Fanny was—as the delicate Reader has come to know—normally a gentle lamb. But there was something decidedly uncanny and, furthermore, decidedly unholy about the situation; not to mention, the man creature before her was scandalously bold. And as such, all proprieties must be cast aside in favor of the female protective instinct.

Fanny went directly for his nose.

She suddenly had the reflexes of a London gentleman boxer without ever having been to London or having seen a ringside match. It was as though the good Lord himself imbued her with superhuman strength and speed to serve her in this moment of genuine calamity.

Her small fist connected with the proboscis and there was a moment of something giving way. Fanny heard an infernal crunch, felt her fist smashing something clammy, and then stood back to watch the monstrous face caved in, and, in place of the nose, an unholy mess of sanguinity and darkness and—oh horrors!—squirming maggots.

The mummy gave a muffled howl, then lurched back against the wall, and fled, flailing its limbs slowly, and nearly crashing downstairs.

Fanny stood trembling, her breath coming fast. “Oh no!—Oh dear! I believe I killed him!” she muttered, looking in disbelieving horror at her one calamity-stained hand.

As soon as she composed herself she slowly made her way below. At the foot of the stairs she was met by the butler, who immediately inquired as to the condition of her sanguined injury.

“My dear Miss Price!” exclaimed Baddeley with alarm, “are you well? What has happened to your hand? Was it a fall? We must have you looked after immediately—”

“Oh no, thank you, sir . . . I have no wish to trouble you or anyone! That is, this is not—it is none of my own. I am afraid it is someone else’s. A man! A strange man! Indeed, was there a man heading in your direction, by any chance? Just moments earlier? A peculiar looking man, perhaps a servant, someone I have never seen before—”

“Why, no—there has been no one—”

Baddeley was quite in confusion as it is. And then Fanny took him beyond all comprehension, by adding softly, “I am dearly afraid I may have—killed him.”

But there was no sign of the suspicious subject of Fanny’s so-called murder. Indeed, it was as if he had disappeared from the premises, even though Baddeley searched thoroughly and sent a couple of servants to look around the estate.

For a day or two after the affront to Julia’s feelings was given—and Fanny demolished her first mummy—Henry Crawford attempted his usual attack of gallantry and compliment. But he had not cared enough to persevere against a few repulses. Soon becoming too busy with his play to have time for more than one flirtation, he grew indifferent to the quarrel.