We have been looking for that blasted dead mouse for about a week now, without much luck. We gave the TV room side a good going-over a couple of days ago. That side has what I would have considered the most likely spots – plenty of tubs of costumes, which have now been moved to the attic, thank you very much – but no luck.
The Squire insisted the smell was much stronger near the sewing machine. I tilted it back and even looked up inside it, but no go. We pulled everything out from under the bed – two large flat boxes, which hold patterns and fabric for Colonial outfits, plus oodles of tissue paper – and still didn’t find anything. We even looked under the mattress and between the mattress and the box spring. Finally, we pulled the head of the bed away from the wall, but we still didn’t see any moldering bodies on the carpet.
Just as we were pushing the bed back, a flicker of movement caught my eye, as the mouse fell from the edge of the bedframe onto the floor. It had climbed up off the floor, I suppose, to avoid Sir Edmund’s attention and died, out of sight but definitely not out of mind.
He was tenderly wrapped in a tissue paper shroud and buried with great ceremony in the trashcan outside.
The song is ended, but the melody lingers on. Phew! Quick, Henry! The Lysol!
thisendoftheswamp 
Reminds me of that line from archy and mehitabel “he was dropped off the fire escape with full military honors.”