“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 windowsill.”
“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.”