To Say Nothing of the Dog (30 page)

“What is it?” I said.

“I . . . just wanted to say . . .” again that nervous hesitation, and I saw that he looked pale and haggard, “. . . to say how very grateful I am to you for returning Princess Arjumand to Miss Mering.”

It wasn’t what I expected to hear. “Grateful?” I repeated blankly.

“Yes, sir. Mr. St. Trewes told me you were the one who had found her, after your boat capsized and you had swum ashore. I hope you don’t think I’m speaking out of my place, sir, but Miss Mering is extremely fond of her pet, and I would never have forgiven myself if anything had happened to her.” He hesitated, looking nervous again. “It was my fault, you see.”

“Your fault?” I said blankly.

“Yes, sir. You see, Colonel Mering collects fish. From the Orient. He keeps them in a pond in the rockery.”

“Oh,” I said, wondering if my time-lag symptoms were recurring again. I couldn’t seem to see the connection.

“Yes, sir. Princess Arjumand has an unfortunate penchant for catching Colonel Mering’s goldfish and eating them, in spite of my best efforts to prevent her from doing so. Cats, as you know, are quite impervious to threats.”

“Yes,” I said. “And cajoling and pleading and—”

“The only disciplinary measure that I have found to have any effect on her is—”

It all came suddenly, blindingly clear. “Throwing her in the river,” I said.

There was a sound, like a gasp, from the wardrobe, but Baine didn’t seem to notice. “Yes, sir,” he said. “It doesn’t cure her, of course. It’s necessary to reinforce the message approximately once a month. I only throw her out a short way. Cats swim quite well, you know, when they are forced to. Better than dogs. But this last time she must have got caught in the current and—” He buried his face in his hands. “I feared she had drowned,” he said despairingly.

“Here,” I said, taking his arm and helping him into the chintz-covered chair. “Sit down. She hasn’t drowned. She’s perfectly all right.”

“She ate the Colonel’s silver Emperor fantail. An extremely rare fish. The Colonel had it shipped all the way from Honshu, at great expense,” he said, anguished. “It had arrived only the day before, and there she was, sitting next to the dorsal fin, calmly licking her paws, and when I cried out, ‘Oh, Princess Arjumand! What have you
done?’
she looked up at me with an expression of utter innocence. I’m afraid I quite lost my temper.”

“I quite understand,” I said.

“No.” He shook his head. “I carried her out to the river and flung her out as far as I could and then walked away. And when I came back—” he buried his face in his hands again, “there was no sign of her anywhere. I searched everywhere. These last four days I have felt like Dostoyevsky’s Raskolnikov, unable to confess my crime, racked with guilt for having murdered an innocent creature—”

“Well, not quite innocent,” I said. “She did eat the silver Emperor fantail.”

He didn’t even hear me. “She must have been carried away by the current and come ashore farther downstream, wet, lost—”

“Full of fantail,” I said to keep him from burying his face in his hands again. And double-gilled blue chub, I thought.

“I couldn’t sleep. I realized that I—I knew that Miss Mering would never be able to forgive me if any harm had come to her precious pet, yet I feared that with her good heart she might, and I would not be able to bear her forgiveness or forgive myself. Yet I knew I had to tell her, and I had determined to do so tonight, after the séance, and then the French doors opened, and it was a miracle. There was Princess Arjumand, safely returned, thanks to you!” He clasped my hands. “You have my most profound gratitude, sir! Thank you!”

“Perfectly all right,” I said, pulling my hands away before he smothered them with grateful kisses or something. “Glad to do it.”

“Princess Arjumand might have starved or frozen to death or been killed by wild dogs or—”

“No use worrying about things that didn’t happen,” I said. “She’s safely home.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, and looked like he might go for my hands again.

I stuck them behind my back.

“If there is anything,
anything
I can do to return the service you have done me and show my gratitude, I would do it in an instant.”

“Yes, well . . .” I said. “Thank you.”

“No, thank
you,
sir,” he said and, grabbing my hand from behind my back, shook it heartily. “And thank you for hearing me out. I hope I haven’t spoken out of turn, sir.”

“Not at all,” I said. “I appreciate your telling me.”

He stood up and straightened his lapels. “Would you like me to press your coat and trousers for you, sir?” he said, regaining his composure.

