What Moves the Dead (13)

“Fair enough. So there is fungus in water, then?”

“Oh yes. A great deal of it. Mostly we recognize it when it becomes parasitic upon something else. Fish, for example. There are many fungi that plague the keepers of aquaria, causing growths upon their fish. It is not my field, but I know of three or four. Mostly they cause scabrous patches, but I have seen fungus that grows like a puff of cotton on the fins of fish, or sprouting forth from their mouth or lungs.”

“How distressing,” I said.

“Certainly for the fish, I would imagine. Though I do not know if fish have the intelligence to be distressed. Perhaps they simply believe that the fungus is part of them, and their fins have become larger.”

I shook my head. “And is there fungus here, in the tarn?”

“Undoubtedly. You would likely require a microscope to observe it, however.”

“I don’t suppose you have one lying around, Miss Potter? In among your paints, perhaps?”

She smiled again, though fleetingly. “I fear they are beyond my means. I must content myself with a magnifying glass.” She tapped her parasol again, in much the manner one might a cane. “You must think me a bit mad to be so obsessed with the kingdom of fungi, but it is a fascinating world. And an important one. Our civilization is built on the back of yeasts.”

“I do not think you are mad at all,” I said, which was true. “I enjoy the passions of others vicariously. One of the most pleasant interludes I have ever spent was listening to the treatise an aging shepherd once delivered to me on the inferiority of other breeds of sheep, and this has a much more general appeal.”

“High praise.” She hid a chuckle behind one gloved hand. I wished I dared to imitate the “piss ’n shit in th’ flaps o’ they hides!” speech for her, but I had no wish to alienate the redoubtable Miss Potter. I looked across the lake instead, and saw a pale white shape emerge from a little door near the lake. Madeline? It must have been, unless one of the servants wore white.

The shape made its way slowly down to the water, not stopping until it was at the edge. I could not make out whether or not it was actually touching the lake. I felt an urge to leap on Hob and ride back at a gallop to stop her from touching the water. Surely wet feet could do no good in her condition.

Surely that water could do no one any good, regardless of their condition. But what could I do?

Anemia, Denton had said. The treatment for anemia, so far as I knew, was good red meat. There was precious little of that in the house of Usher.

I didn’t know how to fix catalepsy, but red meat I could manage. The only trick was how to get it into the larder.

I took my leave of Miss Potter, pausing to compliment her painting. She turned the compliment aside with a practiced air. “I’m well enough. You should see my niece Beatrix. Twice the talent, and an artist’s eye. And a very gratifying interest in mycology.”

I mounted my horse and rode back to the house, looking for Angus to put my plan into action.



* * *



“So we’ll say you shot it,” I said, as we approached the house that evening.

“Like hell we will,” said Angus. “I’d take a bullet for you, same I did your father, but damned if I’ll have you besmirching my shooting to a nob.”

“He’s not a nob, he’s Roderick. We all had the runs together over the same trench.”

“He’s Lord Usher now, and I don’t care how much shit we passed, I’ll not take the blame for this one.”

I drew breath to argue, but he added, “And I did the negotiatin’, did I not?”

I sighed. His accent was getting thicker and that was never a good sign. “Fine, fine. Come in with me and make it convincing.”

It had been a ridiculous plan, but straightforward enough. I walked into the parlor and found Roderick sitting alone at the piano, toying with the keys in a desultory fashion.

“Roderick,” I said, “I fear I’ve got a confession to make.”

He looked up, his pale eyebrows drawing together. “A confession? What do you mean?”

“Well. You know Angus and I went hunting this afternoon.”

He nodded. “After birds, yes.”

“Well…” I drew out the moment, took a deep breath, and said, “Roderick, I’ve shot a bloody cow.”

Roderick stared at me blankly.

“I told kan it weren’t never a deer,” said Angus, his accent even more pronounced than usual. “But does ka listen to me? Me, who taught kan to shoot at me very knee?”

“It was one of the little brown ones they have around here!” I said, exasperated. (I didn’t have to fake the exasperation. Angus was laying it on thick.) “They’re deer-colored and it wasn’t very big and it had its head down…”

“Those hip bones were never a deer! And did I not teach ye never to shoot afore ye had the shot absolutely clean? If you were a recruit, I’d box your ears for it. Better that than ye kill a man!”

“Regardless, I did not kill a man,” I said frostily. I turned back to Roderick. “I paid the cow’s owner twice what it was worth, but I’m terribly sorry if this makes trouble for you with your people. I genuinely thought it was a deer.”

Angus muttered something into his mustache. Roderick’s lips had begun to twitch and his shoulders shook.