“We can’t,” I said.
“Why not?”
“First, it’s not the sort of thing that would be in Baedeker. The average tourist, which is what we’re supposed to be, would never have heard of it. Second, it’s not the bishop’s bird stump yet. It only became the bishop’s bird stump in 1926.”
“What was it till then?”
“A cast-iron footed pedestal firugeal urn. Or possibly a fruit compote.”
The sound of hammering behind the hoardings stopped abruptly, and there was the ghostly sound of swearing.
Verity glanced at Tossie and Terence, who were pointing at a stained-glass window, and then asked, “What happened in 1926?”
“There was a particularly acrimonious Ladies’ Altar Guild meeting,” I said, “at which someone proposed the purchase of a bird stump, which was a sort of tall ceramic vase popular at the time, for the flowers in the nave. The bishop had recently instituted cost-cutting measures for the running of the cathedral, and the proposal was voted down on the grounds that it was an unnecessary expense and that there must be something around somewhere they could use; i.e., the cast-iron footed pedestal firugeal urn which had been in storage down in the crypt for twenty years. It was thereafter referred to somewhat bitterly as ‘the bishop’s notion of a bird stump,’ and eventually shortened to—”
“The bishop’s bird stump.”
“But if it wasn’t the bishop’s bird stump when Tossie saw it, how does Lady Schrapnell know what she saw?”
“She described it in considerable detail in her diaries over the years, and when Lady Schrapnell first proposed her project, an historian was sent back to identify it in the spring of 1940 from the descriptions.”
“Could the historian have stolen it?” she asked.
“No.”
“How can you be certain?”
“It was me.”
“Cousin,” Tossie called. “Do come see what we’ve found.”
“Perhaps she’s found it without us,” I said, but it was only another monument, this one with a row of four swaddled infants carved on it.
“Isn’t it cunning?” Tossie said. “Look at the dearum-dearum babies.”
The south door opened, and Baine came in, sopping wet and clutching the issue of The Light inside his coat.
“Baine!” Tossie called.
He came over, leaving a trail of water. “Yes, miss?”
“It’s chilly in here. Fetch my Persian shawl. The pink one, with fringe. And Miss Browns.”
“Oh, that isn’t necessary,” Verity said, looking pityingly at Baine’s bedraggled appearance. “I’m not cold at all.”
“Nonsense,” Tossie said. “Bring both of them. And see they don’t get wet.”
“Yes, miss,” Baine said. “I shall fetch them as soon as I’ve brought your mother her book.”
Tossie put her lips in a pout.
“Oh, look, Cousin,” Verity said before she could demand Baine go get the shawls now. “These misereres show the Seven Works of Mercy,” and Tossie obediently went into the Girdlers’ Chapel to admire them, followed by the black marble altar tomb, assorted fan vaulting, and a monument with a particularly long and illegible inscription.
Verity took the opportunity to pull me ahead. “‘What if it isn’t here?” she whispered.
“It’s here,” I said. “It didn’t disappear till 1940.”
“I mean, what if it isn’t here because of the incongruity? What if events have changed, and they’ve already moved it down to the crypt or sold it at a jumble sale?”
“The bazaar’s not till next week.”
“Which aisle did you say it was in in 1940?” she said, starting purposefully toward the back of the nave.
“This aisle,” I said, trying to catch up, “in front of the Smiths’ Chapel, but that doesn’t mean that’s where it is now—” I said, and stopped because it was.
It was obvious why they had put the bishop’s bird stump in this particular aisle. In 1888 the light in this part of the nave had been very dim, and one of the pillars blocked it from the view of the rest of the church.
And one of the ladies of the Altar Guild had done the best she could, obscuring the upper levels with large, drooping peonies and twining ivy over the centaurs and one of the sphinxes. It was also newer, and therefore shinier, which tended to hide some of the details. It didn’t look half bad.
“Good Lord,” Verity said. “Is that it?” Her voice echoed back and forth among the fan vaulting. “It’s absolutely hideous.”
“Yes, well, that’s already been established. Keep it down.” I pointed at a pair of workmen at the back of the nave. One of them, in a blue shirt and blackened neckerchief, was shifting boards from one pile to another. The second, his mouth full of nails, was hammering loudly on a board laid across a sawhorse.
“Sorry,” Verity whispered contritely. “It was just rather a shock. I’d never seen it before.” She pointed gingerly at one of the decorations. “What is that, a camel?”
“A unicorn,” I said. “The camels are on this side, here, next to the depiction of Joseph’s being sold into Egypt.”
“And what’s that?” she said, pointing at a large group above a cast-iron garland of roses and thistles.
“The execution of Mary, Queen of Scots,” I said. “The Victorians liked art that was representational.”
“And crowded,” she said. “No wonder Lady Schrapnell was having trouble getting a craftsman to make a reproduction.”
“I had made sketches,” I said. “I think the craftsmen refused on moral grounds.”
Verity surveyed it intently, her head to one side. “That cannot possibly be a seahorse.”
“Neptune’s chariot,” I said. “And this over here is the Parting of the Red Sea. Next to Leda and the Swan.”
She reached out and touched the swan’s outstretched wing. “You were right about it being indestructible.”
I nodded, looking at its cast-iron solidity. Even the roof falling in on it would scarcely have dented it.
“And hideous-looking things are never destroyed,” she went on. “It’s a law. St. Pancras Station wasn’t touched in the Blitz. And neither was the Albert Memorial. And it is hideous.”
I agreed. Even the drooping peonies and the ivy couldn’t hide that fact.
“Oh!” Tossie said behind us, in a transport of joy. “That’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen!”
She fluttered up, Terence in tow, and stood gazing at it, her gloved hands clasped under her chin. “Oh, Terence, isn’t it the most cunning thing you’ve ever seen?”
“Well…” Terence said dubiously.
“Look at the darling cupids! And the Sacrifice of Isaac! O! O!” She uttered a series of screamlets that made the workman doing the hammering look up in irritation. He saw Tossie, spit his nails out onto the floor, and nudged his companion. The companion looked up from his sawing. The hammerer said something to him that made him burst into a wide and toothless smile. He tipped his cloth cap to Tossie.
“I know,” I murmured to Verity. “Get their names.”
As the workmen were under the impression that I was going to report them to the curate for leering, it took some time, but when I got back, Tossie was still going on about the bishop’s bird stump.
“O, look!” she mini-screamed. “There’s Salome!”
“Widge and Baggett,” I whispered to Verity. “They don’t know the curate’s name. They refer to him as Bug-Eyes.”
“And look,” Tossie exclaimed. “There’s the platter, and there’s John the Baptist’s head!”
And this was all very well, but so far it didn’t look like a life-changing experience. Tossie had ooh-ed and ahh-ed like this over the china wooden shoe at the jumble sale. And over Miss Stiggins’s cross-stitched needlecases. And even if she was having an Epiphany (depicted above Neptune and his chariot on the side facing the pillar), where was Mr. C?
“O, I do wish I had one,” Tossie enthused. “For our dear home, Terence, after we’re married. One exactly like it!”
“Isn’t it rather large?” Terence said.