To Say Nothing of the Dog

He caught sight of me. “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded, limping over. “You’re supposed to be in Infirmary.”

“I’m going to 1888,” I said.

“I told that nurse she wasn’t to tell Lady Schrapnell you were back,” he said disgustedly. “Why’s she sending you to the Nineteenth Century? Is this about the great-grandmother?”

“Great-great-great-great,” I said. “No. The doctor prescribed two weeks’ uninterrupted bed rest, and Mr. Dunworthy’s sending me there for it.”

“He can’t,” Carruthers said. “You can’t. You’ve got to go back to Coventry and look for the bishop’s bird stump.”

“I was looking for it,” I said, “and you pulled me out. Remember?”

“I had to. You were a raving lunatic. Going on about dogs, man’s noblest ally in war and peace, his truest friend through thick and thin. Pah! Look at that!” He held up the long strip of torn coverall. “Man’s truest friend did that!” He showed me his stockinged foot. “Man’s noblest ally nearly took my foot off! How soon can you be ready to go?”

“The nurse said no drops for two weeks. Why did you send me to Infirmary if you wanted me to go back?”

“I thought they’d give you an injection or a pill or something,” he said, “not forbid you to do drops. Now how are we supposed to find the bishop’s bird stump?”

“You didn’t find it after I left?”

“I can’t even find the cathedral. I’ve been trying all afternoon, and the marrows field was the closest I got. The bloody slippage—”

“Slippage?” Mr. Dunworthy said alertly. He came over to where we were standing. “Has there been more slippage than usual?”

“I told you,” I said, “the marrows field.”

“What marrows field?”

“The one halfway to Birmingham. With the dogs.”

“I’m having trouble getting back to Coventry Cathedral on the fifteenth, sir,” Carruthers explained. “I’ve tried four times today, and the closest I can get is the eighth of December. Ned’s got the closest of anyone so far, which is why I need him to go back and finish searching the rubble for the bishop’s bird stump.”

Mr. Dunworthy looked puzzled. “Wouldn’t it be simpler to look for the bishop’s bird stump before the raid, on the fourteenth?”

“That’s what we’ve been trying to do for the past two weeks,” Carruthers said. “Lady Schrapnell wanted to know if it was in the cathedral at the time of the raid, so we arranged a jump to the cathedral at a quarter till eight, just before the start of the raid. But we can’t get near the place. Either the date’s off, or if we do come through at the target time, we’re sixty miles away in the middle of a marrows field.” He indicated his muddy uniform.

“We?” Mr. Dunworthy said, frowning. “How many historians have tried?”

“Six. No, seven,” Carruthers said. “Everyone who wasn’t off doing something else.”

“Carruthers said they’d tried everybody,” I put in, “and that was why they’d pulled me off jumble sales.”

“What about the jumble sales?”

“They’re a sale where they sell things they want to get rid of, things they bought at the last jumble sale, most of it, and things they’ve made to sell. Tea caddies and embroidered needle cases and penwipers and—”

“I know what a jumble sale is,” Mr. Dunworthy said. “Was there any slippage on those jumps?”

I shook my head. “Just the usual. Mostly spatial, so no one would see me come through. Behind the rectory or back of the tea tent.”

He turned abruptly to Carruthers. “How much were the Coventry drops off by, the ones in which you came through in Coventry?”

“It varies,” he said. “Paulson came through on the twenty-eighth of November.” He stopped and calculated. “The average is about twenty-four hours, I’d say. The closest we’ve been able to get to the target is the afternoon of the fifteenth, and now I can’t even get there. Which is why Ned needs to go. The new recruit’s still there, and I doubt if he even knows how to get back on his own. And who knows what trouble he’s likely to get into.”

“Trouble,” Mr. Dunworthy murmured. He turned to the tech. “Has there been increased slippage on all the drops, or just the ones to Coventry?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m a wardrobe tech. I’m only filling in for Badri. He’s the net tech.”

“Badri, yes,” he said, brightening. “Good. Badri. Where is he?”

“With Lady Schrapnell, sir,” Finch said. “And I’m afraid they may be on their way back by now,” but Mr. Dunworthy didn’t seem to hear him.

“While you’ve been filling in,” he said to Warder, “have you run any jumps that weren’t to the cathedral on November 14th, 1940?”

“One,” she said. “To London.”

“How much slippage was there?” he persisted.

She looked like she was going to say, “I don’t have time for this,” and then apparently thought better of it and began pounding keys. “Locational, no slippage. Temporal, eight minutes.”

“So it is Coventry,” he said to himself. “Eight minutes which way? Early or late?”

“Early.”

He turned back to Carruthers. “Did you try sending someone to Coventry earlier and having them stay till the raid?”

“Yes, sir,” Carruthers said. “They still ended up after the target time.”

Mr. Dunworthy took off his spectacles, examined them, and put them back on. “Does the amount of slippage seem to be random or is it getting progressively worse?”

“Worse,” he said.

“Finch, go ask Kindle if she noticed any coincidences or discrepancies while she was at Muchings End. Ned, you stay here. I’ve got to talk to Lewis.” Mr. Dunworthy went out.

“What was that all about?” Carruthers said, looking after him.

“Lady Windermere’s fan,” I said, and sat down.

“Stand up,” the seraphim said. “The drop’s ready. Get in place.”

“Shouldn’t we wait for Mr. Dunworthy?” I asked.

“I have nineteen drops scheduled, not to mention another priority jump for Mr. Dunworthy, and—”

“All right, all right,” I said. I gathered up the satchel, portmanteau, Gladstone, and wicker basket, and went over to the net. The veils were still only a foot and a half from the floor. I set down one armful on the floor, lifted the veil, ducked under, and began pulling the bags in after me.

“The Victorian era was a time of rapid technological and scientific change,” the headrig said. “The invention of the telegraph, gas lighting, and Darwin’s theory of evolution were significantly altering the fabric of society.”

“Pick up your luggage and stand on the X,” she said.

“Travel in particular was changing rapidly. The invention of the steam locomotive, and, in 1863, the first underground railway, made it possible for Victorians to go faster and farther than ever before.”

“Ready?” she said, her hand poised over the keyboard.

“I think so,” I said, checking to make sure everything was inside the veils. One corner of the covered wicker basket was sticking out. “Wait,” I said, and scraped it inside with my foot.

“I said, ready now?” she said.

“Easy and affordable travel had the effect of broadening the Victorians’ horizons and breaking down the rigid barriers of class which—”

The seraphim flung the veils up, yanked the headrig out of my ear, and went back to the console.

“Ready now?” she said.

“Yes.”

The seraphim began tapping keys.

“Wait!” I said. “I don’t know where it is I’m going.”

“June seventh, 1888,” she said, and resumed tapping.

“I mean, after that,” I said, trying to find an opening in the veils. “I didn’t hear all of Mr. Dunworthy’s instructions. Because of the time-lag.” I pointed at my ear. “Difficulty in Distinguishing Sounds.”

“Difficulty in evidencing intelligence,” she said. “I don’t have time for this,” and flounced out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

“Where’s Mr. Dunworthy?” I heard her say in the corridor, probably to Finch.

Mr. Dunworthy had said something about Muchings End, and about a boat, or was that the headrig? “It’s a perfectly straightforward job,” he’d said.