It's a funny thing, when you think about it.
I mean, the way we happened to have a bootload of aluminium, and Hnaef's "Collated Horse Races of the 1850s" on us when we plunged backwards in time. Precisely the things we needed if we were to make a fortune in 1858. No reason why we needed either in our dash out of the country. Yet I loaded up the cans for environmental reasons, and Hnaef grabbed his book at the last minute for sentimental ones.
And it was odd, the way Cytherea Aldclyffe and her dad just wanted to sell Knapwater House and move out to the Old House - and even now need to refurbish the old place - exactly the week we turned up with all that money. And how that Aeneas Manston suddenly turned up, looking for the job of Estate Steward, within a week of us needing someone to run things for us, and was instantly recommended by Miss Aldclyffe though she'd never met him before. And how he turned out to be a handy fourth for bridge -, even though Contract's not even going to be invented this century. And how it turns out he's keen on Weak 2s, even though Hnaef swears they're the work of the devil, but I've always been a big fan.
It's almost as though there's an unseen hand that guides us. One that treats us as if we were mere literary characters. One that uses outrageous co-incidence as a plot mechanism to ensure the ultimate irony in the outcomes.
One whose heroes and heroines almost inevitably end up mad, blind, drowned or hanged.
An icy hand grips my heart.