This room was not quite so crowded as the parlor. It only had a bed, a washstand, a nightstand, a wooden chair, a chintz-covered chair, a bureau, a looking-glass, and an enormous wardrobe which covered one entire wall — a blessing since the wallpaper consisted of trellises up which crawled enormous blue morning glories.

The maid set the lamp on the nightstand and darted across the room to take the pitcher off the washstand. “I’ll just be bringin’ you your hot water, sorr,” she said, and ducked out.

I looked round the room. The Victorian interior decorating motto was apparently “No stone uncovered.” The bed was covered with a bedspread which was in turn covered with a white openwork crocheted thing, the dressing table and the bureau were topped with bouquets of dried flowers and white linen scarves edged with tatting, and the nightstand was draped with a paisley shawl over which lay a crocheted doily.

Even the toilet articles on the bureau had knitted covers. I took them out and examined them, hoping they weren’t as obscure as the kitchen utensils had been. No, those were brushes and that was a shaving brush and a mug with soap in it.

Twentieth Century has us use long-term depils on our drops, since shaving conditions are usually primitive, and I’d used one when I started my jumble sales, but it wouldn’t last the whole time I was here. Had the safety razor been invented in 1888?

I took the knitted case off an enameled box and opened it and got my answer. In it lay two ivory-handled straight-edge razors with lethal-looking blades.

There was a knock on the door. I opened it, and the maid came in, lugging the pitcher, which was nearly as large as she was. “Your hot water, sorr,” she said, setting the pitcher down and bobbing another curtsey. “If you’ll be needing anything else, just ring the bell there.”

She waved vaguely at a long ribbon embroidered with violets hanging above the bed, and it was a good thing I’d seen Tossie use a bellpull, or I would have taken it for part of the decorations.

“Thank you, Colleen,” I said.

She stopped in mid-bob, looking uncomfortable. “Begging your pardon, sorr,” she said, twisting the skirt of her apron in her hands, “it’s Jane.”

“Oh,” I said. “Sorry. I must have misunderstood. I thought your name was Colleen.”

She twisted some more. “No, sorr, it’s Jane, sorr.”

“Well, then, thank you, Jane,” I said.

She looked relieved. “Good night, sorr,” she said, bobbed her way out, and shut the door.

I stood there, looking at the bed almost in awe, scarcely able to believe I was actually going to get what I had come to the Victorian era for — a good night’s sleep. It seemed almost too good to be true. A soft bed, warm covers, blissful unconsciousness. No rocks, no missing cats to search for, no rain. No jumble sales, no bishop’s bird stump, no Lady Schrapnell.

I sat down on the bed. It sank in beneath me, smelling faintly of lavender, and entropy took over. I was suddenly too tired even to get undressed. I wondered how outraged Colleen — no, Jane — would be to come in and find me fully dressed in the morning.

I was still worried about incongruities and what I was going to tell Verity, but they would have to wait. And in the morning I would be rested, rejuvenated, finally cured of time-lag and able to reason out how to deal with the problem. If there was still a problem. Perhaps Princess Arjumand, safely back in the ruffled bosom of her owner, would restore balance and the incongruity would begin to heal itself. And if it didn’t, why, after a good night’s sleep I’d be able to think, able to reason out a plan of action.

The thought of that gave me the strength to spare the maid’s sensibilities. I took off my soggy coat, hung it over the bedpost, and sat down on the bed and began pulling off my boots.

I made it as far as one boot and half a saturated sock before there was a knock.

It’s the maid, I thought hopefully, bringing me a hot water bottle or a penwiper or something, and if her sensibilities are offended by a stockinged foot, so be it. I’m not putting my boot back on.

It wasn’t the maid. It was Baine. He was carrying the carpetbag. “I have been down to the river, sir,” he said, “and I regret that I was only able to save one of your baskets, your portmanteau, and this carpetbag, which was, unfortunately, empty and damaged.” He indicated one of the slits I’d cut for Princess Arjumand. “It must have been caught in a weir before it washed onto the shore. I’ll repair it for you, sir.”

I didn’t want him examining it closely and finding telltale cat hairs. “No, that’s all right,” I said, reaching for it.

“I assure you, sir,” he said, “it can be sewn so that it’s as good as new.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll take care of it.”

“As you wish, sir,” he said.

He crossed to the window and pulled the curtains shut. “We are still looking for the boat,” he said. “I have notified the lock-keeper at Pangbourne Lock.”

“Thank you,” I said, impressed at his efficiency, and wishing he would go away so I could go to bed.

“Your clothes from the portmanteau are being washed and ironed for you, sir. I also retrieved your boater.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Very good, sir,” he said and I thought he was about to leave, but instead he just stood there.

I wondered if there was something I was supposed to say to dismiss him and what it was. One didn’t tip butlers, did one? I tried to remember what the subliminals had said. “That will be all, Baine,” I said finally.

“Yes, sir.” He bowed slightly and started out, but at the door he hesitated again, as if there were something else.

“Good night,” I said, hoping that was it.

“Good night, sir,” he said and went out.

I sat down on the bed. This time I didn’t even get the boot off before there was a knock.

It was Terence. “Thank goodness you’re still up, Ned,” he said. “You’ve got to help me. We’ve got a crisis on our hands.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

The crisis was Cyril. “A stable! He’s never slept outside, you know,” Terence said, apparently forgetting about the night before.

“Poor Cyril!” he said, looking desperate. “Cast into outer darkness! With horses!” He paced the length of the room. “It’s barbaric, expecting him to sleep outside after he’s been in the river. And in his condition!”

“His condition?” I said.

“Cyril has a weak chest,” he said. “A tendency to catarrh.” He stopped pacing to peer out between the curtains. “He’s probably already caught a cough. We’ve got to get him inside.” He let the curtains drop. “I want you to sneak him up to your room.”

“Me?” I said. “Why can’t you sneak him up to your room?”

“Mrs. Mering will be watching out for me. I heard her tell the butler he was to see to it that the animal slept outside. Animal!”

“Then how can I get him in?”

“The butler will be watching me, not you. You should have seen the look on his face when I told him he had to stay. Absolutely betrayed. ‘Et tu, Brute.’ ”

“All right,” I said. “But I still don’t see how I’m supposed to get past Baine.”

“I’ll go and ring for a cup of cocoa. That’ll keep him out of your way. You’re an absolute brick to do this. ‘Best friend, my wellspring in the wilderness!’ ”