Malice in Miniature Read Online Free PDF Page B

hallways, with a few chairs against the walls. Sir Mordred had progressed to the subject of English miniatures. I ignored his hand, pointing the way down yet another interminable corridor, and sank into a rather hard chair, barely managing to suppress a sigh. He stood, still talking, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Of course, the finest English house is unavailable to the private collector: Queen Mary’s Dolls’ House, on display at Windsor Castle. You really must see it. It is overelaborate, true, and quite new, twentieth century, you know, but there are some very fine pieces—furniture, books, and so on—especially commissioned for Her Majesty.
    â€œAnd speaking of very fine houses, you are American, are you not, my dear lady?”
    An unnecessary question; my accent is unmistakable. I nodded, with a questioning frown.
    â€œDo you live anywhere near Chicago?” He pronounced the
Ch
as in cheese.
    â€œI live in Sherebury now.” I’d already told him that, but people don’t always pay attention. “I used to live in Indiana, not too far from Chicago.” About 200 miles, but I never say that; to an Englishman accustomed to an island something over 700 miles long, 200 miles doesn’t sound like “not too far.”
    â€œAh, well, then you must know the Thorne Miniature Rooms and Colleen Moore’s Fairy Castle.” He looked so expectant that I hated to disappoint him. His face crumpled when I shook my head.
    â€œI’m afraid we—my late husband and I—didn’t get in to Chicago very often.” A lie, but well-meant.
    â€œBut surely you know the Chicago Art Institute!”
    â€œYes, of course.”
    â€œAnd you truly didn’t know that it houses a very fine collection of miniature room settings? Nor that the Museum of Science and Industry has perhaps the most elaborate dolls’ house in the world?” Overcome with shock, he sank into a chair, shaking his head.
    â€œHave pity on my ignorance, Sir Mordred! I thought dollhouses were something for children to play with; I didn’t know they could be works of art.”
    He beamed and forgave me. “We must see to your education, then. When we finish with the museum, perhaps you would care to see my work in progress. I don’t usually show my workrooms to the public, but—”
    I jumped at it. “Your workrooms! How exciting! Do you have some marvelous new project going?”
    â€œNot at the moment, alas. Routine maintenance, for the most part. The antique houses, you see, need constant care. They tend to come to bits as glues dry over the years, so I must rehang wallpaper, relay floor coverings, replace table legs, and so forth. In addition, many articles of furniture have gone missing, some by the natural attrition of the ages and some, I regret to say, to pilfering.”
    â€œReally?” I packed as much incredulity into the word as I could muster. “I wouldn’t have thought that was possible, what with the barriers and so on. And surely not worth the trouble and risk. I mean, as fascinating as these little things are, they can’t be worth all that—”
    I stopped at the look of horror on Sir Mordred’s face. His eyes bulged; his cheeks turned purple. I thought he was ill.
    â€œAre you all right? Shall I—”
    â€œMy dear madam!” he gasped. “I cannot believe . . . you
do
want educating! I am forbidden by my insurers to divulge the value of my collection, but if I tell you that I have seen items of miniature furniture offered for sale in London—new work, mind you—at close to one thousand pounds—”
    It was my turn to gasp.
    â€œâ€”you may have some idea of the value of exquisite antique miniatures. I think I may be allowed to give you one small example. I have in my collection”—he hesitated a moment and then went on—”a French tea set, Sèvres porcelain with silver