“When I was gone to fetch the fan,” she said, watching Tossie ahead of us with Terence, “did anyone come into the compartment, anyone at all?”

“Not a soul,” I said.

“And Tossie stayed there the whole time?”

“She went to get Baine, after her mother fainted,” I said.

“How long was she gone?”

“Only long enough to fetch Baine,” I said, and then at her crestfallen look, “She might have bumped into someone in the corridor. And we’re still not home. She might meet someone here. Or at the station at Muchings End.”

But the guard who handed her into our compartment was at least seventy, and there wasn’t a soul, departed or otherwise, on the rainy platform at Muchings End. Or at home. Except for Colonel Mering and Professor Peddick.

I should definitely have wired ahead.

“Had the most wonderful idea,” Colonel Mering said, coming happily out to greet us in the rain.

“Mesiel, where is your umbrella?” Mrs. Mering cut in before he could get any farther. “Where is your coat?”

“Don’t need ‘em,” the Colonel said. “Just been out to look at my new red-spotted silver tancho. Perfectly dry,” even though he looked fairly damp and his mustache had gone limp. “Couldn’t wait to tell you our idea. Absolutely splendid. Thought we’d come straight up to tell you, didn’t we, Professor? Greece!”

Mrs. Mering, being helped out of the carriage by Baine, who was holding an umbrella over her, looked warily at Professor Peddick, as if still not quite sure of his corporeality. “Grease?”

“Thermopylae,” the Colonel said happily. “Marathon, the Hellespont, the straits of Salamis. Laying out the battle today. Came to me. Only way to see the lay of the land. Envision the armies.”

There was an ominous peal of thunder, which he ignored. “Holiday for the whole family. Order Tossie’s trousseau in Paris. Visit Madame Iritosky. Got a telegram from her today saying she was going abroad. Pleasant tour.” He stopped and waited, smiling, for his wife’s response.

Mrs. Mering had apparently decided Professor Peddick was alive, at least for the moment. “Tell me, Professor Peddick,” she said in a voice that could have used several shawls, “before departing on this ‘tour,’ did you intend to inform your family of your plans? Or allow them to continue to wear mourning, as you have done thus far?”

“Mourning?” Professor Peddick said, pulling out his pince-nez.

“Beg pardon, my dear?” the Colonel said.

There was another extremely apt peal of thunder.

“Mesiel,” Mrs. Mering said, “you have been nursing a viper in your bosom.” She extended an accusing finger toward Professor Peddick. “This man has deceived those who befriended him, who took him in, but far, far worse, he has deceived his own loved ones.”

Professor Peddick took off his pince-nez and peered through them. “Viper?”

It occurred to me that we could stand here all night and Professor Peddick never get any closer to comprehending the calamity that had befallen him, and I wondered if I should attempt to intervene, particularly since the rain was starting up again.

I glanced at Verity, but she was looking hopefully up the empty drive.

“Professor Peddick,” I began, but Mrs. Mering was already thrusting the Oxford Chronicle at him.

“Read that,” she commanded.

“Feared drowned?” he said, putting on his pince-nez and then taking them off again.

“Didn’t you send your sister a telegram?” Terence asked. “Telling her you were going downriver with us?”

“Telegram?” he said vaguely, turning over the Chronicle as though the answer might be on the back.

“Those telegrams you sent at Abingdon,” I said. “I asked you if you’d sent your telegrams, and you said you had.”

“Telegrams,” he said. “Ah, yes, I remember now. I sent a telegram to Dr. Maroli, the author of a monograph on the signing of the Magna Carta. And one to Professor Edelswein in Vienna.”

“You were supposed to send one to your sister and your niece,” Terence said, “letting them know your whereabouts.”

“Oh, dear,” he said. “But Maudie’s a sensible girl. When I didn’t come home, she’d know I’d gone on an expedition. Not like most women, fretting and stewing and thinking you’ve been run over by a tram.”

“They didn’t think you’d been run over by a tram,” Mrs. Mering said grimly. “They thought you’d drowned. The funeral is tomorrow at ten o’clock.”

“Funeral?” he said, peering at the newspaper. “Services at ten o’clock. Christ Church Cathedral,” he read. “Why on earth would they have a funeral? I’m not dead.”

“So you say,” Mrs. Mering said suspiciously.

“You must send them a telegram immediately,” I said before she could ask to feel his arm.

“Yes, immediately,” Mrs. Mering said. “Baine, fetch writing materials.”

Baine bowed. “You would perhaps be more comfortable in the library,” he said, and mercifully got us indoors.

Baine brought a pen, ink, paper, and a penwiper shaped like a hedgehog, and then tea, scones, and buttered muffins on a silver tray. Professor Peddick composed a telegram to his sister and another to the dean of Christ Church, Terence was dispatched to the village to send them, and Verity and I took advantage of his departure to sneak into the breakfast room and plot our next move.

“Which is what?” Verity said. “There wasn’t anyone at the station. Or here. I asked the cook. Nobody’s come to the door all day. As soon as it stops raining, I think we should go through and tell Mr. Dunworthy we’ve failed.”

“The day’s not over yet,” I said. “There’s still dinner and the evening. You’ll see, Mr. C will burst in during the soup and announce they’ve been secretly engaged since Easter.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Verity said without conviction.

But nothing happened during dinner except Mrs. Mering’s repeating of her premonition, which had now taken on elaborate embellishments. “And as I stood there in the church, I seemed to see the spirit of Lady Godiva before me — clothed, of course — in a robe of Coventry blue, with her long hair hanging down, and as I stood there, transfixed, she held up her glowing white hand in warning and said, ‘Things Are Not What They Seem.’ ”

Nothing happened over cigars and port, either, except a full description of the merits of the Colonel’s new red-spotted silver tancho. I found myself hoping that when we rejoined the ladies, they’d be sitting round a shipwrecked sailor or a disinherited duke, listening eagerly to his tale of having got lost in the rainstorm, but when Colonel Mering pulled the folding doors open, Mrs. Mering was draped on the settee, apparently overcome again and breathing deeply into a scented handkerchief, Tossie was sitting at the writing table and writing in her diary, and Verity, on the slipper chair, was looking up eagerly, as if she expected the sailor to come in with us.

There was a knock on the front door, and Verity half-stood up, letting her embroidery fall, but it was only Terence, back from sending the telegrams.

“I thought it best to wait for an answer to the one to your sister,” he said, handing his wet coat and umbrella to Baine. He handed Professor Peddick two yellow envelopes.

The professor fumbled for his pince-nez, tore the telegrams open, and proceeded to read them aloud. “ ‘Uncle. Delighted to hear from you. Knew you were well. All love. Your niece.’ ”

“Dear Maudie,” he said. “I knew she wouldn’t lose her head. It shows what intelligent creatures women can be when properly educated.”

“Educated,” Tossie cut in. “Is she aesthetically educated?”

Professor Peddick nodded. “Art, rhetoric, the classics, mathematics.” He tore open the other envelope. “None of your silly music and needlework.” He read the second telegram out loud. “ ‘Horace. How could you? Mourning ordered. Flowers and pallbearers already arranged. Expect you on 9:32 train. Professor Overforce already engaged to give eulogy.’ Professor Overforce!” He stood up. “I must leave for Oxford at once. When is the next train?”