To Say Nothing of the Dog (73 page)

“No,” I said. “It’s in front of the parclose screen of the Smiths’ Chapel where it’s supposed to be.”

“I want to see it,” she said and started for the nave.

There was a fanfare, and the organist launched into “O God Who Doeth Great Things and Unsearchable.” The choirboys opened their hymnals. Carruthers and Warder pulled apart and took up their positions by the south door.

“I don’t think there’s time,” I said. “The consecration’s about to start.”

“Nonsense,” she said, barging through the choirboys. “There’s plenty of time. The sun isn’t out yet.”

She pushed through the dons, parting them like the Red Sea, and started down the north aisle to the Smiths’ Chapel.

I followed her, hoping the bishop’s bird stump hadn’t mysteriously disappeared again. It hadn’t. It was still there, on its wrought-iron flower stand. The woman in the green apron had filled it with a lovely arrangement of white Easter lilies.

“There it is,” I said, presenting it proudly. “After untold trials and tribulations. The bishop’s bird stump. What do you think?”

“Oh, my,” she said, and pressed her hand to her bosom. “It really is hideous, isn’t it?”

“What?”
I said.

“I know my great-great-great-great-grandmother is supposed to have liked it, but my God! What is that supposed to be?” she said, pointing at the base. “Some kind of dinosaur?”

“The Signing of the Magna Carta,” I said.

“I’m almost sorry I had you waste so much time looking for it,” she said. She looked thoughtfully at it. “I don’t suppose it’s breakable?” she said hopefully.

“No,” I said.

“Well, I suppose we have to have it for authenticity’s sake. I certainly hope the other churches don’t have anything this hideous in them.”

“Other churches?” I said.

“Yes, haven’t you heard?” she said. “Now that we’re able to bring objects forward through the net, I have all sorts of projects planned. The San Francisco earthquake, the MGM back lot, Rome before the fire Julius Caesar set—”

“Nero,” I said.

“Yes, of course. You will have to bring back the fiddle Nero played.”

“But it didn’t burn in the fire,” I said. “Only objects that have been reduced to their component parts—”

She waved her hand dismissively. “Laws are made to be broken. We’ll start with the fourteen Christopher Wren churches that were burned in the Blitz, and then—”

“We?” I said weakly.

“Yes, of course. I’ve already specifically requested you.” She stopped and glared at the bishop’s bird stump.
“Why
are those lilies? They are supposed to be yellow chrysanthemums.”

“I think lilies are extremely appropriate,” I said. “After all, the cathedral and all its treasures have been raised from the dead. The symbolism—”

She wasn’t impressed with the symbolism. “The order of service says yellow chrysanthemums,” she said. “ ‘God is in the details.’ ” She stormed off to find the poor defenseless woman in the green apron.

I stood there, looking at the bishop’s bird stump. Fourteen Christopher Wren churches. And the MGM back lot. To say nothing of what she might come up with when she Realized What It Meant.

Verity came up. “What’s wrong, Ned?” she said.

“I am fated to spend my entire life working for Lady Schrapnell and attending jumble sales,” I said.

“Pish-tosh!” she said. “You are fated to spend your life with me.” She handed me the kitten. “And Penwiper.”

The kitten didn’t weigh anything. “Penwiper,” I said, and it looked up at me with gray-green eyes.

“Mere,” it said, and began to purr, a very small purr. A purrlet.

“Where did you get this kitten?” I said to Verity.

“I stole it,” she said. “Don’t look like that. I intend to take it back. And Finch will never miss it.”

“I love you,” I said, shaking my head. “If I’m fated to spend my life with you, does that mean you’ve decided to marry me?”

“I have to,” she said. “I just ran into Lady Schrapnell. She’s decided what this cathedral needs is—”

“A wedding?” I said.

“No, a christening. So they can use the Purbeck marble baptismal font.”

“I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to,” I said. “I could sic Lady Schrapnell on Carruthers and Warder, and you could make a run for it to someplace safe. Like the Battle of Waterloo.”

There was a fanfare, the organ launched into “The Heavens Are Declaring the Glory of God,” and the sun came out. The east windows burst into blue and red and purple flame. I looked up. The clerestory was one long unbroken band of gold, like the net at the moment of opening. It filled the cathedral with light, illuminating the silver candlesticks and the children’s cross and the underside of the choir stalls, the choirboys and workmen and eccentric dons, the statue of St. Michael and the Dance of Death and the orders of service. Illuminating the cathedral itself—a Grand Design made of a thousand thousand details.

I looked at the bishop’s bird stump, cradling the kitten in the crook of my arm. The stained-glass window behind outlined the bishop’s bird stump in glorious colors, and the window of the Dyers’ Chapel opposite tinted the camels and the cherubs and the Execution of Mary, Queen of Scots emerald and ruby and sapphire.

“It
is
hideous, isn’t it?” I said.

Verity took my hand.
“Placet,”
she said.