“Not exactly.”

“It always makes me think of The Wind in the Willows. I bet it’s good, though, and it makes you feel all safe and secure and cozy when you eat it. How about bubble and squeak, Bern? Any idea what that is?”

“Maybe it’s the sound the toad makes,” I suggested, “when you yank him out of the hole.”

“And sherry trifle,” she said. “That’s a dessert. I know that much.”

“It sounds like a frivolous girl,” I said. “‘Sherry Trifle-she’ll boost your blood sugar while she breaks your heart.’”

“Reminds me of a little cupcake I met a couple of weeks ago at Pandora’s.”

“Really?” I said. “It reminds me of Lettice.”

That was a conversation stopper, all right, and for the next hour or so neither of us said very much. We caught a cab to Grand Central and a train to Whitham Junction, where we’d transfer to a spur line leading north and east to Pattaskinnick, a hamlet nestled at the juncture of New York, Connecticut, and Massachusetts. There we could hire a taxi to carry us the last three or four miles to Cuttleford House.

On the way up to Whitham Junction we sat on the left-hand side of the train so that we could look out the window at the Hudson. Two of our three pieces of luggage rode in the rack overhead. The third rested on the floor between my feet, emitting an occasional meow.

“You’re going to love this, Raffles,” Carolyn assured him. “A genuine English country house just three hours from New York.”

“It may be a little more than three hours,” I said. “And it may be a little less than genuine.”

“It’ll be close enough, Bern. Raffles, there might even be some genuine English mice for you.”

“There’s a charming thought,” I said. “I hope they haven’t spent the past fifty years grazing on the library.”

“If it’s a real English country house,” she said, “they’ve got cats of their own.”

“I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to see Raffles.” I nudged his case with my foot. “I don’t see why we had to bring him. He was perfectly comfortable at the store.”