“Arbitage,” I said. “Is that your full name?”
“I beg your pardon,” he said.
“So many people have multiple names these days,” I said. “Edward Burne — Jones, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Edward Bulwer — Lytton. I thought perhaps Arbitage was short for Arbitage-Culpepper or Arbitage-Chutney.”
“Arbitage is my full name,” he said, drawing himself up. “Eustace Hieronymous Arbitage.”
“And no pet names, I suppose, not for a man in your line of work,” I said. “In childhood, though? My sisters’ pet name for me was Curls, because of my baby locks. Did you have curly hair?”
“I believe,” the Reverend Mr. Arbitage said, “I was quite bald until the age of three.”
“Ah,” I said. “Chuckles, perhaps? Or Chubby?”
“Mr. Henry,” Mrs. Mering said, “Mr. Arbitage is trying to tell us the results of the fête.”
“Yes, well,” the Reverend Mr. Arbitage said, pulling a leather notebook from his pocket, “after expenses the receipts came to eighteen pounds, four shillings and eight pence, more than enough to paint over the wall murals and put in a new pulpit. We may even have enough to purchase an oil painting for the lady chapel. Perhaps a Holman-Hunt.
“What do you think the purpose of art is, Mr. Arbitage?” Tossie asked abruptly.
“To edify and instruct,” he said promptly. “All art should point a moral.”
“Like The Light of the World,” she said.
“Indeed,” he said. “ ‘For behold, I stand at the door and knock.…’ Revelation chapter three, verse twenty.” He turned to Mrs. Mering. “So may I tell the Reverend Mr. Chichester he can count on your assistance?”
“I’m afraid not,” Mrs. Mering said. “We are leaving for Torquay the day after tomorrow.”
Verity looked up, stricken, and the Colonel lowered his paper.
“My nerves,” Mrs. Mering said, looking hard at Professor Peddick. “So many unsettling things have happened in the last few days. I feel the need to consult with Dr. Fawleigh. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. He’s an expert in spiritism. Ectoplasm. And from there, we shall journey to Kent to meet Mr. St. Trewes’s parents and make arrangements for the wedding.”
“Ah,” Mr. Arbitage said. “But you will be back by August, I do hope. Our summer fête was such a success I’ve decided we should have a St. Bartholomew’s Day Fair, and we will of course want to have a fortuneteller. And a jumble sale. Mrs. Chattisbourne wanted to have a whist drive instead, but I told her the jumble sale was destined to become a tradition. And all thanks to you. I have already been collecting items for it. Miss Stiggins donated a boot rack, and my great-aunt is sending me an etching of The Battle of Naseby!”
“Ah, yes, Naseby!” Professor Peddick said. “Prince Rupert’s cavalry charge. A classic example of how one can be within a hairsbreadth of success, only to see it turn into defeat, and all because of not using forethought.”
There was some more discussion of the perils of acting without thinking, and then the Reverend Mr. Arbitage delivered a benediction and took his leave.
Tossie scarcely seemed to notice. “I am rather tired,” she said as soon as Baine had shown him out. She kissed her father and then her mother.
“You’re looking pale,” Mrs. Mering said. “The sea air will do you good.”
“Yes, Mama,” she said as though she were thinking of something else. “Good night,” and went upstairs.
“It is time we all retired,” Mrs. Mering said, standing up. “It has been a long—” she fixed Professor Peddick with a gimlet eye, “—and eventful day for all of us, and, Mesiel, you will need to be up early to accompany Professor Peddick on his journey.”
“Accompany Professor Peddick?” Colonel Mering said, stammering. “Can’t leave my red-spotted silver tancho.”
“I am certain you would wish to ensure that Professor Peddick does not drop from sight,” Mrs. Mering said firmly. “I am certain you would not wish to be responsible for leaving a second family uninformed and bereft.”
“No, of course not,” Colonel Mering said, defeated. “Glad to see you home, Professor Peddick.”
While they consulted with Baine about train times, I went over to Verity and whispered, “I’ll report in in the morning when I take Cyril out to the stable.”
She nodded numbly. “All right.” She took one last look round, as if she hoped Mr. C might still appear. “Good night,” she said and went upstairs.
“Come, Cyril,” Terence said, looking meaningfully at me. “Time for you to go out to the stable,” but I wasn’t paying any attention.
I was looking at the writing table, where Tossie had left her diary.
“I’ll be up in a moment,” I said, sidling over in front of it. “I just want to find a book to read.”
“Books!” Mrs. Mering said. “Entirely too many people read books these days,” and swept from the room.
“Come along, Cyril,” Terence said. Cyril staggered to his feet. “Still raining outside, Baine?”
“I’m afraid so, sir,” Baine said and went to open the front door for them.
“Pickett’s Charge!” Professor Peddick said to Colonel Mering. “At the American battle of Gettysburg. Another excellent example of acting without thinking! How would Overforce account for Pickett’s Charge?” and they went out together.
I shut the parlor door behind them and hurried over to the writing desk. The diary was open, with the pen and the carnation penwiper covering the bottom two-thirds of the page. At the top was written, in a ruffly hand, “June the fifteenth,” and below it, “Today we went to Cov—”
I lifted the penwiper. “—entry,” it read, the “y” trailing off into blankness. Whatever she’d recorded for posterity about the great day, she hadn’t done it yet, but there might be clues to Mr. C in earlier entries.
I shut the diary, grabbed Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, Vols. One and Two, off the shelf behind, sandwiched the diary between them, and turned round with the books in my hands.
Baine was standing there. “I shall be glad to take Miss Mering’s diary up to her so that you are not inconvenienced, sir,” he said.
“Excellent,” I said, and extricated it from between the Gibbon. “I was just taking it up to her.”
“As you wish, sir!”
“No, that’s all right,” I said. “You take it up. I think I shall take a walk before bed.” A patently ridiculous remark with the rain beating against the French doors, and one he didn’t believe any more than he believed I was taking Tossie’s diary up to her. But he only said, “As you wish, sir,” again.
“Did anyone come to the door tonight?” I said. “Besides the Reverend Mr. Arbitage?”
“No, sir,”
“Or to the kitchen door? A peddler? Or someone seeking shelter from the storm?”
“No, sir. Will that be all, sir?”
Yes, that would be all. And in a few years, what? The Luftwaffe would finish off the RAF and commence landing at Dover, and Tossie and Terence’s grandchildren would fight them on the beaches and in the ditches and in Christ Church Meadow and at Iffley, to no avail. They would hang Nazi banners from Buckingham Palace’s balconies and goose-step through Muchings End and Oxford and Coventry. Well, at least Coventry wouldn’t burn down. Only the Houses of Parliament. And civilization.
And the space-time continuum would correct itself eventually. Unless Hitler’s scientists discovered time travel.
“Will that be all, sir?” Baine said again.
“Yes,” I said, “that will be all,” and turned to open the door.
Rain blew in, and getting wet and cold seemed somehow fitting. I started out.
“I have taken the liberty of putting Mr. St. Trewes’s friend in your room, sir,” Baine said.
“Thank you,” I said gratefully. I shut the door, turned, and started past him up the stairs.
“Mr. Henry,” he said.
“Yes?” I said, but whatever he intended to say, he must have thought better of it.