To Say Nothing of the Dog (27 page)

“O Pa
pa
,” Tossie said. “Ma
ma
’s fainted.”

“Fainted?” he said, coming over to see her. “What for?”

“We were having a séance,” Tossie said. “We were attempting to find Princess Arjumand, and Mama was calling the spirits, and as she said, ‘O come, spirits,’ the curtains blew open, and there was a blast of chill air, and there Princess Arjumand was!”

“Harrumph,” he said. “Knew this spiritualism nonsense was a bad idea. Lot of silliness.”

Colonel Mering seemed to speak in a sort of shorthand, leaving off the subjects of his sentences. I wondered if they got somehow lost in his bushy mustache. “Hysteria,” he said. “Gets women all worked up.”

At this point, the curate cut in with, “A number of highly respected scholars and scientists are convinced of the validity of otherworldly phenomena. Sir William Crookes, the noted physicist, has written a respected treatise on the subject, and Arthur Conan Doyle is conducting—”

“Twaddle!” Colonel Mering said, which pretty much completed the collection of explosive Victorian disclaimers. “Cheesecloth and gullible women. Should be a law in Parliament against it.” He stopped short at the sight of Terence. “Who are you? Blasted medium?”

“This is Mr. St. Trewes, Papa,” Tossie interceded hurriedly. “He and his friends have returned Princess Arjumand,” she said, holding the cat up for his inspection. “She was lost, and Mr. St. Trewes found her.”

Colonel Mering looked at the cat with undisguised hatred. “Pah! Thought it had drowned, and good riddance.”

“O Pa
pa
, you know you don’t mean that!” She nuzzled the cat. “He doesn’t mean the dweadful fings he says, does he, sweetum Juju? No, he doesn’t-wuzn’t.”

The Colonel glared at Professor Peddick and then at me. “Suppose you’re table-rappers as well?”

“No,” I said. “We were out on the river and our boat capsized and—”

“Ohhh,” Mrs. Mering moaned from the couch and fluttered her eyes open. “Husband,” she said weakly, “is that you?” She reached out her hand to him. “O, Mesiel, the spirits!”

“Humbug! Lot of foolishness. Ruins your nerves and your health. Wonder someone wasn’t hurt,” the Colonel said, taking her hand. Verity relinquished her place, and Colonel Mering sat down next to his wife. “Settles it. No more séances. Absolutely forbid them in my house.”

“Baine!” he said to the butler, who had just come in carrying a dish of cream. “Throw out the books on spiritism.” He turned back to Mrs. Mering. “Forbid you to have any more to do with this medium Madame Idioskovitz.”

“Iritosky,” Mrs. Mering corrected. “O, Mesiel, you must not,” she said, clutching at his hand. “You do not understand! You have always been a skeptic. But now you must believe. They were
here,
Mesiel. In this very
room.
I had just contacted Chief Gitcheewatha, Madame Iritosky’s spirit control, and asked him regarding Princess Arjumand’s fate, and—” she gave a screamlet just like Tossie’s before going on, “—and there they were, carrying the cat in their ghostly arms!”

“Terribly sorry about that. Didn’t mean to frighten you like that,” Terence, who seemed to have caught the habit of chopping off subjects from Colonel Mering, said.

“Who
is that?” Mrs. Mering demanded of her husband.

“Terence St. Trewes, at your service,” Terence said and doffed his boater, which unfortunately still had a good deal of water in the brim. It sent a shower over Mrs. Mering.

“O, O, O,” she said, uttering a whole series of screamlets, and waving her hands helplessly against the deluge.

“Most awfully sorry,” Terence said and started to offer her his handkerchief. It was even wetter, and he stopped just in time and pocketed it again.

Mrs. Mering gave Terence a frosty look and turned back to her husband. “Everyone saw them!” She turned to the curate. “Reverend, tell Mesiel you saw the spirits!”

“Well . . .” the curate said uncomfortably.

“They were draped all in seaweed, Mesiel, and shining with an ethereal light,” she said, clutching her husband’s sleeve. “They had brought a message that poor Princess Arjumand had met a watery grave.” She pointed at the French doors. “They came through those very doors!”

“Know we should have knocked,” Terence said. “Didn’t mean to barge in like that, but our boat went over and—”

“Who
is
this impertinent young man?” she asked her husband.

“Terence St. Trewes,” Terence explained.

“Your spirits,” Colonel Mering said.

“Terence St. Trewes,” Terence said. “And this is Mr. Ned Henry and—”

“Spirits!” Colonel Mering said contemptuously. “Hadn’t had all the lights out and been playing at table-rapping, you’d have seen they were punters who’d had a ducking. Watery grave? Bah!”

