, fetch writing materials.”

  Baine bowed. “You would perhaps be more comfortable in the library,” he said, and mercifully got us indoors.

  Baine brought a pen, ink, paper, and a penwiper shaped like a hedgehog, and then tea, scones, and buttered muffins on a silver tray. Professor Peddick composed a telegram to his sister and another to the dean of Christ Church, Terence was dispatched to the village to send them, and Verity and I took advantage of his departure to sneak into the breakfast room and plot our next move.

  “Which is what?” Verity said. “There wasn’t anyone at the station. Or here. I asked the cook Nobody’s come to the door all day. As soon as it stops raining, I think we should go through and tell Mr. Dunworthy we’ve failed.”

  “The day’s not over yet,” I said. “There’s still dinner and the evening. You’ll see, Mr. C will burst in during the soup and announce they’ve been secretly engaged since Easter.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Verity said without conviction.

  But nothing happened during dinner except Mrs. Mering’s repeating of her premonition, which had now taken on elaborate embellishments. “And as I stood there in the church, I seemed to see the spirit of Lady Godiva before me—clothed, of course—in a robe of Coventry blue, with her long hair hanging down, and as I stood there, transfixed, she held up her glowing white hand in warning and said, ‘Things Are Not What They Seem.’”

  Nothing happened over cigars and port, either, except a full description of the merits of the Colonel’s new red-spotted silver tancho. I found myself hoping that when we rejoined the ladies, they’d be sitting round a shipwrecked sailor or a disinherited duke, listening eagerly to his tale of having got lost in the rain-storm, but when Colonel Mering pulled the folding doors open, Mrs. Mering was draped on the settee, apparently overcome again and breathing deeply into a scented handkerchief, Tossie was sitting at the writing table and writing in her diary, and Verity, on the slipper chair, was looking up eagerly, as if she expected the sailor to come in with us.

  There was a knock on the front door, and Verity half-stood up, letting her embroidery fall, but it was only Terence, back from sending the telegrams.

  “I thought it best to wait for an answer to the one to your sister,” he said, handing his wet coat and umbrella to Baine. He handed Professor Peddick two yellow envelopes.

  The professor fumbled for his pince-nez, tore the telegrams open, and proceeded to read them aloud. “‘Uncle. Delighted to hear from you. Knew you were well. All love. Your niece.’”

  “Dear Maudie,” he said. “I knew she wouldn’t lose her head. It shows what intelligent creatures women can be when properly educated.”

  “Educated,” Tossie cut in. “Is she aesthetically educated?”

  Professor Peddick nodded. “Art, rhetoric, the classics, mathematics.” He tore open the other envelope. “None of your silly music and needlework.” He read the second telegram out loud. “‘Horace. How could you? Mourning ordered. Flowers and pallbearers already arranged. Expect you on 9:32 train. Professor Overforce already engaged to give eulogy.’ Professor Overforce!” He stood up. “I must leave for Oxford at once. When is the next train?”

  “There are no more trains to Oxford tonight,” Baine, the walking Bradshaw, said. “The first train tomorrow is the 7:14 from Henley.”

  “I must be on it,” Professor Peddick said. “Pack my bags at once. Overforce! He does not want to give a eulogy. He wants to discredit my theory of history and advance his own. He’s after the Haviland Chair. Natural forces! Populations! The murderer!”

  “Murderer?” Mrs. Mering shrieked, and I thought we were going to have to go over the entire living-or-dead thing again, but Professor Peddick didn’t give her so much as a chance to call for her smelling salts.

  “Not that murder counts in his theory of history,” he said, clutching the telegram. “The murder of Marat, of the two Little Princes in the Tower, the murder of Darnley, none of them had any effect on the course of history, according to Overforce. Individual action is irrelevant to the course of history. Honor doesn’t matter in Overforce’s theory, nor does jealousy, nor foolishness, nor luck. None of them have any effect on events. Not Sir Thomas More, nor Richard the Lionhearted, nor Martin Luther.” And so on.

  Mrs. Mering attempted to interrupt once or twice and then subsided against the settee. Colonel Mering took up his newpaper (not the Oxford Chronicle). Tossie, her chin propped on her hand, played idly with a large carnation penwiper. Terence stretched out his legs toward the fire. Princess Arjumand curled up in my lap and fell asleep.

  Rain pattered against the window, the fire crackled, Cyril snored. Verity poked determinedly at her embroidery and kept glancing at the ormolu mantel clock, which appeared to have stopped.

  “At the Battle of Hastings,” Professor Peddick said, “King Harold was killed by an arrow in the eye. A lucky shot that determined the outcome of the battle. How does Overforce’s theory of history account for luck?”

