To Say Nothing of the Dog (59 page)

History was full of mistaken assumptions—Napoleon’s assuming Ney had taken Quatre Bras, Hitler’s assuming the invasion would come at Calais, King Harold’s Saxons’ assuming William the Conqueror’s men were retreating instead of leading them into a trap.

Had we made a mistaken assumption about the incongruity? Was there some way of looking at it which explained everything—from the lack of slippage on Verity’s drop to the excess of it in 2018? Some way of looking at it in which everything fit—Princess Arjumand and Carruthers and the bishop’s bird stump and all those bloody jumble sales and curates, to say nothing of the dog—and it all made sense?

I must have fallen asleep, because when I opened my eyes, it was fully daylight and there were voices coming up the stairs.

I looked wildly round the narrow tower, as if there might actually be somewhere to hide, and then sprinted up the stairs.

I had gone at least five steps before I realized I needed to count the steps so I would know where the drop was. Six, seven, eight, I counted silently, rounding the next curve of the steps. Nine, ten, eleven. I stopped, listening.

“Hastyeh doon awthaslattes?”
the woman said.

It sounded like Middle English, which meant I’d been right about this being the Middle Ages.

“Goadahdahm Boetenneher, thahslattes ayrnacoom,”
the man said.

“Thahslattes maun bayendoon uvthisse wyke,”
the woman said.

“Tha kahnabay,”
he said.

I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but I had heard this conversation a number of times before, most recently in front of the south door of St. Michael’s. The woman was demanding to know why something wasn’t done. The man was making excuses. The woman, who must be an early ancestor of Lady Schrapnell’s, was saying she didn’t care, it had to be done in time for the jumble sale.

“Thatte kahna bay, Goadahdahm Boetenneher,”
he said.
“Tha wolde hahvneedemorr holpen thanne isseheer.”

“So willetby, Gruwens,”
the woman said.

There was a clank of stone on stone, and the woman snapped,
“Lokepponthatt, Gruwens! The steppe bay lossed.”

She was yelling at him for the loose step. Good. I hoped she read him out properly.

“Ye charge yesette at nought,”
she said.

“Ne gan speken rowe,”
the workman said placatingly.

They were still coming up. I looked up the tower’s shaft, wondering if there might be a room or a platform above.

“Tha willbay doone bylyve, Goadahdahm Boetenneher.”

Botoner. Could the woman be Ann Botoner, or Mary, who had built the spire of Coventry Cathedral? And could this be the tower?

I started up again, trying not to make any noise and counting the steps. Nineteen, twenty.

There was a platform, overlooking an open space. I looked down at it. The bells. Or where the bells would be when they were installed. I had just ascertained my space-time location. It was the tower of Coventry Cathedral, the year it was built. 1395.

I couldn’t hear them. I went back to the stairs and took two tentative steps down. And nearly ran into them.

They were right below me. I could see the top of a white-coiffed head. I leaped back up to the level of the platform, and on up the stairs, and nearly stepped on a pigeon.

It squawked and flew up, flapping like a bat at me and then past me and down onto the platform.

“Shoo!”
Dame Botoner shouted.
“Shoo! Thah divils minion!”

I waited, poised for flight and trying not to pant, but they didn’t come any farther. Their voices echoed oddly, as if they had gone over to the far side of the platform, and after a minute I crept back down to where I could see them.

The man was wearing a brown shirt, leather leggings, and a pained expression. He was shaking his head.
“Nay, Goadudahm Marree,”
he said.
“It wool bay fortnicht ahthehlesst.”

Mary Botoner. I looked wonderingly at this ancestor of Bishop Bittner’s. She was wearing a reddish-brown shift, cut out in the wide sleeves to show a yellow underdress, and fastened with a metal belt that sank somewhat low. Her linen coif was pulled tight around her plump, middle-aged face, and she reminded me of someone. Lady Schrapnell? Mrs. Mering? No, someone older. With white hair?

She was pointing to things and shaking her head.
“Thahtoormaun baydoon ah Freedeywyke,”
she said.

The workman shook his head violently.
“Tha kahna bay, Goaduhdahm Boetenneher.”

The woman stamped her foot.
“So willetbay, Gruwens.”
She swept round the platform to the stairs.

