But—now was not the time to lose in contemplation. Since no one else was up to it, Fanny had to do something about this particular mummy and this particular endangered maid.

Having no roll of muslin at her disposal, Fanny considered what else was closest to her, for a weapon.

It had to be something one could use to stuff in the mouth. . . .

Fortunately, this particular maid was newly come from Sir Thomas’s plantation, on the way to the kitchen with a basket full of large apples, to be used for the supper dessert. (What was she doing up here instead of down in the kitchen, Fanny had no notion of, but suspected the mummy had lured the maid up the flight of stairs to such a convenient secluded spot.)

Fanny bent down and gathered apples in both hands. She then stepped up to the mummy, knocked politely on its shoulder, and when the creature turned, started stuffing large apples into its gaping maw.

The mummy’s eye-sockets widened and it began to flail and choke. Bits of apple and juice went flying about like spittle (by the bye, how was Mr. Rushworth? one fondly wondered). Fanny grabbed hold of the maid with her left hand before she plummeted over the banister, and with her right she continued to shove apples, until she heard a satisfying—and yes, rather terrifying, but Fanny was getting used to it—crunch.

“There! I dare say, a stuffed suckling pig would envy your condition!” she exclaimed, as the mummy, cut off from its source of the breath of life, fell before her, turning, as had the other, to dust.

That is, dust and apples. Suitably battered, they rolled about on the crunchy floor amongst the remains of sand.

The maid came to in a flutter, and started apologizing profusely.

“If you don’t mind,” said Fanny, “I see those fallen apples are a bit spoiled. If you please, I suggest you do not use them in the pie tonight.”

Fanny continued upstairs.

“Fanny,” said a voice at that moment near her. Starting and looking up, she saw, across the lobby she had just reached, Edmund himself, standing at the head of a different staircase. He came towards her. “You look tired and fagged, Fanny. You have been walking too far.”

I have been liberating serving staff of this household from the clutches of the unholy. ‘Tired and fagged’ is rather not the term one would use, Fanny wanted to say but wisely held back, saying instead: “No, I have not been out at all.”

“Then you have had fatigues within doors, which are worse. You had better have gone out.”

I have been crushing skulls, Fanny thought. Within doors.