“No, that’s all right,” I said, thinking that the way things had gone thus far I might need them. “You can press them later.”

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

Probably, I thought, the way this night is going.

“No,” I said. “Thank you. Good night, Baine. Get some rest. And don’t worry. Princess Arjumand’s home safe and sound, and no harm done.” I hope.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “Good night, sir.”

I opened the door to let him out and held it open a crack to watch him till he reached the door to the servants’ quarters and went through it, and then went over to the wardrobe and knocked quietly.

There was no answer.

“Verity?” I said, and pulled the double doors open. Verity was sitting huddled in the wardrobe, her knees hunched against her chest. “Verity?”

She looked up at me. “He wasn’t going to drown her,” she said. “Mr. Dunworthy said I should have thought before I acted. He would have come back and rescued her if I hadn’t interfered.”

“But that’s good news,” I said. “It means she wasn’t a nonsignificant event, and my returning her didn’t create an incongruity.”

She nodded, but without conviction. “Perhaps. But if Baine had rescued her, she wouldn’t have been missing for four days. They wouldn’t have gone to Madame Iritosky’s, and Tossie would never have met Terence.” She scrambled out of the wardrobe. “I’ve got to tell Mr. Dunworthy this.” She started for the door. “I’ll be back as soon as I can and tell you what I find out.”

She put her hand on the door. “I won’t knock,” she whispered. “If Mrs. Mering hears knocking, she’s liable to think it’s spirits rapping. I’ll scratch on the door, like this.” She demonstrated. “I’ll be back soon,” she said, and opened the door.

“Wait,” I said, and retrieved Mrs. Mering’s boot from under the mattress. “Here,” I said, thrusting it at Verity. “Set this in front of Mrs. Mering’s door.”

She took the boot. “I won’t even ask,” she said, grinned, and slid out the door.

I didn’t hear any statuary crashes, or cries of, “The spirits!” from Mrs. Mering’s room, and after a minute I sat down in the chair to wait. And worry.

I wasn’t supposed to have brought the cat through. I remembered now Mr. Dunworthy saying, “Stay right there!” but I had thought he meant not to leave the net.

And it wouldn’t be the first time a miscommunication had affected history. Look at the countless times when a message which had been misunderstood or failed to get through or fallen into the wrong hands had changed the outcome of a battle: Lee’s accidentally dropped plans for Antietam, and the Zimmerman telegram, and Napoleon’s illegible orders to General Ney at Waterloo.

I wished I could think of an instance in which a failure to communicate had had anything but disastrous results. I wasn’t sure there were any. Look at Hitler’s migraine on D-Day. And the Charge of the Light Brigade.

Lord Raglan, standing on a hill, saw the Russians trying to retreat with captured Turkish artillery and ordered Lord Lucan to stop them. Lord Lucan, not on a hill and possibly suffering from Difficulty in Distinguishing Sounds, didn’t catch the word “Turkish,” couldn’t see any artillery except the Russian cannons pointed straight at him, and ordered Lord Cardigan and his men to charge straight at them. With predictable results.

“Into the Valley of Death rode the six hundred,” I murmured, and heard a faint scratching on the door.

I didn’t see how it could possibly be Verity. She’d scarcely been gone long enough to make it out to the gazebo and back, let alone to the future.

“Who is it?” I whispered through the door.

“Verity,” she whispered back.

“I told you I’d scratch on the door,” she said when I let her in. She had a brown paper parcel under her arm.

“I know,” I said, “but you were only gone five minutes.”

“Good,” she said. “That means there wasn’t any slippage, which is a good sign.” She sat down on the bed, looking pleased with herself. The news must be good.

“What did Mr. Dunworthy say?” I asked.

“He wasn’t there,” she said happily. “He’d gone up to Coventry to see Elizabeth Bittner.”

“Mrs. Bittner? The wife of the last bishop of Coventry?”

She nodded. “Only he didn’t go to see her in her capacity as bishop’s wife. She apparently worked on the net back in the early days. Do you know her?” she asked curiously.

“Lady Schrapnell had me interview her about the bishop’s bird stump.”

“Did she know where it was?”

“No.”

“Oh. Can I eat your biscuits?” she said, looking hungrily at the tray on the nightstand. “I’m starving.” She picked one up and took a bite out of it.

“How long were you there?” I asked.