I ducked back out of sight, ready to go up again, but the discussion was apparently over.

“Bootdahmuh Boetenneher—”
the workman pleaded, following her.

I crept after them, keeping one turn above.

“Gottabovencudna do swich—”
the workman said, trailing after her.

I was nearly back to the site of the drop.

“Whattebey thisse?”
the woman said.

I cautiously came down one step, and then another, till I could see them. Mary Botoner was pointing at something on the wall.

“Thisse maun bey wroughtengain,”
she said, and, above her head, like a halo, I saw a faint shimmer.

Not now, I thought, not after waiting a whole night.

“Bootdahmuh Boetenneher—”
the workman said.

“So willet bey,”
Mary Botoner said, jabbing her bony finger at the wall.

The shimmer was growing brighter. One of them would look up in a moment and see it.

“Takken under eft!”
she said.

Come on, come on. Tell her you’ll fix it, I thought.

“Thisse maun bey takken bylyve,”
she said, and started, finally, down the stairs. The workman rolled his eyes, tightened his rope belt round his ample middle, and started after her.

Two steps. Three. Mary Botoner’s coiffed head disappeared round the curve of the tower and then bobbed back into sight.
“Youre hyre isse neyquitte till allisse doone.”

I couldn’t wait any longer, even if it meant they saw me. People in the Middle Ages had believed in angels—with luck, they’d think I was one.

The shimmer began to glow. I shot down the steps, jumping over the pigeon, who took off into the air with a wild squawking.

“Guttgottimhaben,”
the workman said, and they both turned to look up at me.

Mary Botoner crossed herself.
“Holymarr remothre—”

And I dived for the already closing net and sprawled flat onto the blessed tiled floor of the lab.

“
We realized with intense consternation and horror . . .

that nothing more could be done.”

Provost Howard

C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - F O U R

In the Lab—A Long-Delayed Arrival—A Letter to the Editor—In the Tower—I Ascertain My Space-Time Location—In the Cathedral—I Act Without Thinking—Cigars—A Dragon—A Parade—In the Police Station—In a Shelter—Fish—Verity Is Found at Last— “Our beautiful, beautiful cathedral!”—An Answer

And let it be 2057, not 2018. I looked up, and yes, it was. Warder was bending over me, extending a hand to help me up.

When she saw it was me, she stood up and put her hands on her hips.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“What am I doing
here?”
I said, picking myself up. “What the bloody hell was I doing in 1395? What was I doing in Blackwell’s in 1933? I want to know where Verity is.”

“Get out of the net,” she said, already moving back to the console and beginning to type. The veils on the net began to rise.

“Find out where Verity is,” I said, following her. “She went through yesterday, and something went wrong. She—”

She moved her hand in a gesture of silencing. “Eleven December,” she said into the console’s ear. “Two P.M.”

“You don’t understand,” I said. “Verity’s missing. There’s something wrong with the net.”

“In a minute,” she said, staring at the screen. “Six P.M. Ten P.M. Carruthers is stuck in Coventry,” she said, her eyes never moving from the screen, “and I’m trying to—”

“Verity
may be stuck in a dungeon. Or the middle of the Battle of Hastings. Or the lion’s cage at the Zoo.” I pounded on the console. “Find out where she is.”

“In a
minute,”
she said. “Twelve December. Two AM. Six A.M.—”

“No!” I said, grabbing the ear of the console away from her. “Now!”

She stood up angrily. “If you do anything to jeopardize this rendezvous—”

Mr. Dunworthy and T.J. came in, their heads together worriedly over a handheld. “—another area of increased slippage,” T.J. was saying. “See, here it—”

“Give
me that ear,” Warder said furiously, and they both looked up.

“Ned,” Mr. Dunworthy said, hurrying over. “How did Coventry go?”

“It didn’t,” I said.

Warder snatched the ear back and began feeding times into it.

“No Mr. C, no ‘life-changing experience,’ ” I said. “Verity tried to come through to tell you, but she didn’t make it. Tell Warder she’s got to find her.”

“I’m running the accelerated,” Warder said.

“I don’t care what you’re running,” I said. “It can wait. I want you to find out where she is
now!”

“In a minute, Ned,” Mr. Dunworthy said quietly. He took my arm. “We’re trying to pull Carruthers out.”

