“Ah,” I said, and purchased a bookmark embroidered, “Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moths corrupt and thieves break in and steal. Matthew 6:19.”

“No, no, no, Mr. Henry,” Mrs. Mering said, swooping down on me and my cross-stitched tea cloths like some colorful bird of prey, you’re not supposed to be here. I need you over here.”

She led me down the lawn past the knitted and crocheted goods stall and the fishing pond stall and the coconut shy and the tea tent to a spot at the end of the lawn where a plot of sand had been laid out inside a wooden frame. Baine was dividing the sand into foot-wide squares with the blade of a small shovel.

“This is our Treasure Hunt, Mr. Henry,” she said, handing me a stack of folded pasteboard squares. “These are for numbering the squares. Have you any shillings, Mr. Henry?”

I fished out my purse and tipped it into my cupped hand.

She scooped up all the coins. “Three shillings for the minor prizes,” she said, plucking out three silver coins and handing them back to me, “and the rest of this will do excellently for change at the woolen goods booth.”

She handed me back a single gold coin. “And you’ll need this,” she said, “for purchasing treasures at the jumble sale.”

Definitely related to Lady Schrapnell.

“I will let you choose which squares to bury the shillings and the Grand Prize in. Take care no one sees you, she said. “Avoid the corner squares and all the lucky numbers — Three and Seven and Thirteen — people always choose those first, and if someone finds the treasure early, we shan’t make any money for the restoration. Also, avoid the numbers under twelve. Children always choose their age. And Fourteen. Today’s the fourteenth of June, and people always choose the date. Make certain they only dig in one square. Baine, where is the Grand Prize?”

“Right here, madam,” Baine said, handing her a brown-paper-wrapped parcel.

“The price for digging is tuppence a square or three for fivepence,” she said, unveiling the parcel, “and here is our Grand Prize.”

She handed me a plate with a painting of Iffley Mill and the words “Happy Memories of the Thames” on it. It looked just like the one the mobcap in Abingdon had tried to sell me.

“Baine, where is the shovel?” Mrs. Mering said.

“Here, madam,” he said, and handed me a shovel and a rake. “For smoothing the sand down after you’ve hidden the treasure,” he explained.

“Baine, what time is it?” Mrs. Mering asked.

“Five minutes to ten, madam,” he said, and I thought she was going to swoon.

“O, we’re not nearly ready!” she cried. “Baine, go and explain the fishing pond stall to Professor Peddick and bring out my crystal ball. Mr. Henry, there’s no time to waste. You must bury the treasure immediately.”

I started for the sand.

“And not Twenty-eight. That was last year’s winning square. Or Sixteen. That’s the Queen’s Birthday.”

She swept off, and I set about hiding the treasure. Baine had laid out thirty squares. Eliminating Sixteen, Twenty-eight, Three, Seven, Thirteen, Fourteen, and One through Twelve, to say nothing of the corners, didn’t leave very many choices.

I took a sharp look round, in case there were any “Souvenir of the Thames” thieves lurking in the hedge, and stuck the three shillings in Twenty-nine, Twenty-three, and Twenty-six. No, that was a corner. Twenty-one. And then stood there, trying to decide what the least-likely looking square was and wondering if I had time to go through and report to Mr. Dunworthy before the fête started.

While I was debating, the bell from Muchings End Church began to toll, Mrs. Mering gave a screamlet, and the fête was declared officially open. I hastily buried the Grand Prize in Eighteen and began raking it over.

“Seven,” a child’s voice said behind me. I turned round. It was Eglantine Chattisbourne in a pink dress and a large bow. She was carrying the lettuce soup tureen.

“I’m not open yet,” I said, raking several other squares and then stooping to place the cardboard numbers in them.

“I want to dig in Number Seven,” Eglantine said, shoving fivepence at me. “I get three tries. I want seven for my first one. It’s my lucky number.”

I handed her the shovel, and she set down the lettuce and dug for several minutes.

“Do you want to try another square?” I asked her.

“I’m not finished yet,” she said, and dug some more.

She stood up and surveyed the squares. “It’s never in the corners,” she said thoughtfully, “and it can’t be Fourteen. It’s never the date. Twelve,” she said finally. “That’s how old I am on my birthday.”

She dug some more. “Are you certain you put the prizes in?” she said accusingly.

“Yes,” I said. “Three shillings and a Grand Prize.”

“You could say they were in there,” she said, “and truly you’d kept them for yourself.”

“They’re in there,” I said. “Which square do you want for your third try?”

“I don’t,” she said, handing me the shovel. “I want to think for a little.”

“As you wish, miss,” I said.

She held out her hand. “I want my tuppence back. For my third try.”

I wondered if she were somehow related to Lady Schrapnell. Perhaps Elliott Chattisbourne, despite appearances, was Mr. C after all.

“I haven’t any change,” I said.

She flounced off, I raked the squares flat again, and leaned against a tree, waiting for more customers.

None came. They were apparently all hitting the jumble sale first. Business was so slow for the first hour I could easily have sneaked off to the drop, except for Eglantine, who hovered nearby, plotting which square to use her last tuppence on.

And, as it developed when she had finally decided on Number Seventeen and dug to no avail, keeping her eye on me. “I think you move the prizes when no one’s looking,” she said, brandishing the toy shovel. “That’s why I’ve been watching you.”

“But if you’ve been watching me,” I said reasonably, “how could I have moved the prize?”

“I don’t know,” she said darkly, “but you must have. It’s the only explanation. It’s always in Seventeen.”

Now that she was out of money, I’d hoped she would move on, but she hung about, watching a little boy choose Six (his age) and his mother pick Fourteen (the date).

“Perhaps you never put the prizes in at all,” Eglantine said after they’d left, the little boy sobbing because he hadn’t found a prize. “Perhaps you only said you did.”

“Wouldn’t you like to have a nice pony ride?” I said. “Mr. St. Trewes is giving pony rides over there.”

“Pony rides are for infants,” she said disdainfully.

“Have you had your fortune told?” I persisted.

“Yes,” she said. “The fortuneteller said she saw a long journey in my future.”

The sooner the better, I thought.

“They have some lovely penwipers in the fancy goods stall,” I said shamelessly.

“I don’t want a penwiper,” she said. “I want a Grand Prize.”

She kept an eagle eye on me for another half hour, at which point Professor Peddick came over.

“Looks exactly like the plain at Runnymede,” he said, gesturing to include the lawn with its stalls and tea tent. “The lords, with their marquees and their banners spread out across the plain, waiting for King John and his party to arrive.”

“Speaking of Runnymede,” I said, “shouldn’t we be going on downriver and then back to Oxford to see your sister and your niece? No doubt they will be missing you.

“Pah!” he said. “There’s plenty of time. They’ll be staying all summer, and the Colonel’s ordered a red-spotted silver tancho that is to arrive tomorrow.”

“Terence and I could run you home tomorrow on the train, just to check on things at home, and then you could come back to see the red-spotted silver tancho.”

“Not necessary,” he said. “Maudie’s a capable girl. I’m certain she has things well in hand. And I doubt Terence would be willing to go, now that he’s engaged to Miss Mering.” He shook his head. “I can’t say I entirely approve of these hasty engagements,” he said. “What’s your opinion of them, Henry?”