  The front-door knocker banged, loudly, and Verity stabbed her finger with her embroidery needle. Terence sat up, blinking. Baine, adding logs to the
fire, stood up and went to answer the door.

  “Who can that be, at this hour?” Mrs. Mering said.

  Please, I thought, let it be Mr. C.

  “Natural forces! Populations!” Professor Peddick fumed. “How does the Siege of Khartoum fit into that theory?”

  I could hear muffled voices in the vestibule, Baine’s and another man’s. I looked over at Verity, who was sucking her pricked finger, and then back at the parlor door.

  Baine appeared in it. “The Reverend Mr. Arbitage,” he said, and the curate bustled in, rain dripping from his flat-brimmed hat.

  “Absolutely unforgivable to visit so late, I know,” he said, handing his hat to Baine, “but I simply had to stop by and tell you how well the fete did. I was over at Lower Hedgebury at a meeting of the Slum Charities Committee arid everyone was simply agog at our success. A success,” he simpered, “which I consider to be entirely due to your idea of having a jumble sale, Mrs. Mering. Reverend Chichester wants to institute one for his Mission for Unfortunate Girls Midsummer Bazaar.”

  “Reverend Chichester?” I said, leaning forward.

  “Yes,” he said eagerly. “He wanted to know if you would be willing to lend your expertise to the enterprise, Mrs. Mering. And Miss Mering and Miss Brown, of course.”

  “Reverend Chichester,” I said. “I believe I’ve heard of him. Young, unmarried, dark mustache?”

  “Reverend Chichester?” the Reverend Arbitage said. “Good heavens, no. Ninety, if he’s a day. Rather afflicted with palsy, I’m afraid, but still active in good works. And very interested in the Other Side.”

  “I shouldn’t wonder,” Colonel Mering muttered from the depths of his newspaper. “He’s already got one foot over the line.”

  “The Final Judgment may be but a step away for all of us,” the Reverend Arbitage said, pursing his lips. “‘Fear God, and give glory to him; for the hour of his judgment is come.’ Revelation chapter fourteen, verse seven.”

  He truly was a toad. Prissy, self-righteous, humorless. The perfect mate for Tossie. And there didn’t seem to be any other takers.

  “Arbitage,” I said. “Is that your full name?”

  “I beg your pardon,” he said.

  “So many people have multiple names these days,” I said. “Edward Burne-Jones, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Edward Bulwer-Lytton. I thought perhaps Arbitage was short for Arbitage-Culpepper or Arbitage Chutney.”

  “Arbitage is my full name,” he said, drawing himself up. “Eustace Hieronymous Arbitage.”

  “And no pet names, I suppose, not for a man in your line of work,” I said. “In childhood, though? My sisters’ pet name for me was Curls, because of my baby locks. Did you have curly hair?”

  “I believe,” the Reverend Mr. Arbitage said, “I was quite bald until the age of three.”

  “Ah,” I said. “Chuckles, perhaps? Or Chubby?”

  “Mr.Henry,” Mrs. Mering said, “Mr. Arbitage is trying to tell us the results of the fete.”

  “Yes, well,” the Reverend Mr. Arbitage said, pulling a leather notebook from his pocket, “after expenses the receipts came to eighteen pounds, four shillings and eight pence, more than enough to paint over the wall murals and put in a new pulpit. We may even have enough to purchase an oil painting for the lady chapel. Perhaps a Holman-Hunt.”

  “What do you think the purpose of art is, Mr. Arbitage?” Tossie asked abruptly.

  “To edify and instruct,” he said promptly. “All art should point a moral.”

  “Like The Light of the World,” she said.

  “Indeed,” he said. “‘For behold, I stand at the door and knock . . . .’ Revelation chapter three, verse twenty.” He turned to Mrs. Mering. “So may I tell the Reverend Mr. Chichester he can count on your assistance?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Mrs. Mering said. “We are leaving for Torquay the day after tomorrow.”

  Verity looked up, stricken, and the Colonel lowered his paper.

  “My nerves,” Mrs. Mering said, looking hard at Professor Peddick. “So many unsettling things have happened in the last few days. I feel the need to consult with Dr. Fawleigh. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. He’s an expert in spiritism. Ectoplasm. And from there, we shall journey to Kent to meet Mr. St. Trewes’s parents and make arrangements for the wedding.”

  “Ah,” Mr. Arbitage said. “But you will be back by August, I do hope. Our summer fete was such a success I’ve decided we should have a St. Bartholomew’s Day Fair, and we will of course want to have a fortuneteller. And a jumble sale. Mrs. Chattisbourne wanted to have a whist drive instead, but I told her the jumble sale was destined to become a tradition. And all thanks to you. I have already been collecting items for it. Miss Stiggins donated a boot rack, and my great-aunt is sending me an etching of The Battle of Naseby!”