“Carruthers can wait!” I said. “You know where he is, for God’s sake! Verity could be anywhere!”

“Tell me what’s happened,” he said, still calmly.

“The net’s starting to break down,” I said. “That’s what’s happened. Verity went through to tell you we failed at Coventry, and right after she’d gone through, Finch came through and said she hadn’t come through to the lab. So I tried to come through and tell you, but I ended up here in 2018, and then in Blackwell’s in 1933, and then in a—”

“You were in the lab in 2018?” Mr. Dunworthy said, looking at T.J. “That’s where the area of slippage was. What did you see, Ned?”

“—and then in the tower of Coventry Cathedral in 1395,” I said.

“Destination malfunction,” T.J. said worriedly.

“Two P.M. Six P.M.,” Warder said, her eyes on the screen.

“The net’s breaking down,” I said, “and Verity’s out there somewhere. You’ve got to get a fix on her and—”

“Warder,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “Stop the accelerated. We need—”

“Wait, I’m getting something,” she said.

“Now,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “I want a fix on Verity Kindle.”

“In a min—”

And Carruthers appeared in the net.

He was wearing the same thing he’d been wearing last time I’d seen him, his AFS coveralls and nonregulation helmet, except that they weren’t covered with soot. “Well, it’s about time!” he said, taking his tin helmet off.

Warder ran over to the net, pushed through the veils, and flung her arms around his neck. “I was
so
worried!” she said. “Are you all right?”

“I nearly got arrested for not having an identity card,” Carruthers said, looking slightly taken aback, “and I was
this
close to being blown up when a delayed HE went off, but otherwise I’m fine.” He disentangled himself from Warder’s arms. “I thought something had gone wrong with the net, and I was going to be stuck there for the duration of the war. Where the bloody hell have you been?”

“Trying to get you out,” Warder said, beaming at him. “We thought something had gone wrong with the net, too. Then I thought of running an accelerated to see if we could get past whatever the block was.” She linked her arm through his. “Are you certain you’re all right? Can I get you anything?”

“You can get
me
Verity. Now!” I said. “I want you to run a fix right
now.
”

Mr. Dunworthy nodded.

“All right!” Warder snapped, and stomped over to the console.

“You didn’t have any trouble coming back, did you?” T.J. said to Carruthers.

“Except that the bloody net wouldn’t open for three weeks, no,” Carruthers said.

“I mean, you didn’t go to another destination before you came here?”

Carruthers shook his head.

“And you haven’t any idea why the net wouldn’t open?”

“No,” Carruthers said. “A delayed HE went off a hundred yards from the drop. I thought perhaps it had done something to it.”

I went over to the console. “Anything yet?”

“No,” Warder said. “And don’t stand over me like that. It keeps me from concentrating.”

I went back over to Carruthers, who had sat down at T.J.’s sim setup and was pulling off his boots.

“One good thing came out of all this,” he said, peeling off a very dirty sock. “I can definitely report to Lady Schrapnell that the bishop’s bird stump wasn’t in the rubble. We cleared every inch of the cathedral, and it wasn’t there. But it
was
in the cathedral during the raid. The Head of the Flower Committee, this horrible old spinster sort named Miss Sharpe—you know the type, gray hair, long nose, hard as nails—saw it at five o’clock that afternoon. She was on her way home after a meeting of the Advent Bazaar and Soldiers’ Parcel Effort Committee, and she noticed some of the chrysanthemums in it were turning brown, and she stopped and pulled them out.”

I was only half listening. I was watching Warder, who was hitting keys, glaring at the screen, leaning back thoughtfully, hitting more keys. She has no idea where Verity is, I thought.

“So you think it was destroyed in the fire?” Mr. Dunworthy said.

“
I
do,” Carruthers said, “and everyone else does, except for this dreadful old harpy Miss Sharpe.
She
insists it was stolen.”

“During the raid?” Mr. Dunworthy asked.

“No. She says as soon as the sirens went, she came back and stood guard, so it must have been stolen after five and before eight, and whoever took it must have known there was going to be a raid that night.”

Numbers were coming up rapidly on the screen. Warder leaned forward, tapping keys rapidly. “Have you got the fix?”