To Say Nothing of the Dog

by Connie Willis

  “I am trying to avoid her right now,” I said. “But in a few hours, I may want her. Do you know where she is?”

  He and Warder exchanged glances. “At the cathedral, I would imagine.”

  “One of you needs to find out for certain,” I said. “Ask her what her schedule for the rest of the day is.”

  “Her schedule?” Carruthers said.

  Warder, at the same time, said, “You go find her if you want her,” and it would obviously take more than a few curls to make her pleasant. “I’m not running the chance of her giving me something else to do! She’s already got me ironing all the altar cloths and—”

  “Never mind,” I said. I didn’t need Lady Schrapnell right now, and there were other, more important things to check. “I need you to do something else for me. I need copies of the Coventry Standard and the Midlands Daily Telegraph for November fifteenth through—” I turned to Carruthers. “When did you come back from Coventry? What day?”

  “Three days ago. Wednesday.”

  “What day in Coventry?”

  “December the twelfth.”

  “From November the fifteenth through December the twelfth,” I said to Warder.

  “That’s out of the question!” Warder said. “I’ve got the altar cloths to iron and three rendezvouses to bring in. And all the choir’s surplices to press. Linen! There are any number of fabrics she could have had the choir wear that wouldn’t wrinkle walking up the nave to the choir, but Lady Schrapnell had to have linen! ‘God is in the details,’ she said. And now you expect me to get copies of newspapers—”

  “I’ll do it,” Verity said. “Do you want facsimiles or articles only, Ned?”

  “Facsimiles,” I said.

  She nodded. “I’ll do them at the Bod. I’ll be back directly,” she said, flashed me one of her naiad smiles, and was gone.

  “Carruthers,” I said. “I need you to go to Coventry.”

  “Coventry?” Carruthers said, backing up abruptly and crashing into Warder. “I’m not going back there. I had enough trouble getting out last time.”

  “You don’t have to go to the air raid,” I said. “What I need—”

  “And I’m not going anywhere in the vicinity. Remember the marrows field? And those bloody dogs? Forget it.”

  “I don’t need you to go back in time,” I said. “All I need is some facts from the church archives. You can take the tube. I want you to find out—”

  T.J. came in, and he was dressed up too, in a white shirt and his short academic robe. I wondered if Lady Schrapnell had imposed some sort of dress code.

  “Just a minute, Carruthers,” I said. “T.J., I need you to do something. The model you did of the incongruity. I want you to change the focus.”

  “Change the focus?” he said blankly.

  “The site where the incongruity occurred,” I said.

  “Don’t tell me there’s been another incongruity,” Warder said. “That’s all we need right now. I’ve got fifty linen surplices to press, three rendezvouses—”

  “You said a self-correction could extend into the past, right, T.J.?” I said, ignoring her.

  T.J. nodded. “Some of the models showed preemptive self-corrections.”

  “And that the only instance you found of a significant object being removed from its space-time location was as part of a self-correction.”

  He nodded again.

  “And you said that our incongruity didn’t match any of the Waterloo models. I want you to see if it matches with the focus changed.”

  T.J. obligingly sat down at the bank of computers and pushed the sleeves of his robe up. “To what?”

  “Coventry Cathedral,” I said. “November the fourteenth—”

  “November the fourteenth?” T.J. and Carruthers interrupted in unison. Warder gave me one of those “how-many-drops-have-you-had?” looks.

  “November the fourteenth,” I said firmly. “1940.I don’t know the exact time. Sometime after 7:45 P.M. and before eleven. My guess is half-past nine.”

  “But that’s during the air raid,” Carruthers said, “the place none of us could get anywhere near.”

  T.J. said, “What’s this all about, Ned?”

  “ The Fountain Pen Mystery and Hercule Poirot,” I said. “We’ve been looking at this the wrong way round. What if the rescue of the cat wasn’t the incongruity? What if it was part of the continuum’s self-correction and the real incongruity had happened earlier? Or later?”

  T.J. began feeding in figures.

  “There wasn’t any increased slippage on Verity’s drop,” I said, “even though five minutes either way would have kept her from rescuing Princess Arjumand. So would the net’s failure to open, but neither line of defense worked. And why did the slippage on my drop send me to Oxford to meet Terence, keep him from meeting Maud, and loan him the money for the boat so he could go meet Tossie? What if it was because the continuum wanted those things to happen? And what if all the signs we saw as indications of breakdown—my being bounced to the Middle Ages, Carruthers being trapped in Coventry—were all part of the self-correction, as well?”

