What Moves the Dead (31)


“Definitely hyphae,” said Miss Potter, setting down her magnifying glass. “I would require a stronger glass to state for certain whether it is septate or nonseptate, and I cannot swear that these are not the pseudohyphae found in yeasts. Nevertheless, they are not human hairs, nor fabric threads.”

“What if I told you those were growing out of human skin?”

Miss Potter made a well-bred motion of her chin that, in another person, would have been a vast shrug. “Saprophytic fungi—ah, that is to say, those that feed upon decaying organic matter—are exceedingly common. Unsightly, perhaps, but they pose no threat to living creatures.”

“Madeline was alive at the time,” I said, holding her gaze, “and there were so many of them on her skin that I thought her body hair had turned white.”

The English, in my experience, make an enormous deal about the most minor inconveniences, but if you confront them with something world-shattering, they do not blink. Miss Potter did blink, but only once, and then she looked down at her magnifying glass and said, “I see.”

“Could that be what sickened her?” I asked.

“If the fungus was so widespread that it was sending filaments through her skin … yes. Certainly.” The stiffness of her upper lip was magnificent to behold. “But what has become of her body?”

The dead don’t walk. Most likely Roderick moved the body, to further conceal his crime. And Denton must know that something is wrong with Roderick, and helped him cover it up, but he doesn’t know the cause. If he knows what it is, perhaps he can treat it. “I don’t know. But I must tell Denton.”

“Indeed,” she said. “You must tell everyone. If this is a fungus that can spread on a living host, it must be stopped immediately.” She reached into her bag and took out a small silver flask, which she dumped over her hands. I could smell the sting of alcohol from where I stood. “Give me your hands, Lieutenant. You touched the shroud.”

“I touched Madeline,” I said grimly. “Several times. The hyphae tore away in my hands.”

Her eyes lifted to mine. “Then we shall hope that this is effective even after the fact.”

I listened to the dripping of spirits on the crypt floor as she sloshed whiskey over my fingers, then rubbed my hands together. Were the hares also infected? How could I tell? What were a few more white threads in a hare’s pelt?

The fish. Like slimy felt, Angus had said. Did the fungus originate in the tarn after all? Had it jumped from fish to hare, perhaps when the hares came down to drink?

Had Angus touched it himself?

And where the hell was Madeline’s body?



* * *



“Denton,” I cried, bursting into the study. “Madeline’s gone!”

He stared at me for a long moment, then his face softened and he reached out and touched my arm. “I know,” he said gently. “I know. But she’s not suffering any longer, and—”

“No, you blithering idiot,” I growled, shaking his hand off. Damnable English language—more words than anybody can be expected to keep track of, and then they use the same one for about three different things. “I know she’s dead! I’m telling you, her body’s gone!”

Denton blinked at me. “What?”

“She’s not in the crypt. The slab is empty. We cannot habeas the corpus. Is any of this getting through?” (I was, perhaps, rather less reverent than the situation warranted, but it is a flaw of mine that I become sarcastic when I am frustrated.)

“Are you serious?”

Miss Potter coughed politely behind me. “I can assure you, young man, that the lieutenant is quite correct.”

“Miss Potter? What are—?” Denton obviously started to question her presence, then just as obviously abandoned it for more important things. “No. Later. This is dreadful.”

“Do you think Roderick moved her?” I asked.

I was expecting him to look away from guilt, but he met my eyes squarely. “Perhaps.”

“You know there’s something wrong with him,” I said softly. “You know what he did—”

Denton cut my words off with a slicing motion of his hand. “This is not the time.”

“Well, then let us find Roderick and—”

“He’s asleep,” said Denton.

“Then we’ll wake him and—”

“I gave him a sleeping pill,” said Denton. “He won’t wake up for hours. No, don’t glare so, Lieutenant. He says he can’t sleep at all, that he hears his sister walking in the crypt. I don’t think he’s gotten an hour straight of sleep since she died.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. This bizarre malady of his—it’s the same thing Madeline had.”

Denton blinked at me. “What?”

“It’s not a disease! It’s a fungus! I—oh, for pity’s sake, Miss Potter, you tell him.”

Miss Potter drew Denton aside and explained, in what I assume was English, about saprophytic fungi and the hyphae. I stared at the wall and wondered if Roderick had moved Maddy’s body out of guilt or some notion that he would stop hearing her walk if she was no longer in the crypt. Christ’s blood! Now that we knew what it was, could we treat it somehow?

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