Warder looked stubborn. “How do I know he won’t get trapped in Coventry again?”
“Because of that,” I said, pointing at the comp. “The incongruity’s fixed.”
“It’s all right, Peggy,” Carruthers said. “Go ahead and calculate it.” He turned to me. “You’ve got the list of what I need to find out?”
I gave it to him. “And one other thing. I need a list of the heads of all the ladies’ church committees in 1940.”
“I don’t have to look up the head of the Flower Committee. I know who it was,” he said. “That harpy Miss Sharpe.”
“All the ladies’ church committees, including the Flower Committee,” I said.
Verity handed him a pencil and a jotter. “So you won’t be tempted to bring any paper from last week through the net with you.”
“Ready?” Carruthers said to Warder.
“Ready,” she said warily.
He positioned himself in the net. Warder came over and smoothed his collar. “You be careful,” she said, straightening his tie.
“I’ll only be gone a few minutes,” he said, grinning fatuously. “Won’t I?”
“If you’re not,” Warder said, smiling, “I’ll come and get you myself.”
“I wouldn’t have believed it,” I murmured to Verity.
“Time-lag,” she said.
“I’ve got it set on a ten-minute intermittent,” Warder cooed.
“I won’t stay a minute longer than I have to,” Carruthers said. “I’ve got to come back as soon as I can so I can take you to the consecration.” He took her in his arms and gave her a lingering kiss.
“Look, I’m sorry to break up this tender scene,” I said, “but the consecration’s in two hours.”
“All right,” Warder snapped, gave one last smoothing to Carruthers’s collar, and stomped back to the console. Love may conquer all, but old dispositions die hard, and I hoped Baine intended to live near a river in the States.
Warder lowered the veils and Carruthers disappeared. “If he’s not back safely in ten minutes,” she said, “I’m sending you to the Hundred Years’ War.” She turned on Verity. “You promised you’d press the surplices.”
“In a minute,” I said, handing Verity one of the facsimile sheets.
“What are we looking for?” Verity said.
“Letters to the editor. Or an open letter. I’m not certain.”
I leafed through the Midlands Daily Telegraph. An article about the King’s visit, a casualties list, an article beginning, “There is heartening evidence of Coventry’s revival.”
I picked up the Coventry Standard. An advertisement for ARP Sandbags, Genuine Government Size and Quality 36s 6d per hundred. A picture of the ruins of the cathedral.
“Here are some letters,” Verity said, and handed me her sheet.
A letter praising the fire service for their courage. A letter asking if anyone had seen Molly, “a beautiful ginger cat, last seen the night of 14 November, in Greyfriars Lane,” a letter complaining about the ARP wardens.
The outside door opened. Verity jumped, but it wasn’t Lady Schrapnell. It was Finch.
His butler’s frock coat and his hair were flecked with snow, and his right sleeve was drenched.
“Where have you been?” I asked. “Siberia?”
“I am not at liberty to say,” he said. He turned to T.J. “Mr. Lewis, where is Mr. Dunworthy?”
“In London,” T.J. said, staring at the comp screen.
“Oh,” he said, disappointed. “Well, tell him—” he looked warily at us, “—the mission is completed,” he wrung out his sleeve, “even though the pond was solid ice, and the water was freezing. Tell him the number of the—” another look at us, “—the number is six.”
“And I don’t have all day,” Warder said. “Here’s your bag.” She handed him a large burlap sack. “You can’t go through like that,” she said disgustedly. “Come on. I’ll get you dried off.” She led him into the prep room. “I’m not even the tech. I’m only substituting. I’ve got altar cloths to iron, I’ve got a ten-minute intermittent to run—” The door shut behind them.
“What was that all about?” I said.
“Here,” Verity said, handing me a facsimile sheet. “More letters to the editor.”
Three letters commenting on the King’s visit to Coventry, one complaining about the food at the mobile canteens, one announcing a jumble sale at St. Aldate’s for the victims of the air raid.
Finch, dried and combed, came back in with Warder, who was still complaining. “I don’t see why you have to bring them all through today,” she said, marching over to the console to punch keys. “I’ve got three rendezvouses to bring in, fifty—”
“Finch,” I said. “Do you know if Mrs. Bittner intends to attend the consecration?”
“Mr. Dunworthy had me send her an invitation,” he said, “and I should have thought she, of all people, would have wanted to see Coventry Cathedral restored, but she wrote to say she was afraid it would be too fatiguing.”
“Good,” I said, and picked up the Standard for the twelfth and paged through it. No letters. “What about the Telegraph?” I asked Verity.
“Nothing,” she said, putting them down.
“Nothing,” I said happily, and Carruthers appeared in the net, looking bemused.
“Well?” I said, going over to him.
He reached in his pocket for the jotter and handed it to me through the veils. I flipped it open and started down the list of church officials, looking for a name. Nothing. I turned the page to the church livings.
“The head of the Flower Committee in 1940 was a Mrs. Lois Warfield,” Carruthers said, frowning.
“Are you all right?” Warder said anxiously. “Did something happen?”
“No,” I said, scanning the church livings. Hertfordshire, Surrey, Northumberland. There it was. St. Benedict’s, Northumberland.
“There was no Miss Sharpe on any of the committees,” Carruthers said, or on the church membership roster.”
“I know,” I said, scribbling a message on one of the pages of the jotter. “Finch, ring up Mr. Dunworthy and tell him to come back to Oxford immediately. When he gets here, give him this.” I tore it out, folded it over, and handed it to him. “Then find Lady Schrapnell and tell her not to worry, Verity and I have everything under control and not to begin the consecration till we get back.”
“Where are you going?” Finch said.
“You promised you’d iron the choirboys’ surplices,” Warder said accusingly.
“We’ll try to be back by eleven,” I said, taking Verity’s hand. “If we’re not, stall.”
“Stall!” Finch said, horrified. “The Archbishop of Canterbury’s coming. And Princess Victoria. How am I supposed to stall?”
“You’ll think of something. I have the highest faith in you, Jeeves.”
He beamed. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “Where shall I tell Lady Schrapnell you’ve gone?”
“To fetch the bishop’s bird stump,” I said, and Verity and I took off at a lope for the tube station.
The sky outside was gray and overcast. “Oh, I hope it doesn’t rain for the consecration,” Verity said as we ran.
“Are you joking?” I panted. “Lady Schrapnell would never allow it.”
The tube station was jammed. Masses of people, wearing hats and ties and carrying umbrellas, poured up the steps.
“A cathedral!” a girl in braids carrying a Gaia Party sign grumbled as she swept past me. “Do you know how many trees we could have planted in Christ Church Meadow for the cost of that building?”
“At any rate, we’re going out of town,” I called to Verity, who’d gotten separated from me. “The trains out of Oxford should be less crowded.”
We pushed our way over to the escalators. They were no better. I lost sight of Verity and finally found her a dozen steps below me. “Where’s everyone going?” I called.
“To meet Princess Victoria,” the large woman carrying a Union Jack on the step behind me said. “She’s travelling up from Reading.”