“There are no more trains to Oxford tonight,” Baine, the walking Bradshaw, said. “The first train tomorrow is the 7:14 from Henley.”

“I must be on it,” Professor Peddick said. “Pack my bags at once. Overforce! He does not want to give a eulogy. He wants to discredit my theory of history and advance his own. He’s after the Haviland Chair. Natural forces! Populations! The murderer!”

“Murderer?” Mrs. Mering shrieked, and I thought we were going to have to go over the entire living-or-dead thing again, but Professor Peddick didn’t give her so much as a chance to call for her smelling salts.

“Not that murder counts in his theory of history,” he said, clutching the telegram. “The murder of Marat, of the two Little Princes in the Tower, the murder of Darnley, none of them had any effect on the course of history, according to Overforce. Individual action is irrelevant to the course of history. Honor doesn’t matter in Overforce’s theory, nor does jealousy, nor foolishness, nor luck. None of them have any effect on events. Not Sir Thomas More, nor Richard the Lionhearted, nor Martin Luther.” And so on.

Mrs. Mering attempted to interrupt once or twice and then subsided against the settee. Colonel Mering took up his newpaper (not the Oxford Chronicle). Tossie, her chin propped on her hand, played idly with a large carnation penwiper. Terence stretched out his legs toward the fire. Princess Arjumand curled up in my lap and fell asleep.

Rain pattered against the window, the fire crackled, Cyril snored. Verity poked determinedly at her embroidery and kept glancing at the ormolu mantel clock, which appeared to have stopped.

“At the Battle of Hastings,” Professor Peddick said, “King Harold was killed by an arrow in the eye. A lucky shot that determined the outcome of the battle. How does Overforce’s theory of history account for luck?”

The front-door knocker banged, loudly, and Verity stabbed her finger with her embroidery needle. Terence sat up, blinking. Baine, adding logs to the fire, stood up and went to answer the door.

“Who can that be, at this hour?” Mrs. Mering said.

Please, I thought, let it be Mr. C.

“Natural forces! Populations!” Professor Peddick fumed. “How does the Siege of Khartoum fit into that theory?”

I could hear muffled voices in the vestibule, Baine’s and another man’s. I looked over at Verity, who was sucking her pricked finger, and then back at the parlor door.

Baine appeared in it. “The Reverend Mr. Arbitage,” he said, and the curate bustled in, rain dripping from his flat-brimmed hat.

“Absolutely unforgivable to visit so late, I know,” he said, handing his hat to Baine, “but I simply had to stop by and tell you how well the fête did. I was over at Lower Hedgebury at a meeting of the Slum Charities Committee and everyone was simply agog at our success. A success,” he simpered, “which I consider to be entirely due to your idea of having a jumble sale, Mrs. Mering. Reverend Chichester wants to institute one for his Mission for Unfortunate Girls Midsummer Bazaar.”

“Reverend Chichester?” I said, leaning forward.

“Yes,” he said eagerly. “He wanted to know if you would be willing to lend your expertise to the enterprise, Mrs. Mering. And Miss Mering and Miss Brown, of course.”

“Reverend Chichester,” I said. “I believe I’ve heard of him. Young, unmarried, dark mustache?”

“Reverend Chichester?” the Reverend Arbitage said. “Good heavens, no. Ninety, if he’s a day. Rather afflicted with palsy, I’m afraid, but still active in good works. And very interested in the Other Side.”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” Colonel Mering muttered from the depths of his newspaper. “He’s already got one foot over the line.”

“The Final Judgment may be but a step away for all of us,” the Reverend Arbitage said, pursing his lips. “ ‘Fear God, and give glory to him; for the hour of his judgment is come.’ Revelation chapter fourteen, verse seven.”

He truly was a toad. Prissy, self-righteous, humorless. The perfect mate for Tossie. And there didn’t seem to be any other takers.

“Arbitage,” I said. “Is that your full name?”

“I beg your pardon,” he said.

“So many people have multiple names these days,” I said. “Edward Burne — Jones, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Edward Bulwer — Lytton. I thought perhaps Arbitage was short for Arbitage-Culpepper or Arbitage-Chutney.”

“Arbitage is my full name,” he said, drawing himself up. “Eustace Hieronymous Arbitage.”

“And no pet names, I suppose, not for a man in your line of work,” I said. “In childhood, though? My sisters’ pet name for me was Curls, because of my baby locks. Did you have curly hair?”

“I believe,” the Reverend Mr. Arbitage said, “I was quite bald until the age of three.”

“Ah,” I said. “Chuckles, perhaps? Or Chubby?”

“Mr. Henry,” Mrs. Mering said, “Mr. Arbitage is trying to tell us the results of the fête.”

“Yes, well,” the Reverend Mr. Arbitage said, pulling a leather notebook from his pocket, “after expenses the receipts came to eighteen pounds, four shillings and eight pence, more than enough to paint over the wall murals and put in a new pulpit. We may even have enough to purchase an oil painting for the lady chapel. Perhaps a Holman-Hunt.

“What do you think the purpose of art is, Mr. Arbitage?” Tossie asked abruptly.

“To edify and instruct,” he said promptly. “All art should point a moral.”

“Like The Light of the World,” she said.

“Indeed,” he said. “ ‘For behold, I stand at the door and knock.…’ Revelation chapter three, verse twenty.” He turned to Mrs. Mering. “So may I tell the Reverend Mr. Chichester he can count on your assistance?”

“I’m afraid not,” Mrs. Mering said. “We are leaving for Torquay the day after tomorrow.”

Verity looked up, stricken, and the Colonel lowered his paper.

“My nerves,” Mrs. Mering said, looking hard at Professor Peddick. “So many unsettling things have happened in the last few days. I feel the need to consult with Dr. Fawleigh. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. He’s an expert in spiritism. Ectoplasm. And from there, we shall journey to Kent to meet Mr. St. Trewes’s parents and make arrangements for the wedding.”

“Ah,” Mr. Arbitage said. “But you will be back by August, I do hope. Our summer fête was such a success I’ve decided we should have a St. Bartholomew’s Day Fair, and we will of course want to have a fortuneteller. And a jumble sale. Mrs. Chattisbourne wanted to have a whist drive instead, but I told her the jumble sale was destined to become a tradition. And all thanks to you. I have already been collecting items for it. Miss Stiggins donated a boot rack, and my great-aunt is sending me an etching of The Battle of Naseby!”

“Ah, yes, Naseby!” Professor Peddick said. “Prince Rupert’s cavalry charge. A classic example of how one can be within a hairsbreadth of success, only to see it turn into defeat, and all because of not using forethought.”

There was some more discussion of the perils of acting without thinking, and then the Reverend Mr. Arbitage delivered a benediction and took his leave.

Tossie scarcely seemed to notice. “I am rather tired,” she said as soon as Baine had shown him out. She kissed her father and then her mother.

“You’re looking pale,” Mrs. Mering said. “The sea air will do you good.”

“Yes, Mama,” she said as though she were thinking of something else. “Good night,” and went upstairs.

“It is time we all retired,” Mrs. Mering said, standing up. “It has been a long—” she fixed Professor Peddick with a gimlet eye, “—and eventful day for all of us, and, Mesiel, you will need to be up early to accompany Professor Peddick on his journey.”

“Accompany Professor Peddick?” Colonel Mering said, stammering. “Can’t leave my red-spotted silver tancho.”

“I am certain you would wish to ensure that Professor Peddick does not drop from sight,” Mrs. Mering said firmly. “I am certain you would not wish to be responsible for leaving a second family uninformed and bereft.”