The net shimmered, and I straightened my boater and tie and strode happily back to the fête. It was still overcast, so I couldn’t see the sun to tell what time it was, and my watch was useless, but the crowd seemed a bit thinner. It must be at least half-past three. I went over to the jumble sale stall to report to Verity that I had nothing to report.

She wasn’t there. The stall was being tended by Rose and Iris Chattisbourne, who tried to sell me a silver sugar hammer.

“She’s in the tea tent,” they said, but she wasn’t there either.

Cyril was, hoping against hope someone would drop a sandwich, and giving the impression that he’d been there all day. I bought him a currant bun and myself a rock cake and a cup of tea and took them back over to the Treasure Hunt.

“You weren’t gone very long,” Terence said. “I told you to take as long as you liked.”

“What time is it?” I said with a sinking feeling. “My watch— stopped.”

“ ‘It was the very best butter,’ ” Terence quoted. “It’s five past twelve. I don’t suppose you’d like to take the Pony Ride for a bit?” he said hopefully.

“No,” I said.

He wandered morosely off toward the drive, and I sipped my tea and ate my rock cake and thought about the unfairness of Fate.

It was a very long afternoon. Eglantine, who had cadged another fivepence from one of her sisters, spent most of the afternoon squatting next to the sand, plotting her strategy.

“I don’t think any of the squares has the Grand Prize in it,” she said, after she’d squandered tuppence on Number Two.

“It does,” I said. “I put it in there myself, whether you believe me or not.”

“I do believe you,” she said. “The Reverend Mr. Arbitage saw you do it. But someone might have stolen up and taken it when nobody was here.”

“Someone’s been here the entire time.”

“They might have sneaked in and out the back way,” she said. “While we were talking.”

She went back to squatting, and I went back to my rock cake, which was even harder than the rock cake I’d had at the Prayers for the RAF Service and Baked Goods Sale, and thought about the bishop’s bird stump.

Had someone sneaked it out the back way when nobody was looking? I had said no one would want it, but look at the things people bought at jumble sales. Perhaps a looter had taken it out of the rubble, after all. Or perhaps Verity was right, and it had been taken out of the cathedral sometime before the raid. Either it had been in the cathedral during the raid, or it hadn’t, I thought, looking at the squares of sand. Those were the only two possibilities. And either way it had to be somewhere. But where? In Number Eighteen? Number Twenty-five?

At half-past one the curate came to spell me so I could “have a proper luncheon” and “have a look at the fête.” The “proper luncheon” consisted of a fish paste sandwich (which I gave half of to Cyril) and another cup of tea, after which I made the rounds of the stalls. I won a red glass ring at the fishing pond, bought a quilted tea cozy, a pomander made from an orange stuck full of cloves, a china crocodile, and a jar of calves’ foot jelly, told Verity I hadn’t got the date or Mr. C’s name, and went back to the Treasure Hunt. When Eglantine wasn’t looking, I buried the crocodile in Number Nine.

The afternoon wore on. People chose Four, Sixteen, Twenty-one, and Twenty-Nine, and actually found two of the shillings. Eglantine spent the rest of her fivepence to no avail and stomped off in a huff. At one point, Baine came up with Princess Arjumand and dumped her in my arms.

“Could you possibly watch her for a bit, Mr. Henry?” he said. “Mrs. Mering wishes me to run the coconut shy, and I fear Princess Arjumand cannot be left alone even for a moment,” he said, looking hard at her.

“The globe-eyed nacreous ryunkin again?” I said.

“Yes, sir.”

A large box full of sand didn’t seem like a terribly good place for her either. “Why can’t you spend the entire day sleeping on the fancy goods display like that calico cat at the Nativity of the Virgin Mary jumble sale?” I said.

“More,” she said, and rubbed her nose against my hand.

I petted her, thinking what a pity it was that she hadn’t drowned and achieved nonsignificance, so that the net would have slammed shut when I tried to return her, and I could have kept her.

Of course, I couldn’t really have kept her. Some billionaire would have snapped her up, and one cat couldn’t replace an entire extinct species, even with cloning. But still, I thought, scratching her behind the ears, she was a very nice cat. Except, of course, for the nacreous ryunkin. And Professor Peddick’s double-gilled blue chub.

Finch came hurrying up. He looked hastily round and then leaned forward and said, “I have a message for you from Mr. Dunworthy. He said to tell you he spoke to the forensics expert, and she’s deciphered the date of the trip to Coventry. He said—”

“Mama says you’re to let me have three more tries,” Eglantine said, appearing out of nowhere, “and she will give you fivepence when the fête closes.”

Finch looked nervously at Eglantine. “Is there somewhere we could speak privately, sir?” he said.

“Eglantine,” I said. “How would you like to run the Treasure Hunt for a few minutes?”

She shook her head virtuously. “I wish to dig. The person in charge isn’t allowed to win prizes. I wish Number Two.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “This gentleman was ahead of you. Mr. Finch, what square would you like?”

“Square?” Finch said.

“A square to dig in,” I said, indicating the sandbox. “As there are thirty squares, most people choose a date. If it’s one of those listed here,” I added, remembering the date might be the thirty-first. “Did you have a specific date in mind, Mr. Finch?”

“Oh,” Finch said, the light dawning. “The date. I would like square Number—”

“He hasn’t paid,” Eglantine said. “You must pay tuppence first to dig.” Finch fished in his pockets. “I’m afraid I haven’t any—”

“Butlers get a free try,” I said. “What number—?”

“That isn’t fair,” Eglantine wailed. “Why should butlers get a free try?”

“It’s a church fête rule,” I said.

“You didn’t give Mrs. Mering’s butler a free try,” she said.

“He took his on the coconut shy,” I said, handing Finch the shovel. “The date, Mr. Finch?”

“Fifteen, please, Mr. Henry,” he said quickly.

“Fifteen?” I said. “Are you certain?”

“You can’t choose Fifteen,” Eglantine said. “It’s already been chosen. And so have Sixteen and Seventeen. You can’t choose a number which has already been chosen. It’s against the rules.”

“Fifteen,” Finch said firmly.

“But that’s impossible,” I said. “The fifteenth is tomorrow.”

“And you can’t buy Six or Twenty-two,” Eglantine said, “because I’m going to buy them.”

“Was she absolutely certain?” I said.

“Yes, sir,” Finch said.

“What about the month? Could it have been July? Or August?” even though I knew it wasn’t. Verity had told me that day at Iffley the trip to Coventry had been in June.

“I would pick one of the corners,” Eglantine said. “Thirty or One.”

“And you’re certain it’s the fifteenth? Tomorrow?”

“Yes, sir,” Finch said. “Mr. Dunworthy sent me through immediately to tell you.”

“I’ve got to tell Verity,” I said. “Finch, shut up shop.”

“You can’t,” Eglantine wailed. “I get three more chances.”

“Let her dig in three more squares and then close down,” I said and took off for the jumble sale stall before either of them could protest, skirting round the back way so I wouldn’t be waylaid by Mrs. Mering or the Chattisbourne girls.

Verity was selling the stringless banjo to a young man in a derby and a handlebar mustache. I picked up an unidentifiable utensil with a large serrated wheel and two sets of curved blades and pretended to know what it was till the young man left.