“Princess Arjumand’s quite all right, Mama,” Tossie said, thrusting the cat forward for her mother to see. “She isn’t drowned. Mr. St. Trewes found her and brought her home. Didn’t he, pwecious Juju? He did, yes, he did. He was
so
bwave, wasn’t he? He was, he was!”

“You
found Princess Arjumand?” Mrs. Mering said.

“Well, actually Ned was the one who—”

She glared silencingly at me and then back at him, taking in our wet clothes and bedraggled state, and, presumably, our non-spiritual nature.

I thought for a moment she might faint again, and Verity moved forward and took the stopper out of the smelling salts.

Then Mrs. Mering sat up on the couch, fixed Terence with a frosty eye, and said, “How
dare
you impersonate a spirit, Mr. St. Trewes!”

“I . . . we . . . our boat went over, and . . .” he stammered.

“Terence St. Trewes!” she went on, “what sort of name is that? Is it
Irish?”

The temperature had dropped several degrees in the room, and Terence shivered a bit as he answered, “No, ma’am. It’s an old family name. Dates back to the Conquest and all that. Knight who fought in the Crusades with Richard the Lionhearted, I believe.”

“It
sounds
Irish,” Mrs. Mering said.

“Mr. St. Trewes is the young man I told you about,” Tossie said, “whom I met on the river and asked to search for Princess Arjumand. And he’s found her!” She showed the cat to her mother.

Mrs. Mering ignored her. “On the river?” she said, and her stare was pure liquid nitrogen. “Are you some sort of bargeman?”

“No, ma’am,” Terence said. “I’m an undergraduate. Second year. At Balliol.”

“Oxford!” Colonel Mering snorted. “Bah!”

It looked like we were going to be tossed out on our ears in another couple of minutes, which might not be a bad thing, considering the way Tossie was carrying on about Terence. I wondered if this was some part of the continuum’s correcting itself now that “pwecious Juju” had been safely returned. I hoped so.

I also hoped I would get a chance to talk to Verity before we were shown the gate. Since that first delighted look, she hadn’t even glanced at me, and I needed at least to know what she’d found out from T.J. and Mr. Dunworthy, if anything.

“Do they teach you to break into people’s homes at Oxford?” Mrs. Mering said.

“N-no,” Terence stammered. “You said, ‘Enter.’ ”

“I was
speaking
to the spirits!” she said stiffly.

“Suppose you’re studying some damned modern subject,” Colonel Mering said.

“No, sir. Classics, sir. This is my tutor, Professor Peddick.”

“We didn’t mean to intrude like this,” Professor Peddick said. “These young gentlemen were kindly taking me downriver to Runnymede when—”

But the temperature had risen sharply, and the Colonel was smiling, or I thought he was, under his white mustache. “Not Professor Arthur Peddick? Wrote, ‘On the Physical Characteristics of the Japanese Shubunkin’?”

Professor Peddick nodded. “Have you read it?”

“Read
it? Wrote you only last week about my globe-eyed nacreous ryunkin,” the Colonel said. “Astonishing coincidence, your showing up like this.”

“Ah, yes,” Professor Peddick said, peering at him through his pince-nez. “I’ve been intending to answer your letter. Fascinating species, the ryunkin.”

“Utterly amazing that your boat should capsize here, of all places,” the Colonel said. “What’s the likelihood of that happening? Astronomical.”

I looked over at Verity. She was watching them and biting her lip.

“You must come and see my Black Moor,” the Colonel said. “Excellent specimen. All the way from Kyoto. Baine, fetch a lantern!”

“Yes, sir,” Baine said.

“And a three-pound banded gudgeon,” the Colonel said, taking hold of Professor Peddick’s arm and leading him through the maze of furniture to the French doors. “Caught it only last week.”

“Mesiel!” Mrs. Mering snapped from the couch. “Where on earth do you think you’re going?”

“Out to the fishpond, my dear, to show Professor Peddick my goldfish.”

“At this time of night?” she said. “Nonsense! He’ll catch his death in those wet clothes.”

“Quite right,” Colonel Mering said, seeming to notice for the first time that the sleeve he was holding onto was sopping wet. “Must get you into dry things. Baine,” he said to the butler, who was just leaving, “bring Professor Peddick some dry clothes at once.”

“Yes, sir,” Baine said.

“Mr. Henry and Mr. St. Trewes will both need fresh clothes as well,” Verity said.

“Yes, miss.”

“And bring some brandy,” Colonel Mering said.

