Malice in Miniature Read Online Free PDF

acquisition, maintenance, and restoration. I hire several young people—university students, for the most part—to serve as guides. But I told them, or rather my curator, Mrs. Cunningham, told them not to come in today. They are paid by the hour, and there was simply no reason to waste the money on a day when we would have few guests. Miss—er—the young person who opened the door to you had already left her home for work, so I’ve set her to doing other chores.”
    There was real annoyance in his tone, and I marveled not only at the fact that he didn’t know the poor girl’s name, but at the ruthless thrift sometimes employed by the wealthy. That may, of course, be one reason why they’re wealthy and I’m not.
    Oh, well, might as well make the best of it. If I was to be honored, or burdened, with Sir Mordred’s undivided attention for the rest of the afternoon, I’d find out what I could—guilefully. Until I had a better idea whether this was a case for Miss Marple, Sherlock Holmes, or Mata Hari, a devious approach seemed wise.
    Flattery was almost always a good way to begin. “Well, I got the best of the bargain, then. I’m sure you know far more about the collection than any of the hired help.”
    He giggled, and expanded visibly. “I should do, shouldn’t I, since I built or acquired every stick of it myself, over the course of the last thirty years. Now in this first room are the oldest houses of the collection, some of them quite crude, but of very great historic interest.
    â€œThis first house is German, probably made in the mid-sixteenth century, shortly after the very first dolls’ house on record, the Duke Albrecht house. That one is no longer in existence, so that mine is quite possibly the oldest dolls’ house in the world—certainly older than the 1617 Hainhofer farmyard or the 1600 Nuremberg house; in any case, the contents of that one are not all original. This is not the earliest known collection of miniatures, of course. For that we would have to go to the Egyptians and their models of boats, houses, furniture, and so on, made for the royal tombs. You can see some of those in the British Museum; none, unfortunately, are in the hands of private collectors.”
    Unfortunate, presumably, because that way Sir Mordred would never be able to buy them.
    We went on from room to room of the mansion, seeing everything from complete dollhouses to cabinets with small furniture arranged on the shelves. German houses, Dutch houses, English houses. There were the room settings Jane had described, everything so perfectly to scale that I forgot I was looking at miniatures. There were wooden houses with rather primitive furniture, tin houses with the furniture painted on the walls. There were farms and stables and garages and shops, zoos and circuses, and one exquisite little church.
    Sir Mordred prattled on enthusiastically about dates, owners, and historic significance. I stopped listening and simply gazed in astonishment. It had never before occurred to me that dollhouses could be so detailed, so crammed with minute objects. The kitchens, especially, fascinated me, with their dozens of plates, pots, ladles, molds, utensils, all in copper or pewter or brass, all shining.
    â€œHow in the world do you keep them polished?” I asked, interrupting a scholarly lecture on the Nuremberg guilds of the eighteenth century.
    â€œKeep them—oh. The metal objects. They are lacquered, I am sorry to say. It is not proper practice, from the standpoint of verisimilitude. Mrs. Cunningham scolds me, but there is no other way to preserve them from oxidation. They can be polished only with very harsh chemicals, which is unthinkable, of course, or a polishing cloth, which would be impracticable, given their size and the quantity of objects we have. Now, as I was saying . . .”
    He droned his way on, but eventually we arrived at the crossing of two