To Say Nothing of the Dog

“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 disappeared, 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, gri

“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 begi

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.”