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 you 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.

“To meet Princess Victoria,” the large woman carrying a Union Jack on the step behind me said. “She’s travelling up from Reading.”

Verity had reached the bottom of the escalator. “Coventry!” I called to her, pointing over the heads of the crowd toward the Warwickshire Line.

“I know,” Verity shouted back, already headed down the corridor.

The corridor was jammed, and so was the platform. Verity pushed her way over to me. “You’re not the only one who’s good at solving mysteries, Sherlock,” she said. “I’ve even figured out what Finch is up to.”

“What?” I said, but a train was pulling in. The crowd surged forward, pushing us apart.

I fought my way over to her again. “Where are all these people going? Princess Victoria’s not in Coventry.”

“They’re going to the protest,” a boy in braids said. “Coventry’s holding a rally to protest the disgraceful theft of their cathedral by Oxford.”

“Really?” Verity said sweetly. “Where’s it being held? In the shopping center?” and I could have kissed her.

“You realize,” she said, pushing a hand-painted sign that read, “Architects Against Coventry Cathedral” out of her face, “that there’s probably a time-traveller from a hundred years in the future in this crowd who thinks this is all unbelievably quaint and charming.”

“That’s impossible,” I said. “What is Finch up to?”

“He’s been—” she started, but the doors were opening and people were jamming onto the train.

We got separated again in the process, and I found myself half a car away from her, shoved into a seat between an old man and his middle-aged son.

“But why rebuild Coventry Cathedral, of all things?” the son was complaining. “If they had to rebuild something that had been destroyed, why not the Bank of England? That would have been of some use at least. What good’s a cathedral?”

“ ‘God works in a mysterious way,’ ” I quoted, “ ‘His wonders to perform.’ ”

Both of them glared at me.

“James Thomson,” I said. “The Seasons.”

They glared some more.

“Victorian poet,” I said, and subsided between them, thinking about the continuum and its mysterious ways. It had needed to correct an incongruity, and it had done so, putting into action its entire array of secondary defenses, and shutting down the net, shifting destinations, manipulating the slippage so that I would keep Terence from meeting Maud, and Verity would arrive at the exact moment Baine threw the cat in. To save the cat that killed the rat that ate the malt that lay in the house that Jack built.

“Coventry,” the station sign read, and I fought my way out from between the bankers and off the train, motioning to Verity to get off, too. She did, and we fought our way up the escalators and out into Broadgate in front of the statue of Lady Godiva. It looked even more like rain. The protesters were putting their umbrellas up as they started for the shopping center.

“Should we ring her up first?” Verity said.

“No.”

“You’re sure she’ll be at home?”

“I’m sure,” I said, not at all certain.

But she was, though it took her a little time to open the door.

“Sorry, I’m having a bout of bronchitis,” Mrs. Bittner said hoarsely, and then saw who we were. “Oh,” she said.

She stood back so we could enter. “Come in. I’ve been expecting you.” She held out her veined hand to Verity. “You must be Miss Kindle. I understand you are a fan of mystery novels, too.”

“Only those of the Thirties,” Verity said apologetically.

Mrs. Bittner nodded. “They are quite the best.” She turned to me. “I read a great many mystery novels. I am particularly fond of those in which the criminal nearly gets away with the crime.”

“Mrs. Bittner,” I said, and didn’t know how to go on. I looked helplessly at Verity.

“You’ve puzzled it out, haven’t you?” Mrs. Bittner said. “I was afraid you would. James told me you were his two best pupils.” She smiled. “Shall we go into the drawing room?”

“I… I’m afraid we haven’t much time…” I stammered.

“Nonsense,” she said, starting down the corridor. “The criminal is always given a chapter in which to confess his sins.”

She led us into the room where I’d interviewed her. “Won’t you sit down?” she said, indicating a chintz-covered sofa. “The famed detective always gathers the suspects together in the drawing room,” she said, moving slowly toward a sideboard considerably smaller than the Merings’, steadying herself on the furniture, “and the criminal always offers them a drink. Would you care for some sherry, Miss Kindle? Would you care for some sherry, Mr. Henry? Or sirop de cassis? That’s what Hercule Poirot always drank. Dreadful stuff. I tried it once when I’d been reading Agatha Christie’s Murder in Three Acts. Tastes like cough medicine.”