  A table of coordinates came up. T.J. scanned the columns, fed in more figures, scanned the new patterns. “Only the focus?” he said.

  “You said discrepancies only occurred in the immediate vicinity of the site,” I said to T.J. “But what if the site wasn’t Muchings End? What if it was the raid on the cathedral, and what Verity and I saw as a discrepancy was the course of events that would have happened if the incongruity hadn’t been repaired?”

  “Interesting,” T.J. said. He rapidly fed in more figures.

  “Only the focus,” I said. “Same events, same slippage.”

  “This will take a while,” he said, feeding in more figures.

  I turned to Carruthers. “Here’s what I need you to find out in Coventry.” I reached round Warder for a handheld and spoke into it. “I want the names of the cathedral staff, lay and clerical, in 1940,” I said, “and the cathedral’s marriage records for 1888 through—” I hesitated a moment, thinking, and then said, “—1888 through 1915. No, 1920, to be on the safe side.”

  “What if the records were destroyed in the raid?”

  “Then get the C of E’s list of church livings for 1940. That will have been on file in Canterbury and a number of other places. They can’t all have been hit by the Blitz.”

  I hit the handheld’s print key, watched it spit out the list, and tore it off. “I need these as soon as possible.”

  Carruthers stared at it. “You expect me to go now?”

  “Yes,” I said. “This is important. If I’m right, we’ll have the bishop’s bird stump in time for the consecration.”

  “Then you’d better hurry,” Warder said dryly. “It’s in two hours.”

  “The consecration?” I said blankly. “That’s impossible,” and finally asked what should have been my first question on stepping out of the net. “What day is it?”

  Verity ran in, carrying an armful of facsimile sheets. She’d changed into a slat dress and plimsolls. Her legs were just as long as I’d imagined them. “Ned, the consecration’s in a few hours!”

  “I just found that out,” I said, trying to think what to do. I’d counted on having a couple of days to collect evidence to support my theory, but now there would scarcely be time to get to Coventry and back—

  “Can I help?” Verity said.

  “We need proof the incongruity’s been fixed,” I said. “I intended to send Carruthers—”

  “I can go,” Verity said.

  I shook my head. “There isn’t time. When does the consecration start?” I asked Warder.

  “Eleven o’clock,” she said.

  “And what time is it now?”

  “A quarter past nine.”

  I looked over at T.J. “How long till you have the sim?”

  “Another minute,” T.J. said, his fingers flying. “Got it.” He hit “return,” the columns of coordinates disappeare
d) and the model came up.

  I don’t know what I’d expected. The model that came up on the screen looked just like all the others—a shapeless, shadowy blur.

  “Well, will you look at that?” T.J. said softly. He hit some more keys. “This is the new focus,” he said, “and this is a superimpose of the Waterloo soup kettle sim.”

  He spoke into the comp’s ear. Both models came up, one over the other, and even I could see that they matched.

  “Do they match?” Warder said.

  “Yeah,” T.J. nodded slowly. “There are a few minor differences. The slippage at the site isn’t as great, and you can see it’s not an exact match here and here,” he said, pointing at nonexistent shapes. “And I don’t know what this is,” he pointed at nothing in particular, “but it definitely looks like a self-correction pattern. See how the slippage lessens as it approaches 1888, and then ceases altogether on—”

  “June eighteenth,” I said.

  T.J. typed in some figures. “June eighteenth. I’ll need to run slippage checks and probabilities, and find out what this is,” he said, tapping the nothing-in-particular, “but it definitely looks like that was the incongruity.”

  “What was?” Carruthers said. “And who caused it?”

  “That’s what I needed you to find out in Coventry,” I said, looking at my useless pocket watch. “But there’s no time.”

  “Of course there’s time,” Verity said. “This is a time travel lab. We can send Carruthers back to get the information.”

  “He can’t go back to 1940,” I said. “He’s already been there. And the last thing we need is to cause another incongruity.”

  “Not to 1940, Ned. To last week.”

  “He can’t be in two places at once,” I said and realized he wouldn’t be. Last week he’d been in 1940, not 2057. “Warder, how long will it take you to calculate a drop?” I said.

  “A drop! I’ve already got three rendez—”

  “I’ll press the surplices,” Verity said.

  “I need him to go back for—how long do you think it’ll take you? A day?”

  “Two,” Carruthers said.

  “For two days. Weekdays. The church archives aren’t open on weekends. And it has to be two days he was in 1940. And then bring him back here immediately.”

  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 yo
u 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.