“She was in the vestry a moment ago, sir.” He looked up at the sky. “Oh dear, it’s looking more and more like rain. And Lady Schrapnell wanted everything to be just as it was on the day of the raid.”

I carried the bishop’s bird stump up the steps and in the vestry door, and this was appropriate: carrying the bishop’s bird stump in through the same door Provost Howard had carried the candlesticks and the crucifix and the Regimental Colors out of. The treasures of Coventry.

I opened the door and took it into the vestry. “Where’s Lady Schrapnell?” I asked an historian I recognized from Jesus.

She shrugged and shook her head. “No,” she called to someone in the sanctuary. “We still need hymnals for the last five rows of pews in the north aisle. And three Books of Common Prayer.”

I went out into the choir. And chaos. People were running about, shouting orders, and there was a loud sound of hammering from the Mercers’ Chapel.

“Who took the Book of the Epistles?” a curate shouted from the lectern. “It was here just a moment ago.”

There was a chord from the organ, and the opening notes of “God Works in a Mysterious Way His Wonders to Perform.” A thin woman in a green apron was sticking long pink gladiolas in a brass vase in front of the pulpit, and a stout woman in glasses with a sheet of paper was going up to person after person, asking them something. Probably she was looking for Lady Schrapnell, too.

The organ stopped, and the organist shouted up to someone in the clerestory, “The trumpet stop’s not working.” Choirboys in linen surplices and red cassocks were wandering about. Warder must have got the surplices ironed, I thought irrelevantly.

“I don’t see what it matters whether the inside of the choir stalls is finished,” a blonde with a long nose was saying to a boy lying half under one of the choir stalls. “Nobody will be able to see it from the congregation.”

“ ‘Ours is not to reason why,’ ” the boy said. “ ‘Ours is but to do or die.’ Hand me that laser, will you?”

“Pardon me,” I said. “Can either of you tell me where Lady Schrapnell is?”

“The last time I saw her,” the boy said from under the choir stall, “she was in the Drapers’ Chapel.”

But she wasn’t in the Drapers’ Chapel, or the sanctuary, or up in the clerestory. I went down into the nave.

Carruthers was there, sitting in a pew folding orders of service.

“Have you seen Lady Schrapnell?” I said.

“She was just here,” he said disgustedly. “Which is how I got stuck doing this. She suddenly decided at the last minute that the orders of service had to be reprinted.” He looked up. “Good Lord, you found it! Where was it?”

“It’s a long story,” I said. “Which way did she go?”

“Vestry. Wait. Before you go, I want to ask you something. What do you think of Peggy?”

“Peggy?”

“Warder,” he said. “Don’t you think she’s the sweetest, most adorable creature you’ve ever seen?”

“Don’t you have the orders of service folded yet?” Warder said, coming up. “Lady Schrapnell wants them for the ushers.”

“Where is she?” I asked her.

“The Mercers’ Chapel,” Warder said, and I made my escape.

But Lady Schrapnell wasn’t in the Mercers’ Chapel or the baptistry, and there were signs of activity near the west door. I was going to have to return the bishop’s bird stump myself.

I carried it across to the Smiths’ Chapel, thinking, now the wrought-iron stand will have disappeared, but it was there, right where it was supposed to be, in front of the parclose screen. I set the bishop’s bird stump carefully on it.

Flowers. It needed flowers. I went back up to the pulpit and the woman in the green apron. “The vase in front of the parclose screen of the Smiths’ Chapel needs flowers in it,” I said. “Yellow chrysanthemums.”

“Yellow chrysanthemums!” she said, snatching up a handheld and looking at it in alarm. “Did Lady Schrapnell send you? The order didn’t say anything about yellow chrysanthemums.”

“It’s a last-minute addition,” I said. “You haven’t seen Lady Schrapnell, have you?”

“Girdlers’ Chapel,” she said, jamming gladiolas in the pulpit vase. “Chrysanthemums! Where am I supposed to get yellow chrysanthemums?”

I started down the transept aisle. It was jammed with choirboys and people in academic dress. “All right!” a young man the spitting image of the Reverend Mr. Arbitage said. “Here’s the order of procession. First, the censer, followed by the choir. Then the members of the history faculty, by college. Mr. Ransome, where is your robe? The instructions clearly said full academic regalia.”

I sidled back along one of the pews to the north aisle and started up the nave. And saw Mr. Dunworthy.

He was at the entrance to the Girdlers’ Chapel, standing against one of the arches and holding onto it for support. He was holding a sheet of paper, and as I watched, it fluttered from his hand onto the floor.

“What is it?” I said, hurrying up to him. “Are you all right?”

I put my arm round him. “Come here,” I said, leading him to the nearest pew. “Sit down.” I retrieved the piece of paper and sat down next to him. “What is it?”

He smiled a little wanly at me. “I was just looking at the children’s cross,” he said, pointing to where it hung in the Girdlers’ Chapel. “And realizing what it means. We were so busy trying to solve the incongruity and pull Carruthers out and work with Finch, it never hit me till now what we’ve discovered.”

He reached for the sheet of paper I had picked up. “I have been making a list,” he said.

I looked at the sheet of paper in my hand. “The library at Lisbon,” it read. “The Los Angeles Public Library. Carlyle’s The French Revolution. The library at Alexandria.”

I looked at him.

“All destroyed by fire,” he said. “A maid burnt the only copy of Carlyle’s The French Revolution by mistake.” He took the paper from me. “This is what I was able to think of in just a few minutes.”

He folded up the list. “St. Paul’s Cathedral was vaporized by a pinpoint bomb,” he said. “All of it. The painting of The Light of the World, Nelson’s tomb, the statue of John Donne. To think that they might—”

The curate came up. “Mr. Dunworthy,” he said. “You are supposed to be in line.”

“Have you seen Lady Schrapnell?” I asked the curate.

“She was in the Drapers’ Chapel a moment ago,” he said. “Mr. Dunworthy, are you ready?”

“Yes,” Mr. Dunworthy said. He took off his mortarboard, tucked the list inside, and put it back on again. “I am ready for anything.”

I headed up the nave to the Drapers’ Chapel. The transept aisle was full of milling dons, and Warder was in the choir, trying to line up the choirboys. “No, no, no!” she was shouting. “Don’t sit down! You’ll wrinkle your surplices. I’ve just ironed them. And line up. I don’t have all day!”

I edged past her and over to the Drapers’ Chapel. Verity was there, standing in front of the stained-glass window, her beautiful head bent over a sheet of paper.

“What’s that?” I asked, going over to her. “The order of service?”

“No,” she said. “It’s a letter. Remember how, after we found Maud’s letter, I suggested to the forensics expert that she see if any letters Tossie might have sent to other people existed?” She held it up. “She found one.”

“You’re joking,” I said. “And I suppose it’s got Baine’s name in it.”

“No, Tossie’s still calling him her ‘beloved husband.’ And she signs it ‘Toots.’ But there are some very interesting things in it,” she said, sitting down in one of the carved pews. “Listen to this: ‘My darling Terence-’ ”

“Terence?” I said. “What on earth’s she doing writing to Terence?”

“He wrote to her,” she said. “That letter’s lost. This is Tossie’s reply.”

“Terence wrote her?”

“Yes,” Verity said. “Listen: ‘My darling Terence, Words cannot properly express how happy your letter of the third made me.’ ‘Happy’ is underlined. ‘I had given up all hope of ever hearing of my precious Princess Arjumand in this world!!’ ‘World’—”