“They didn’t think you’d been run over by a tram,” Mrs. Mering said grimly. “They thought you’d drowned. The funeral is tomorrow at ten o’clock.”
“Funeral?” he said, peering at the newspaper. “Services at ten o’clock. Christ Church Cathedral,” he read. “Why on earth would they have a funeral? I’m not dead.”
“So you say,” Mrs. Mering said suspiciously.
“You must send them a telegram immediately,” I said before she could ask to feel his arm.
“Yes, immediately,” Mrs. Mering said. “Baine, fetch writing materials.”
Baine bowed. “You would perhaps be more comfortable in the library,” he said, and mercifully got us indoors.
Baine brought a pen, ink, paper, and a penwiper shaped like a hedgehog, and then tea, scones, and buttered muffins on a silver tray. Professor Peddick composed a telegram to his sister and another to the dean of Christ Church, Terence was dispatched to the village to send them, and Verity and I took advantage of his departure to sneak into the breakfast room and plot our next move.
“Which is what?” Verity said. “There wasn’t anyone at the station. Or here. I asked the cook. Nobody’s come to the door all day. As soon as it stops raining, I think we should go through and tell Mr. Dunworthy we’ve failed.”
“The day’s not over yet,” I said. “There’s still dinner and the evening. You’ll see, Mr. C will burst in during the soup and announce they’ve been secretly engaged since Easter.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Verity said without conviction.
But nothing happened during dinner except Mrs. Mering’s repeating of her premonition, which had now taken on elaborate embellishments. “And as I stood there in the church, I seemed to see the spirit of Lady Godiva before me — clothed, of course — in a robe of Coventry blue, with her long hair hanging down, and as I stood there, transfixed, she held up her glowing white hand in warning and said, ‘Things Are Not What They Seem.’ ”
Nothing happened over cigars and port, either, except a full description of the merits of the Colonel’s new red-spotted silver tancho. I found myself hoping that when we rejoined the ladies, they’d be sitting round a shipwrecked sailor or a disinherited duke, listening eagerly to his tale of having got lost in the rainstorm, but when Colonel Mering pulled the folding doors open, Mrs. Mering was draped on the settee, apparently overcome again and breathing deeply into a scented handkerchief, Tossie was sitting at the writing table and writing in her diary, and Verity, on the slipper chair, was looking up eagerly, as if she expected the sailor to come in with us.
There was a knock on the front door, and Verity half-stood up, letting her embroidery fall, but it was only Terence, back from sending the telegrams.
“I thought it best to wait for an answer to the one to your sister,” he said, handing his wet coat and umbrella to Baine. He handed Professor Peddick two yellow envelopes.
The professor fumbled for his pince-nez, tore the telegrams open, and proceeded to read them aloud. “ ‘Uncle. Delighted to hear from you. Knew you were well. All love. Your niece.’ ”
“Dear Maudie,” he said. “I knew she wouldn’t lose her head. It shows what intelligent creatures women can be when properly educated.”
“Educated,” Tossie cut in. “Is she aesthetically educated?”
Professor Peddick nodded. “Art, rhetoric, the classics, mathematics.” He tore open the other envelope. “None of your silly music and needlework.” He read the second telegram out loud. “ ‘Horace. How could you? Mourning ordered. Flowers and pallbearers already arranged. Expect you on 9:32 train. Professor Overforce already engaged to give eulogy.’ Professor Overforce!” He stood up. “I must leave for Oxford at once. When is the next train?”
“There are no more trains to Oxford tonight,” Baine, the walking Bradshaw, said. “The first train tomorrow is the 7:14 from Henley.”
“I must be on it,” Professor Peddick said. “Pack my bags at once. Overforce! He does not want to give a eulogy. He wants to discredit my theory of history and advance his own. He’s after the Haviland Chair. Natural forces! Populations! The murderer!”
“Murderer?” Mrs. Mering shrieked, and I thought we were going to have to go over the entire living-or-dead thing again, but Professor Peddick didn’t give her so much as a chance to call for her smelling salts.
“Not that murder counts in his theory of history,” he said, clutching the telegram. “The murder of Marat, of the two Little Princes in the Tower, the murder of Darnley, none of them had any effect on the course of history, according to Overforce. Individual action is irrelevant to the course of history. Honor doesn’t matter in Overforce’s theory, nor does jealousy, nor foolishness, nor luck. None of them have any effect on events. Not Sir Thomas More, nor Richard the Lionhearted, nor Martin Luther.” And so on.
Mrs. Mering attempted to interrupt once or twice and then subsided against the settee. Colonel Mering took up his newpaper (not the Oxford Chronicle). Tossie, her chin propped on her hand, played idly with a large carnation penwiper. Terence stretched out his legs toward the fire. Princess Arjumand curled up in my lap and fell asleep.
Rain pattered against the window, the fire crackled, Cyril snored. Verity poked determinedly at her embroidery and kept glancing at the ormolu mantel clock, which appeared to have stopped.
“At the Battle of Hastings,” Professor Peddick said, “King Harold was killed by an arrow in the eye. A lucky shot that determined the outcome of the battle. How does Overforce’s theory of history account for luck?”
The front-door knocker banged, loudly, and Verity stabbed her finger with her embroidery needle. Terence sat up, blinking. Baine, adding logs to the fire, stood up and went to answer the door.
“Who can that be, at this hour?” Mrs. Mering said.
Please, I thought, let it be Mr. C.
“Natural forces! Populations!” Professor Peddick fumed. “How does the Siege of Khartoum fit into that theory?”
I could hear muffled voices in the vestibule, Baine’s and another man’s. I looked over at Verity, who was sucking her pricked finger, and then back at the parlor door.
Baine appeared in it. “The Reverend Mr. Arbitage,” he said, and the curate bustled in, rain dripping from his flat-brimmed hat.
“Absolutely unforgivable to visit so late, I know,” he said, handing his hat to Baine, “but I simply had to stop by and tell you how well the fête did. I was over at Lower Hedgebury at a meeting of the Slum Charities Committee and everyone was simply agog at our success. A success,” he simpered, “which I consider to be entirely due to your idea of having a jumble sale, Mrs. Mering. Reverend Chichester wants to institute one for his Mission for Unfortunate Girls Midsummer Bazaar.”
“Reverend Chichester?” I said, leaning forward.
“Yes,” he said eagerly. “He wanted to know if you would be willing to lend your expertise to the enterprise, Mrs. Mering. And Miss Mering and Miss Brown, of course.”
“Reverend Chichester,” I said. “I believe I’ve heard of him. Young, unmarried, dark mustache?”
“Reverend Chichester?” the Reverend Arbitage said. “Good heavens, no. Ninety, if he’s a day. Rather afflicted with palsy, I’m afraid, but still active in good works. And very interested in the Other Side.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” Colonel Mering muttered from the depths of his newspaper. “He’s already got one foot over the line.”
“The Final Judgment may be but a step away for all of us,” the Reverend Arbitage said, pursing his lips. “ ‘Fear God, and give glory to him; for the hour of his judgment is come.’ Revelation chapter fourteen, verse seven.”
He truly was a toad. Prissy, self-righteous, humorless. The perfect mate for Tossie. And there didn’t seem to be any other takers.