“Hours,” she said. “Warder wouldn’t tell me where T.J. was—he was hiding from Lady Schrapnell, and he’d told Warder not to tell
anyone
where he was. It took me forever to track him down.”

“Did you ask him about my making Terence miss meeting Maud?”

“Yes,” she said. “Can I have your cocoa?”

“Yes. What did he say?”

“He said he thinks it’s unlikely that Terence was supposed to have met Maud, or if he was, that the meeting was nonsignificant, because if it had been, the net wouldn’t have opened.”

“But if my bringing the cat through caused an incongruity?” I said.

She shook her head. “T.J. doesn’t think it did. He thinks I caused it.”

“Because of what Baine told us.”

She nodded. “That, and the excessive slippage.”

“But I thought that was supposed to be due to Coventry’s being a crisis point.”

She shook her head. “Not the area of slippage in Coventry. The one in Oxford. In April of 2018.”

“2018? What crisis point is that?”

“It’s not, to anyone’s knowledge,” she said. “That’s why Mr. Dunworthy went to see Mrs. Bittner, to see if she remembers anything unusual about the drops or the time travel research they did that year that might account for it, but neither of them could remember anything. So if I caused the incongruity, then your bringing the cat back wouldn’t have. It would have been correcting it, and so it should have made things better, not worse. And having Terence miss meeting someone would hardly make things better, especially if meeting them might have kept him from getting to Iffley in time to see Tossie. Which means Terence must not have been supposed to meet Maud, and we don’t have to worry about it being a symptom the incongruity’s getting worse.”

“A symptom? What do you mean?”

“According to Fujisaki, the first line of defense is excessive slippage. Then, if that fails to correct the incongruity, there’s an increase in coincidental happenings, and if
that
fails, then discrepancies appear.”

“Discrepancies? You mean the course of history begins to alter?”

“Not at first. But the incongruity makes it destabilize. The way T.J. explained it was, that instead of there being a single fixed course of events, there becomes a superposition of probabilities.”

“Like in Schrodinger’s box,” I said, thinking of the famous thought experiment with the Geiger counter and the bottle of cyanide gas. And the cat.

“Exactly,” Verity said happily. “The course of events that will happen if the incongruity’s corrected, and if it’s not, both exist side by side, sort of. When the self-correction’s completed, they collapse into one course of events or the other. But until that happens, there may be discrepancies between the observed and recorded events. Only the only record we have is Tossie’s diary, and we can’t read that, so there’s no way to tell whether Terence and Maud’s not meeting is a discrepancy or not.”

She bit into another biscuit. “That’s why I was gone so long. After I talked to T.J., I went over to the Bodleian to start a search on Terence and then over to Oriel to ask the forensics expert to look for references to him in the diary and to see if she’d found out Mr. C’s name.”

“And had she?” I said, thinking perhaps this was why Verity seemed so happy.

“No. She’d recovered one entire passage, which unfortunately was a description of a dress Tossie was having made. Four paragraphs of pintucks, Brussels lace, French embroidery, openwork insets, and—”

“Ruffles,” I said.

“Ruffles and more ruffles,” she said disgustedly. “And not a word about the cat or the trip to Coventry or the bishop’s bird stump. I don’t suppose you have any chocolate stashed away? Or cheese? I’m so hungry. I intended to go back to Balliol and eat dinner after I talked to the forensics expert, but on the way there, I ran into Lady Schrapnell.”

“Lady Schrapnell?” I said. I’d nearly forgotten her in all the other crises. “She doesn’t know where I am, does she? You didn’t tell her, did you?”

“Of course not,” she said, taking a swig of the cocoa. “I didn’t tell her about the cat either. She demanded to know what I was doing there, and I told her I needed a new costume for day after tomorrow. Warder was livid.”

“I can imagine.”

“And then she stood there while I was being fitted, telling me all about you and how you’d gone off somewhere and Mr. Dunworthy wouldn’t tell her where you were, and how T.J. Lewis refused to go back to 1940 to check on the bishop’s bird stump just because the Twentieth Century was a ten for blacks, which was ridiculous, how dangerous could an air raid be?” She drained the last of the cocoa and peered into the pot. “And how the workmen were being completely impossible about the choir and told her the choir stalls wouldn’t be completed for another month and how that was completely out of the question, the consecration was in thirteen days.”