“Ah, yes,” Professor Peddick said, peering at him through his pince-nez. “I’ve been intending to answer your letter. Fascinating species, the ryunkin.”

“Utterly amazing that your boat should capsize here, of all places,” the Colonel said. “What’s the likelihood of that happening? Astronomical.”

I looked over at Verity. She was watching them and biting her lip.

“You must come and see my Black Moor,” the Colonel said. “Excellent specimen. All the way from Kyoto. Baine, fetch a lantern!”

“Yes, sir,” Baine said.

“And a three-pound banded gudgeon,” the Colonel said, taking hold of Professor Peddick’s arm and leading him through the maze of furniture to the French doors. “Caught it only last week.”

“Mesiel!” Mrs. Mering snapped from the couch. “Where on earth do you think you’re going?”

“Out to the fishpond, my dear, to show Professor Peddick my goldfish.”

“At this time of night?” she said. “Nonsense! He’ll catch his death in those wet clothes.”

“Quite right,” Colonel Mering said, seeming to notice for the first time that the sleeve he was holding onto was sopping wet. “Must get you into dry things. Baine,” he said to the butler, who was just leaving, “bring Professor Peddick some dry clothes at once.”

“Yes, sir,” Baine said.

“Mr. Henry and Mr. St. Trewes will both need fresh clothes as well,” Verity said.

“Yes, miss.”

“And bring some brandy,” Colonel Mering said.

“And a fish,” Tossie said.

“I doubt if these gentlemen have time for a glass of brandy,” Mrs. Mering said, turning the thermostat down again. “It’s extremely late, and they will be wanting to return to their lodgings. I presume you are staying at one of the river inns, Mr. St. Trewes? The Swan?”

“Well, actually—” Terence began.

“Won’t hear of it. Nasty, common places. Appalling drains. Must stay here,” Colonel Mering said, putting up his hand to ward off objections. “Plenty of room for you and your friends. Must stay as long as you like. Excellent trolling deeps here. Baine, tell Jane to make up rooms for these gentlemen.”

Baine, who was trying to pour the brandy, fetch a lantern, and outfit half the people in the room, promptly said, “Yes, sir,” and started out of the room.

“And bring in their luggage,” Colonel Mering said.

“I’m afraid we haven’t any luggage,” Terence said. “When our boat capsized, we were lucky to make it to shore with our lives.”

“Lost a beautiful albino gudgeon,” Professor Peddick said. “Extraordinary dorsal fins.”

“Shall have to catch it again,” Colonel Mering said. “Baine, go see if you can salvage the boat and their belongings. Where’s that lantern?”

It was a wonder Baine wasn’t reading Marx, as downtrodden as he was. No, Marx was still writing it. In the Reading Room of the British Museum.

“I’ll fetch it, sir.”

“You will not,” Mrs. Mering said. “It’s far too late for fishpond excursions. I’m certain these gentlemen,” the temperature plummeted, “are tired after their adventure. Boating! In the middle of the night. It’s a wonder you weren’t all swept over a weir and drowned,” she said, looking as though she wished that that had happened. “I’m sure these gentlemen are exhausted.”

“Quite right,” the curate said, “so I will take my leave. Good night, Mrs. Mering.”

Mrs. Mering extended her hand. “O, Reverend, I am so sorry there were no manifestations tonight.”

“Next time I do not doubt we shall be more successful,” he said to Mrs. Mering, but he was looking at Tossie. “I shall look forward to our next excursion into the metaphysical. And of course to seeing you both day after tomorrow. I am certain it will be a brilliant success with you and your lovely daughter assisting.”

He leered at Tossie, and I wondered if this might be the mysterious Mr. C.

“We are delighted to assist in any way,” Mrs. Mering said.

“We are rather short of tablecloths,” the curate said.

“Baine, take a dozen tablecloths to the vicarage at once,” she said.

It was no wonder Baine had taken to pet-drowning in his spare time. Clearly justifiable homicide.

“I am delighted to have met all of you,” the curate said, still looking at Tossie. “And if you are all still here the day after tomorrow, I should like to extend an invitation to our—”

“I doubt the gentlemen will be staying that long,” Mrs. Mering said.

“Ah,” the curate said. “Well, then, good night.”

Baine handed him his hat, and he took his departure.

“You should have said good night to the Reverend Mr. Arbitage,” Mrs. Mering said to Tossie, and there went that theory.

“Professor Peddick, you must at least see my globe-eyed nacreous ryunkin tonight,” Colonel Mering said. “Baine, where’s the lantern? Excellent coloration—”

“Aiyyyy!” Mrs. Mering said.

“What?” Terence said, and everyone turned and looked at the French doors as if expecting another ghost, but there was nothing there.

“What is it?” Verity said, reaching for the smelling salts.

“That!” Mrs. Mering said, pointing dramatically at Cyril, who was warming himself at the fire. “Who let that dreadful creature in?”

Cyril stood up, looking offended.

“I… I did,” Terence said, hurrying over to grab Cyril by the collar.

“This is Cyril,” Verity said. “Mr. St. Trewes’s dog.”

It was unfortunate that it was at that moment that Cyril’s doggy nature asserted itself, or perhaps he was simply unnerved, as we all were, by Mrs. Mering. He shook himself all over, his jowls flapping wildly.

“O, dreadful dog!” Mrs. Mering cried, flinging up her hands even though he was half a room away. “Baine, take him outside at once!”

Baine started forward, and the thought crossed my mind that he might be some sort of serial pet murderer. “I’ll take him out,” I said.

“No, I will,” Terence said. “Come along, Cyril.”

Cyril looked at him disbelievingly.

“Terribly sorry,” Terence said, tugging on Cyril’s collar. “He was in the boat with us when it went over, and—”

“Baine, show Mr. St. Trewes the stable. Out!” Mrs. Mering said to Cyril, and he took off for the French doors like a shot, Terence right behind him.

“De naughty bad doggums is aww gone and dearum Juju don’t have to be afwaid no more,” Tossie said.

“O, this is all too much!” Mrs. Mering said, putting her hand dramatically to her forehead.

“Here,” Verity said, sticking the smelling salts under her nose. “I’ll be glad to show Mr. Henry to his room.

“Verity!” Mrs. Mering said in a voice that left no question of her being related to Lady Schrapnell. “That is quite unnecessary. The maid can show Mr. Henry to his room.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Verity said meekly and started across the room, catching her skirts up expertly so they didn’t brush against the claw-footed table legs or the scrollwork aspidistra stand. As she reached for the bellpull’s tassel, she murmured, “I am so glad to see you. I’ve been worried sick.”

“I—” I said.

“Take me up to my room, Tossie,” Mrs. Mering said. “I am feeling quite overcome. Verity, tell Baine I want a cup of chamomile tea. Mesiel, don’t bother Professor Peddick with your silly fish.”

Colleen appeared in the midst of her giving orders and was told to take me up to my room.

“Yes, ma’am,” she said, bobbed a curtsey and led me up the stairs, stopping at the bottom to light a lamp.

The decorating notion that “Less is more” had apparently not been invented yet. The walls next to the stairway and above it were solid with gilt-framed portraits of various Mering ancestors in gold lace, knee-breeches, and armor, and the corridor was lined with an umbrella stand, a bust of Darwin, a large fern, and a statue of Laocoön entangled with an enormous snake.

Colleen led me halfway down the corridor and stopped outside a painted door. She opened it, curtsied, and held it open for me. “Your bedroom, sir,” she said. Her Irish brogue made the “sir” sound like “sorr.”