“Party time,” Jack observed, “before things start to get serious.”
An eyepatched man with shaggy hair, a terrible limp, and a withered hand staggered by, selling pencils from a tin cup. I went on point even before he emerged from the fog, recognizing from the scent that it was the Great Detective in disguise. Jack bought a pencil from him and paid him handsomely for it.
He muttered a “Bless you, guv’nor” and limped off.
Our quest was extremely difficult this time, and I must say the master took unusual chances. As we were fleeing, a number of patrolmen in pursuit, whistles ablare, a door opened to our left and a familiar voice said, “In here!”
We ducked inside, the door was closed softly behind us, and moments later I heard the police rush past.
“Thanks,” I heard Jack whisper.
“Glad to be able to help,” Larry replied. “Everybody seems to be out tonight.”
“It’s getting to be that time,” Jack said, and his parcel began to drip softly.
“I’ve a towel here that you can have,” Larry said.
“Thank you. How’d you know it might be needed?”
“I’ve a way of anticipating things,” Larry replied.
He did not accompany us back this time, and I excused myself shortly after the bridge to return to the corpse and drag it farther. Something had gotten to it and stolen a few nibbles, but it was still largely intact.
As I was struggling along I thought I heard Graymalk voice a greeting from somewhere overhead, but my mouth was full and I did not want to stop work to look up.
October 16
I slept awfully well last night, awoke aching, and made the rounds.
“How’s about an Afghan?” the Thing in the Circle asked, having assumed that lovely, aristocratic form.
“Sorry. Too tired today,” I responded.
It cursed and I departed.
The slitherers were all clustered, bluely, at one point, and I could not figure why. One of life’s small mysteries. . . .
Outside, I found a dead bat nailed to the tree by a crossbow bolt. It wasn’t Needle, just some civilian. Something would have to be done. . . .
I made my way back to the body, which had a few more parts missing and didn’t smell too good, and dragged it to the next place of concealment. But my heart just wasn’t in it. I could go no farther. I turned and walked home, jaws sore, neck aching, paws tender.
“I want to die. I want to die,” came a small voice almost from underfoot.
“Quicklime, what’s the matter?” I asked.
“The master was sick right here,” he said. “I took advantage and got out. I want to die.”
“Keep lying in the road and some cart will come along and give you your wish. Better get over to the side. Here, I’ll help.”
I carried the ailing reptile into the brush.
“What should I do, Snuff?” he asked.
“Lie in the sun and sweat it out,” I told him. “Drink lots of liquids.”
“I don’t know if it’s worth it.”
“You’ll feel better later. Trust me.”
I left him moaning atop a rock. I went on home, entered, and dragged myself through my rounds. The master was not in. I went and slept in the parlor, woke and ate, dozed again.
Later, I heard Jack’s footsteps approaching the front door. He was accompanied, I knew from the footfalls, by Larry Talbot. They halted outside, continuing a discussion which must have been ongoing as they’d walked. It seemed they had just come from Constable Terence’s office, where they’d been invited, in the company of a number of other neighbors, for questioning by city police concerning the missing officer I’d been dragging through fields. I gathered that another neighborhood group had followed them in, to continue the investigation. So far as I felt just then, they could have what was left of the man.
“. . . And Vicar Roberts, sitting there, glaring at everyone, as if we’d _all_ done it,” Larry was saying. “What right had that man at an official investigation? He’s more than a little dotty.”
“Fortunately,” Jack responded. “Otherwise, someone might pay more heed to his notions.”