What Moves the Dead (34)

“A fire?” said Denton, although not as if he believed it. “A … chemical fire?”

We had only to go a little way before the edge of the tarn came into view, and that answered the question while raising many new ones.

The lake was glowing.

It was the same thing I had seen days before, the pulsing lights that seemed to chase one another along the edges of unseen shapes, but far brighter than last time. The glow picked up the faint mist that had settled across the lake and turned it into a cloud of sickly light. The waters themselves seemed to pulse like a heartbeat, but far more rapidly than any human heart. I wondered how it compared to a hare’s heartbeat, and then I looked around.

Not too far away, its eyes lit with reflected green fire, a hare stood and watched.

“Angus—”

“I see it.”

The four of us went very slowly around the edge of the tarn. The lights grew brighter. The hare did not follow and it was too dark to make out any others. My skin crawled with awareness.

At last we stood before the causeway that led into the house. “Well,” said Miss Eugenia Potter, gazing into the flickering water, “I can tell you that has not been recorded in the annals of mycology.”

“How do we destroy a fungus?” I asked Miss Potter. “Quick! How does something like this die?”

She tore her eyes away from the lake and stared at me blankly. “Antifungals?” she said finally. “There are woods with antifungal properties … some powders … hydrogen peroxide, perhaps…?”

“You don’t know?”

“I draw mushrooms, Lieutenant! I am usually trying to keep them alive!”

I put my head in my hands.

“We used to treat foot fungus with alcohol, in the army,” said Denton. “Have them soak their feet in it.”

“Certainly that could work, but how much alcohol do you have available?” asked Miss Potter. “Can you drown the full tarn?”

“I’ve got a bottle of livrit,” I said. “And presumably there’s still a wine cellar, although it may be somewhat picked over.”

Miss Potter’s expression indicated that the wine cellar was not going to work.

“Never mind,” I said, watching the pulsing lights. “Never mind, never mind. We’ll deal with it. I’ll deal with it. Angus…” I turned. “Angus, I want you to get Miss Potter away from here. Take Hob. If you can get a wagon, leave him at the stable, and if any of us live … Oh, Christ’s blood. Both our horses might be infected.”

“I’ll sort it,” said Angus. I had no doubts. He’d made his entire career sorting logistics far more complicated than a couple of horses.

“Lieutenant!” Miss Potter began, drawing herself up to her full height, which was taller than mine, and glared down at me. “I assure you, I am not some shrinking violet who requires an escort to safety, lest I faint!”

“Miss Potter,” I said, “I would never dream of suggesting it. But you are the only person who has the faintest idea what, scientifically, we may be dealing with here, and who has any hope of explaining it to the authorities in a way that does not sound completely mad. And if there is an infection, or infestation, or … whatever you would call this … the authorities must be warned. Angus will go with you to make certain that you are taken seriously, because … well…” I leaned in and said, in an undertone, “You know what men are like when women try to tell them anything.”

Miss Potter’s expression thawed. She sighed heavily and picked up her umbrella. “You are not wrong there, Lieutenant. Very well.” She gave the glowing tarn one last, grim look.

They vanished into the stable and emerged moments later. Miss Potter rode Hob, who seemed somewhat astonished but who was on his very best manners. “That’s an English gentlewoman you’re carrying,” I admonished him. “Probably fifteenth in line to the throne. You be polite.”

“More like a hundred and fifteenth,” said Miss Potter, “a fact which gives me great comfort.” She patted Hob’s neck. “Please take extremely good notes on what happens with the lake, Lieutenant. I do so hate to miss this.”

“I shall make observations that will cause the Royal Mycology Society to tremble in their boots,” I promised. “Angus, watch for hares.”

“Aye. And watch your own skin, youngster. I’m too old to break in another officer.”

They hurried away down the road, as fast as they could safely move in the dark. I watched them go, then turned to Denton.

“Now what?” he said, staring into the lake. The light show was beginning to wane, though flickers of light still went racing through the dark water at intervals.

“All right,” I said grimly. “They’re gone. Now we talk.”





CHAPTER 11


“I know her neck’s been broken,” I said. “Roderick, I assume?”

Denton inhaled sharply. “How did you know?” he asked.

“I went down to the crypt and looked.”

“Ah.” He grimaced. “It wasn’t murder, if that’s what you mean. Well, it was, but it’s not—that is—” He rubbed his face. “I need a drink.”

“I’ll pour. And tell me everything.”