“Let’s look at the things in the other room,” I said. Lathom jumped to
his feet.
“When I left him he said something about fungi—he was going to get some
special kind—”
We went out. In a saucepan on the table was a black, pulpy mess. I
sniffed it cautiously. It had a sourish, faintly fungoid odour, like a
cellar.
“Oh, Lord,” whimpered Lathom, “I knew it would happen some day. I told
him over and over again. He laughed at me. Said he couldn’t possibly
make a mistake.”
“Well, I don’t know,” I said, “but it looks rather as if he had. Poor
devil. Of course, it would happen the very day there was nobody here to
help him. I suppose he was absolutely on his own. Didn’t any tradesmen
call, or anything?”
“The carrier comes over on Mondays and Thursdays with supplies,” said
Lathom, “and takes the orders for the next visit.”
“No milkman? No baker?”
“No. Condensed milk, and the carrier brings the bread. If there’s nobody
in he just puts the things on the window-sill.”
“I see.” It seemed to me pretty ghastly. “Well,” I went on, “will you go
or shall I?”
“We’d better both go, hadn’t we?”
“Nonsense.” I was positive about this. I don’t know why, except that it
seemed damnable, somehow, to leave Harrison’s body alone, when leaving
it could do no possible harm. “If you don’t feel fit to go, I will.”
“Yes—no!” He looked about him uneasily. “All right, you go. It’s
straight up the hill, you can’t miss it.”