  “Ah, yes, Naseby!” Professor Peddick said. “Prince Rupert’s cavalry charge. A classic example of how one can be within a hairsbreadth of success, only to see it turn into defeat, and all because of not using forethought.”

  There was some more discussion of the perils of acting without thinking, and then the Reverend Mr. Arbitage delivered a benediction and took his leave.

  Tossie scarcely seemed to notice. “I am rather tired,” she said as soon as Baine had shown him out. She kissed her father and then her mother.

  “You’re looking pale,” Mrs. Mering said. “The sea air will do you good.”

  “Yes, Mama,” she said as though she were thinking of something else. “Good night,” and went upstairs.

  “It is time we all retired,” Mrs. Mering said, standing up. “It has been a long—” she fixed Professor Peddick with a gimlet eye, “—and eventful day for all of us, and, Mesiel, you will need to be up early to accompany Professor Peddick on his journey.”

  “Accompany Professor Peddick?” Colonel Mering said, stammering. “Can’t leave my red-spotted silver tancho.”

  “I am certain you would wish to ensure that Professor Peddick does not drop from sight,” Mrs. Mering said firmly. “I am certain you would not wish to be responsible for leaving a second family uninformed and bereft.”

  “No, of course not,” Colonel Mering said, defeated. “Glad to see you home, Professor Peddick.”

  While they consulted with Baine about train times, I went over to Verity and whispered, “I’ll report in in the morning when I take Cyril out to the stable.”

  She nodded numbly. “All right.” She took one last look round, as if she hoped Mr. C might still appear. “Good night,” she said and went upstairs.

  “Come, Cyril,” Terence said, looking meaningfully at me. “Time for you to go out to the stable,” but I wasn’t paying any attention.

  I was looking at the writing table, where Tossie had left her diary.

  “I’ll be up in a moment,” I said, sidling over in front of it. “I just want to find a book to read.”

  “Books!” Mrs. Mering said. “Entirely too many people read books these days,” and swept from the room.

  “Come along, Cyril,” Terence said. Cyril staggered to his feet. “Still raining outside, Baine?”

  “I’m afraid so, sir,” Baine said and went to open the front door for them.

  “Pickett’s Charge!” Professor Peddick said to Colonel Mering. “At the American battle of Gettysburg. Another excellent example of acting without thinking! How would Overforce account for Pickett’s Charge?” and they went out together.

  I shut the parlor door behind them and hurried over to the writing desk. The diary was open, with the pen and the carnation penwiper covering the bottom two-thirds of the page. At the top was written, in a ruffly hand, “June the fifteenth,” and below it, “Today we went to Cov—”

  I lifted the penwiper. “—entry,” it read, the “y” trailing off into blankness. Whatever she’d recorded for posterity about the great day, she hadn’t done it yet, but there might be clues to Mr. C in earlier entries.

  I shut the diary, grabbed Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Ro
man Empire, Vols. One and Two, off the shelf behind, sandwiched the diary between them, and turned round with the books in my hands.

  Baine was standing there. “I shall be glad to take Miss Mering’s diary up to her so that you are not inconvenienced, sir,” he said.

  “Excellent,” I said, and extricated it from between the Gibbon. “I was just taking it up to her.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  “No, that’s all right,” I said. “You take it up. I think I shall take a walk before bed.” A patently ridiculous remark with the rain beating against the French doors, and one he didn’t believe any more than he believed I was taking Tossie’s diary up to her. But he only said, “As you wish, sir,” again.

  “Did anyone come to the door tonight?” I said. “Besides the Reverend Mr. Arbitage?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Or to the kitchen door? A peddler? Or someone seeking shelter from the storm?”

  “No, sir. Will that be all, sir?”

  Yes, that would be all. And in a few years, what? The Luftwaffe would finish off the RAF and commence landing at Dover, and Tossie and Terence’s grandchildren would fight them on the beaches and in the ditches and in Christ Church Meadow and at Iffley, to no avail. They would hang Nazi banners from Buckingham Palace’s balconies and goose-step through Muchings End and Oxford and Coventry. Well, at least Coventry wouldn’t burn down. Only the Houses of Parliament. And civilization.

  And the space-time continuum would correct itself eventually. Unless Hitler’s scientists discovered time travel.

  “Will that be all, sir?” Baine said again.

  “Yes,” I said, “that will be all,” and turned to open the door.

  Rain blew in, and getting wet and cold seemed somehow fitting. I started out.

  “I have taken the liberty of putting Mr. St. Trewes’s friend in your room, sir,” Baine said.

  “Thank you,” I said gratefully. I shut the door, turned, and started past him up the stairs.

  “Mr. Henry,” he said.

  “Yes?” I said, but whatever he intended to say, he must have thought better of it.