The Love Potion Murders in the Museum of Man_ A Norman De Ratour Mystery - Alfred Alcorn [83]
A baleful kind of folly, I thought immediately, but let that impression seem, in my outward expression, a kind of awe. “A Martello tower writ large in the woods,” I said, as though giving it some kind of architectural context might blunt the sense of foreboding I felt wafting from it.
We pulled up across from the main entrance — two massive oak doors with studded hinges set in a portal with pointed arch and curved surrounds of weathered stone. I wanted to drop Diantha and scuttle back to the office. I wanted really to keep Diantha in the car with me and drive away. But as in a dream bordering on nightmare, the oak doors opened, and Freddie Bain, in loose trousers and one of those Russian tunics cinched around the waist, came forth.
The man positively clung to me. He wouldn’t hear of my returning without coming in for a cup of tea or a glass of wine.
I parked the car, and we crossed over a virtual drawbridge spanning a dry moat before entering through the great doorway. Such places are not really my cup of tea, but I admit the basic design had a vulgar grandeur to it. Indeed, it reminded me of the museum, only circular, the central core an atrium around which rooms led off from balustraded balconies. Sconces in the form of torches alternated with large oils on the walls, which, made of marble or synthetic marble, gave off a dark shine. An octagonal skylight opened dimly at the top.
Diantha, apparently knowing the place well, went into a kitchen off the main floor to see about tea. Mr. Bain showed me around. He was particularly proud of the immense fieldstone fireplace that, situated on the side of the building against the mountain, rose up through three stories, narrowing as it went before disappearing into the wall. Somewhat prosaically, the heads of mounted game — mostly deer — looked down with glass-eyed serenity from over the fireplace.
“I had a moose up there, but he was too … how do you say …”
“Lugubrious,” I suggested.
Then, as though on the same subject, he said, “Permit me to express my condolences on the death of your wife, Diantha’s mother.”
I nodded and murmured my thanks, feeling oddly compromised. “This is quite a space,” I said, sweeping my arm around the area. There were sofas and several armchairs upholstered in black leather on a raised stone area before the fireplace and a dining table with chairs not far from the kitchen door off to one side. Otherwise, the remainder of the ground floor, a vast expanse of polished hardwood that gleamed, remained bare. “What do you use all this for?” I asked.
“Human sacrifice,” he said, and laughed, making a sound devoid of humor. With a sharp glance, he went on. “I hear you have a very interesting tape from the late Professor Chard.” We had stepped up onto the raised area, and he was indicating an armchair to one side of the fireplace.
I tried to dissemble any double take. “Diantha told you?”
“She says you call it quite … sensational.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
“Strange that you didn’t mention it to me when I first asked you.”
“The widow wants it kept private.”
“Ah, yes, the widow.” Mr. Bain pursed his wide mouth. His frown was nearly confiding. “I don’t know quite how to put this delicately, Mr. de Ratour, but I believe that tape is my property.” He turned and scarcely had to stoop to enter the fireplace, where he tended to the lighting of paper, kindling, and logs.
“On what grounds do you base that claim?” I asked as evenly as I could.
“As you know from Professor Brauer, the Green Sherpa funded most of that expedition.”
“He told you he told me?”
“He did.”
“In that case Professor Chard should have sent the tape to you. Yet he very clearly sent it to the museum.”
“We had an understanding.”
“In writing?”
“We are men of the world, Mr. de Ratour. We are gentlemen. We don’t need lawyers to keep ourselves honest.”