Malice in Miniature Read Online Free Page A

an—atmosphere. If you believe in that sort of thing. Probably because everyone who’s owned it has been unpleasant. Still contention and—mischief.”
    There was something in the way she said the word that resounded of the Litany.
From all evil and mischief; from the crafts and assaults of the devil
. . .
    â€œWhat
do
you mean?”
    She shrugged again. “Probably nothing. Seeing bogeymen in my old age.”
    â€œJane, if you see bogeymen, the rest of us need to be put in an asylum for not seeing them.” I looked at her hard, but she would say no more. Eventually I gave up. “Well, I’m going out there this afternoon, unseen terrors or not. I’ll report back.”
    â€œYes. Be careful.”
    It had not been a reassuring conversation.

3
    I t was pouring pitchforks and hammer handles, as my Hoosier father used to say, when Alan came home for lunch. “Shall we defer the Brocklesby Hall expedition?” he asked over his bowl of chili. Alan has developed a taste for American food, thank goodness, since it’s what I know how to cook.
    â€œCertainly not!” I replied indignantly. “You know perfectly well I want to go, never mind the weather.”
    â€œI had a suspicion, though it’s not the best sort of day for a place like—however. You’d best put on wellies. If I remember correctly, the car park isn’t paved.”
    To be on the safe side I donned not only Wellington boots but the full set of rain gear: yellow slicker, or oilskins as the English say, and the accompanying floppy yellow plastic hat. I looked like a large, elderly version of Paddington Bear. The hat certainly wasn’t my usual style, but I wasn’t about to risk one of my more frivolous creations in this weather.
    It was a wise decision. Alan dropped me off as close to the door as he could, but I still had to slog through a good deal of mud, and the rain was pelting down. I rang the bell and waited.
    The wait was long enough for me to conjure up a fine case of the horrors. From what little I could see of the house through the driving rain, it would have made a wonderful setting for a Gothic novel. The door itself, heavily carved, should, just about now, swing open on creaky hinges, and a Mrs. Danvers type should say, “Yes?,” with a rising inflection, a lifted eyebrow, and a tone of infinite menace. I actually tried the handle, and was foolishly relieved when the door was properly locked. Telling myself not to be silly, I rang again.
    The person who eventually answered did not in the least resemble the baleful housekeeper of
Rebecca.
She was young, pretty, and out of breath. “I’m so sorry! I was in another part of the house. We didn’t really expect any visitors on such a frightful day.”
    â€œThis is the Miniature Museum, isn’t it?”
    A fussy little man had bustled into the anteroom where I stood dripping, and now he winced visibly.
    â€œPlease!” he said in a high, pained voice. “Museum of Miniatures! We do have a miniature museum, indeed, rather a splendid one, with as fine a collection of original artwork as you will ever—but do come in! Your coat and hat will do nicely on the rack, thank you, and the boots—er—I’m afraid I have no slippers to offer you—”
    â€œIt’s all right, I brought shoes. If there’s a chair—”
    â€œMy dear lady! Of course, of course! Do forgive me!” He nodded imperiously to the young woman, who scurried away and came back with a folding chair.
    I studied my host covertly while I accomplished the awkward business of changing out of very muddy boots. That he was my host I had no doubt. There is an indefinable look of calcified enthusiasm, a slightly demented glitter in the eye, that characterizes the truly fanatic collector, and this tubby little man, with his rather long, flyaway white hair and his pudgy but delicate hands, had all the stigmata. I