But this was Baine we were talking about, clearly the forerunner of Jeeves, and Jeeves had always known everything.

“2:08, madam,” he said. “It goes to Reading. Or there’s an express at 2:46 to Goring.”

“We shall take the 2:08,” Mrs. Mering said. “Goring is so common.”

“But what about Lady Godiva?” Verity said desperately. “She must have had a reason for wanting you to come to Coventry.”

“I am not at all convinced it was her spirit, particularly under the circumstances,” Mrs. Mering said. “I believe Madame Iritosky was right about there being mischievous spirits at work. Baine, tell the driver to take us to the station.”

“Wait!” I shouted, and jumped out of the carriage and squarely into a puddle. “I will be right back,” I said. “Stay there,” and took off along the tower wall.

“Where on earth is he going?” I heard Mrs. Mering say. “Baine, go and tell Mr. Henry to come back here immediately.”

I sprinted round the corner of the church, holding my coat collar together against the wet.

I remembered from the rubble and the reconstruction that there was a door on the south side of the cathedral and another on the north, and if necessary I’d bang on the vestry door till someone answered.

But it wasn’t necessary. The south door was open, and a workman was standing in it, under the porch just out of the rain, arguing with a young man in a clerical collar.

“You promised the clerestory would be completed by the twenty-second and here it is the fifteenth and you’ve not even begun the varnishing of the new pews,” the curate, who was pale and rather pop-eyed, though that might have been from the workman, was saying.

The workman looked as though he had heard all this before and would hear it again. “We carn’t start the varnishin, guv, till they’re done in the clerestory ‘cuz o’ the dust.”

“Well, then, complete the work in the clerestory.”

He shook his head. “Carn’t. Bill as wuz puttin’ the steel girders in the beams is ‘ome sick.”

“Well, when will he be back? The work must be completed by next Saturday. That’s the date of our church bazaar.”

The workman gave him the identical shrug I had seen an electrician give Lady Schrapnell three weeks ago, and it occurred to me it was a pity she wasn’t here. She’d have cuffed him smartly on the ear, and the work would have been done by Friday. Or Thursday.

“Cud be tomorra, cud be next month. Don’t see wot you need new pews for anyways. I liked the aud box pews.”

“You are not a member of the clergy,” the curate said, getting more pop-eyed, “or an expert on modern church architecture. Next month is not good enough. The renovations must be completed by the twenty-second.”

The workman spit on the damp porch and sauntered back into the church.

“Pardon me,” I said, running up to the curate before he could disappear, too. “I wondered if we might tour the church.”

“Oh, no!” the curate said, looking wildly round like a housewife surprised by unexpected guests. “We’re in the midst of major renovations to the clerestory and the bell tower. The church is officially closed until the thirty-first of July, at which time the vicar would be delighted to conduct you on a tour.”

“That’s too late,” I said. “And it’s the renovations we’ve come to see. The church at Muchings End is badly in need of them. The altar’s positively mediaeval.”

“Oh, but,” he said reluctantly, “the thing is, we’re trying to prepare for the church bazaar, and—”

“Church bazaar!” I said. “What a wonderful coincidence! Mrs. Mering has just put on a bazaar at Muchings End.”

“Mrs. Mering?” the curate said, looking back at the door as if he’d like to escape through it. “Oh, but the church is in no fit condition for ladies. You wouldn’t be able to see the choir or the altar. There’s sawdust everywhere, and workmen’s tools.”

“The ladies won’t mind,” I said, putting myself firmly between him and the door. “Sawdust is exactly what they’ve come to see.”

Baine came running up with an umbrella, which he handed to me. I handed it back. “Go and bring the carriage round,” I said to him. “Tell Mrs. Mering we can tour the church.”

Which just goes to show you that hanging round Lady Schrapnell and her ancestors can teach you a thing or two about getting things done.

“Hurry!” I said to Baine, and he sprinted off through the drizzle, which was rapidly turning into rain.

“I really do not think a tour at this time is advisable,” the curate said. “The workmen are installing a new choir railing, and I have an appointment to meet with Miss Sharpe regarding the fancywork table.”

“You’ll be having a jumble sale, of course,” I said.

“A jumble sale?” the curate said uncertainly.

“It’s the latest thing in bazaars. Ah, here they are.” I bounded down the steps as the carriage pulled up, snatched Verity’s hand, and pulled her out of the carriage. “What good luck! St. Michael’s is open after all, and the curate’s offered to give us a tour of the church. Quick,” I muttered under my breath. “Before he changes his mind.”

Verity tripped lightly up to the curate, smiled brightly at him, and peered in through the door. “Oh, do come look at this, Tossie,” she said, and ducked inside.

Terence helped Tossie out and into the church, and I assisted Mrs. Mering, holding the umbrella Baine handed me over her head.

“Oh, dear,” she said, looking anxiously at the clouds. “The weather looks very threatening. Perhaps we should start for home before the storm breaks.”

“Some of the workmen say they’ve seen a spirit,” I said rapidly. “One of them went home ill after the experience.”

“How wonderful!” Mrs. Mering said.

We came up even with the curate, who was standing in the doorway, wringing his hands. “I’m afraid you will be sadly disappointed in St. Michael’s, Mrs. Mering,” he said. “We are—”

“—preparing for the annual bazaar. Mrs. Mering, you must tell him about your dahlia penwipers,” I said shamelessly, maneuvering her around him and into the church. “So clever, and beautiful, besides.”

There was a crack of thunder so loud I was convinced I’d been struck by lightning for lying.

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Mering said.

“I’m afraid this is an inauspicious time for a tour of the church,” the curate said at the same time. “The vicar is away, and Miss Sharpe—”

I opened my mouth to say, “A brief tour, at least, since we’re here,” and didn’t have to. There was a second crack of thunder, and the skies opened up.

Mrs. Mering and the curate stepped back into the church, away from the splashing raindrops, and Baine, the ever-ready, stepped forward and shut the door. “It looks like we’ll be here awhile, madam,” he said, and I could hear Verity sigh with relief.

“Well,” the curate said, “as you’re here, this is the nave. As you can see, we are undertaking renovations.” He had not exaggerated about the sawdust or the mess. It looked nearly as bad as after the air raid. The chancel was blocked off with wooden hoardings. The pews were draped in dusty tarps. Stacks of lumber lay in front of the choir, from which there issued a loud banging.

“We are modernizing the church,” the curate said. “The decorations were hopelessly out-of-date. I had hoped to have the bell tower replaced with a modern carillon, but the Renovations Committee refused to consider it. Hopelessly hidebound. But I was able to persuade them to remove the galleries and many of the old tombs and monuments, which were cluttering up the chapels. Some of them dated all the way back to the Fourteenth Century.” He rolled his eyes. “Simply ruined the look of the church.”

He smiled a rather protruding smile at Tossie. “Would you care to see the nave, Miss Mering? We’ve put in all new electric lighting.”

Verity came up next to me. “Get his name,” she whispered.

“When our proposed plans are completed,” the curate said, “the church will be a fully modern church which will last hundreds of years.”