“And a fish,” Tossie said.

“I doubt if these gentlemen have time for a glass of brandy,” Mrs. Mering said, turning the thermostat down again. “It’s extremely late, and they will be wanting to return to their lodgings. I presume you are staying at one of the river inns, Mr. St. Trewes? The Swan?”

“Well, actually—” Terence began.

“Won’t hear of it. Nasty, common places. Appalling drains. Must stay here,” Colonel Mering said, putting up his hand to ward off objections. “Plenty of room for you and your friends. Must stay as long as you like. Excellent trolling deeps here. Baine, tell Jane to make up rooms for these gentlemen.”

Baine, who was trying to pour the brandy, fetch a lantern, and outfit half the people in the room, promptly said, “Yes, sir,” and started out of the room.

“And bring in their luggage,” Colonel Mering said.

“I’m afraid we haven’t any luggage,” Terence said. “When our boat capsized, we were lucky to make it to shore with our lives.”

“Lost a beautiful albino gudgeon,” Professor Peddick said. “Extraordinary dorsal fins.”

“Shall have to catch it again,” Colonel Mering said. “Baine, go see if you can salvage the boat and their belongings. Where’s that lantern?”

It was a wonder Baine wasn’t reading Marx, as downtrodden as he was. No, Marx was still writing it. In the Reading Room of the British Museum.

“I’ll fetch it, sir.”

“You will not,” Mrs. Mering said. “It’s far too late for fishpond excursions. I’m certain these gentlemen,” the temperature plummeted, “are tired after their
adventure.
Boating! In the middle of the night. It’s a wonder you weren’t all swept over a weir and drowned,” she said, looking as though she wished that that had happened. “I’m sure these gentlemen are
exhausted.”

“Quite right,” the curate said, “so I will take my leave. Good night, Mrs. Mering.”

Mrs. Mering extended her hand. “O, Reverend, I am
so
sorry there were no manifestations tonight.”

“Next time I do not doubt we shall be more successful,” he said to Mrs. Mering, but he was looking at Tossie. “I shall look forward to our next excursion into the metaphysical. And of course to seeing you both day after tomorrow. I am certain it will be a brilliant success with you and your lovely daughter assisting.”

He leered at Tossie, and I wondered if this might be the mysterious Mr. C.

“We are delighted to assist in any way,” Mrs. Mering said.

“We
are
rather short of tablecloths,” the curate said.

“Baine, take a dozen tablecloths to the vicarage at once,” she said.

It was no wonder Baine had taken to pet-drowning in his spare time. Clearly justifiable homicide.

“I am delighted to have met all of you,” the curate said, still looking at Tossie. “And if you are all still here the day after tomorrow, I should like to extend an invitation to our—”

“I doubt the gentlemen will be staying that long,” Mrs. Mering said.

“Ah,” the curate said. “Well, then, good night.”

Baine handed him his hat, and he took his departure.

“You should have said good night to the Reverend Mr. Arbitage,” Mrs. Mering said to Tossie, and there went that theory.

“Professor Peddick, you must at least see my globe-eyed nacreous ryunkin tonight,” Colonel Mering said. “Baine, where’s the lantern? Excellent coloration—”

“Aiyyyy!” Mrs. Mering said.

“What?” Terence said, and everyone turned and looked at the French doors as if expecting another ghost, but there was nothing there.

“What is it?” Verity said, reaching for the smelling salts.

“That!” Mrs. Mering said, pointing dramatically at Cyril, who was warming himself at the fire. “Who let that
dreadful creature
in?”

Cyril stood up, looking offended.

“I . . . I did,” Terence said, hurrying over to grab Cyril by the collar.

“This is Cyril,” Verity said. “Mr. St. Trewes’s dog.”

It was unfortunate that it was at that moment that Cyril’s doggy nature asserted itself, or perhaps he was simply unnerved, as we all were, by Mrs. Mering. He shook himself all over, his jowls flapping wildly.

“O, dreadful dog!” Mrs. Mering cried, flinging up her hands even though he was half a room away. “Baine, take him outside at once!”

Baine started forward, and the thought crossed my mind that he might be some sort of serial pet murderer. “I’ll take him out,” I said.

“No, I will,” Terence said. “Come along, Cyril.”

Cyril looked at him disbelievingly.

“Terribly sorry,” Terence said, tugging on Cyril’s collar. “He was in the boat with us when it went over, and—”

“Baine, show Mr. St. Trewes the stable. Out!” Mrs. Mering said to Cyril, and he took off for the French doors like a shot, Terence right behind him.