“So?”
“I like knowing where he is. If he moves, we’ll have to find him again. . . .”
“The body,” she said, interrupting an intriguing chain of speculation.
“Yes, I’m thinking. It’s awfully far to the river, but I’m wondering whether I might be able to drag it there in stages and push it in. There are a lot of places I could stow it along the way. . . .”
“What about the horse?”
“Could you check with Quicklime? Tell him what happened, give him our reasoning. Horses are often afraid of snakes. Perhaps he could scare him into running back to town.”
“It sounds worth a try. Maybe you’d better check to be sure you can handle the body.”
I moved around to the rear, seized hold of the collar, braced my legs, and pulled. He came along nicely over the damp grass. A little lighter than he looked, too.
“Yes, I can move him. I know I can’t take him all the way at once, but at least I can get him out of here.”
“Good, I’ll go and see whether Quicklime is out and about.”
She dashed off, and I commenced pulling the officer along, his ruined face toward a clouded sky. All afternoon, I dragged and rested, hiding him twice, once when people were about, another time to return home and make my rounds. And the Thing in the Steamer Trunk was acting up again. At one point, the horse did trot by, along the roadside.
I was bushed by evening and returned home to nap and eat, leaving the corpse in a copse. I wasn’t even halfway there yet.
October 15
Continuing gray and drizzling. I made my rounds and got out early to check about the house. I’d gotten out several times during the night to move things a little farther along. I was bone-weary that morning, and Needle came by at dawn.
“He was out again with his crossbow crew,” he reported. “I’m still not sure how many there are, but I can show you where one lives.”
“Later,” I said. “I’m very busy.”
“All right,” he replied. “Show you this evening, if we’re both free.”
“Any word on the police?”
“Police? What about?”
“Never mind. I’ll tell you when I see you later. Unless someone else does it first.”
“Till then,” he said, and he darted off.
I went and dragged the corpse till I couldn’t manage another step. Then I dragged myself home, jaws aching, paws sore, my old injury from the zombie affair acting up.
While I was resting under the tree Graymalk came by.
“How’s it going?” she asked.
“Pretty fair,” I answered. “I still have a long way to go, but he’s stashed safe enough. I saw the horse go by. I gathered you took care of things.”
“Yes, Quicklime was very cooperative. You should have seen his routine. The horse was quite impressed.”
“Good. Has anyone been by?”
“Yes. I watched the constable’s place earlier. An inspector was by there from the city. So were the Great Detective and his companion, whose wrist was bandaged.”
“Poor fellow. Did they stay long?”
“Not the inspector. But the Detective stayed to visit the vicar, and several others.”
“Oh my! I wonder what he told them?”
“I wasn’t in a position to hear. But the Detective did considerable strolling about the neighborhood afterwards. They even went somewhat afield toward the Good Doctor’s place.”
“Didn’t go off in the Count’s direction, did they?”
“No. They stopped and asked Owen about beekeeping, though. A pretext, of course. And I was near when they noted the arrows stuck in the side of your house.”
“Damn!” I said. “Forgot. Have to do something about them.”
“I have to go bury some things now,” she said. “I’ll try to talk to you again later.”
“Yes. I have some work, too.”
I made my rounds again, then went off to drag the inspector a little farther along. Having done it both ways, they’re easier when they’re stiff than when they’re limp, and he was limp again.
Evening. Jack wanted to go out again. When it gets to this point in the game there are always a few last-minute items on the shopping list. This time the place was swarming with patrolmen, some of them walking in pairs. Crazy Jill swooshed by at one point, turning a few heads; through the opened door of a gin mill I saw Rastov seated at a table, alone, save for a bottle of vodka and a glass (I wondered what happened to Quicklime on these occasions, if he’s gone internal); a rat resembling Bubo scurried by, a finger in his mouth; Owen went staggering past with a pair of fellows, faces streaked with coal dust, singing something incomprehensible in Welsh; I saw Morris, bewigged, dressed like a woman, heavily rouged, hanging onto MacCab’s arm.