Malice in Miniature Read Online Free PDF Page A

and faded blue, with murky touches of burgundy and bilious green. The ceiling was coffered, the walls were paneled below and bordered above, the arches—
    Sir Mordred opened a door whose handle was so ornate it must have been excruciating to grasp, and said, “Voilà.”
    The contrast could not have been greater. The room had been stripped down to plain white walls, dark plain wainscoting, dark floor. The modern track lighting looked extremely out of place until I shifted my gaze to what it was illuminating, and forgot everything else.
    The entire center of the room was filled with one object behind a glass barrier. It was a model of a house, an enormous country mansion built to impress, to overwhelm, like Brocklesby Hall itself. But there the resemblance ended. This one was elaborate, yes, but gloriously, magnificently symmetrical. Towers, turrets, colonnades, windows all had a sense of rhythm, a feeling almost of poetry. The whole was executed with incredible attention to detail.
    I peered through windowpanes no larger than my thumbnail, and saw draperies, tables, lighted lamps. As my amazement grew, so did a vague sense of familiarity. I looked up at Brocklesby, slightly dazed. “But this is incredible! I don’t think I’ve ever seen such delicate workmanship. And surely it’s—”
    â€œBlenheim Palace.” Brocklesby’s face radiated pride and satisfaction. I’ve seen exactly the same look on a cat’s face when it has killed something truly spectacular. “Half-inch scale. My crowning achievement.”
    â€œYou don’t mean to say you made this beautiful thing yourself!”
    â€œThe entire structure. I had a great deal of help with the furnishings, of course.”
    He moved to a wall, turned a key in an inconspicuous keyhole, and the exterior shell of the house—roof, walls, even the front steps—rose, attached to the ceiling by thin cables. The ground floor of the house lay revealed, decorated and completely furnished, down to a table set with an elaborate dinner for twelve—plates, cutlery, napkins, flowers, fruit in a silver epergne, soup in a china tureen . . .
    I’ve never been to Blenheim, and have seen pictures only of the exterior, but I hadn’t the slightest doubt that Sir Mordred’s version was accurate to the smallest detail. My eyes moved from one room to another, marveling. The fireplaces were surmounted by overmantels holding lovely, tiny ornaments, and hung above with portraits, obviously in oil. Tiny tapestries adorned the walls, tiny statuary filled the corners. A gorgeous marble staircase led up to the next, hidden story.
    â€œI have not yet furnished the upper stories completely, alas,” said Brocklesby. “I possess neither the skill nor the equipment to make such things as the silver tableware, or the crystal, nor am I an artist in oils or silk, and as you can imagine, these exquisite little things are very expensive to purchase. Unfortunately, I am not made of money, so I must go slowly. Nor have I been able, owing to considerations of space, to duplicate the kitchen and stable wings, nor the Marlborough Maze. One day, one day!” His eyes glittered as he turned the key again and the shell of the house gently subsided into place.
    â€œAs the gem of the collection, my Blenheim is normally the last display to be shown to the public, but I really could not let you suffer for one more moment the aesthetic indigestion induced by the architectural obscenity in which I am forced to live. Now, if you will follow me, we shall move to the proper beginning of the tour.”
    â€œBut I shouldn’t take your time,” I protested. “I’m sure you don’t usually show people around yourself.” Actually, having to some extent taken the measure of Sir Mordred, I wanted to meet the rest of the establishment.
    â€œYou are quite correct. My time is fully occupied with the continuing efforts of