What Moves the Dead (14)

“Anyway,” I said, giving Angus a hard look, “there’ll be a delivery from the butcher in a day or so.”

“From the butcher?” said Roderick, in a high, strangled voice.

I hunched my shoulders. Angus aimed a cuff at the back of my head. “Well an’ I taught kan, ye eat what ye shoot! Yer no nob to go huntin’ the little beasties for sport—begging pardon, Lord Usher—and leavin’ t’poor creature where it falls!”

“He made me field dress the cow,” I said to Roderick.

This was too much for my old friend. He let out a howl of laughter and fell back against the piano, clutching his chest and gasping. I folded my arms and failed to smother a smile.

“Angus…” said Roderick, when he finally stopped laughing. “Angus, you old devil, you haven’t changed by a hair. Field dressed the cow!” This set him off again.

“I,” I said, with as much dignity as I could muster, “am going to go wash the cow off my boots. And trousers. And the rest of me.” I stalked to the door, leaving Roderick collapsed over the piano. Angus followed me, uttering dark commentary on my field dressing of the cow, which, I wish to state for the record, was perfectly adequate.

“Phew,” I said, when we were safely out of earshot. “That went well.”

“Aye, the laugh’ll do him good. And a good piece of beef’ll do her ladyship good as well.” Angus’s accent had returned to its normal proportions. “Not a bad plan, youngster.”

“It was a bloody stupid plan,” I said, “but it did the job. I couldn’t very well just have a side of beef delivered to the house.”

“Pity you couldn’t have got a younger one,” said Angus, a bit sadly. “That cow they sold us will be tough as a boot.”

“We will chew that boot with a glad heart.”

“Oh aye, we will.”



* * *



I endured a great deal of ribbing at dinner from Roderick and Denton, which I tolerated because it made Madeline laugh. “Now this,” said Roderick, indicating the chicken on the table, “this is not a deer, Easton. I feel we must be clear on that.”

“Perfectly.”

“Nor am I a deer.”

“No, of course not.” I rolled my eyes at Madeline. “Deer are the ones that go moo.”

She giggled. It was still the papery giggle of an invalid, but it was genuine humor and I’d take it.

She retired early, before it was barely dark. I hoped that once the butcher actually delivered the sacrificial cow, she’d be able to eat enough meat to do her good. I also sought my bed early, pleading exhaustion from the cow incident.

Two hours later saw me still awake, though. I kept mulling over something that the cow’s owner had said to me earlier. I should have been able to dismiss it, but it stuck like an eyelash in the corner of my eye, minor but maddening.

We had finished the butchery—for all my complaints about field dressing, I’d had help, since cows are a great deal larger than deer—and the farmer’s younger sons were carting loads of meat to the butcher. The farmer and his oldest son, nearly identical to his father, stood beside me, watching.

“Young man,” said the cow’s previous owner, and stopped.

I didn’t bother to correct him. It’s less galling to be mistaken for a man than a woman, for some reason. Probably because no one tries to kiss your hand or bar you from the Royal Mycology Society. And I am familiar with this sort of fellow, who are the salt of the earth and move on a similar geological time frame. I waited.

“You’re not afraid of working,” said the farmer at last, nodding to the wreckage of the cow.

I smiled. “I may be staying up at the manor house, but I’m no noble. I don’t get to lie around eating peeled grapes.”

“Mmm.” He fixed me with a penetrating look. “Your man speaks well of you. Angus.”

This was gratifying, but I didn’t think the farmer had drawn me aside merely to pass on Angus’s praise. I waited some more.

“Said you talked about hunting hares.”

“I thought of it,” I admitted. “A cow wasn’t my first thought, and I’m grateful that you were willing to sell us one.” I had also been grateful that Angus had located this man, who, he said, was not prone to gossip and would make sure that word of my clandestine arrangement to buy beef for the Usher larder would not get back to Roderick’s ears.

He waved off my gratitude and lapsed back into silence. I gazed over the field, which was far healthier looking than the land around the manor house. I could hear insects singing in the grass, and a bird flitted among some low bushes at the edges.

“The hares around the lake aren’t canny.”

I tilted my head. “Angus said that he’d heard that. That they don’t act right.” I decided not to mention witch-hares, out of fear he’d think I was mocking him.

His son finally spoke up. “They’re not so bad around here,” he said. “But you go up toward the house and they get strange.”

“Strange?” I asked. “Strange how?”

“They don’t run,” said the son. “If they move, it’s slow. I walked right up to one once, and when it finally moved, it was like it didn’t know how its legs worked. Fell over a few times.”