by Edward Lee
Absolute and unadulterated exuberance distorted Lympton’s large pink face; that he was nearly in tears could not be denied.
“It does me well, sar, to see how the dolls’-house suits ye, ye being a man enamored of bygone days and old-time things,” creaked Brown’s old voice. “And being that my ancestor Patten had sharly found his metier in its construction, he would be tickled pink, as I understand the saying to be, to see how his work could bring such joy to one removed by mar than two centuries.”
Lympton wiped his eyes and let the verbal drivel pass. Impatiently, he shot a gaze at the proprietor. “Yes, yes, but where are the—”
“Aye!” exclaimed Brown, holding up a twisted finger. “’Tis here, sar, ye’ll find the figures,” and then Brown consulted a nearby scroll-legged highboy (itself, Lympton could see, was a valued masterpiece), slid open a diminutive drawer, extricated a small iron barrel key which he then used so to make access to the largest bottom drawer of the highboy. Next, he resorted to a thumb-box on a dull brass standish, and from this recovered yet another smaller key. This he put in his top pocket, then carefully paced back to the highboy.
“For God’s sake, man!” Lympton complained. “Does it look like I have till next Michaelmas time? Get on with it please!”
“Aye, sar, but ye see, my maladies make me slow of gait,” and then the old man stopped and coughed again, hard. Lympton frowned at the obvious ploy. The old bugger isn’t THAT sick, he felt sure.
What Brown lifted out of the highboy drawer was no more or no less than an ornate wooden craft-box, easily distinguished from the more typical sort by the fact that it was not square but circular in shape. It appeared about two feet in diameter, and it was placed carefully on the table upon which the dolls’-house rested. Secured to the edge of the box was what Lympton recognized as a genuine Corbin padlock, forged with crude steel, circa 1650. Then, and only then, did Brown retrieve the smaller key and, in gestures which were obviously manufactured for their theatrics, unlatched and removed the centuried lock.
“Forsooth, Sar, we are a privileged lot,” the old man opined. “Very few men have looked upon the contents of this container.”
“Well,” Lympton snapped, “open it, do!”
Brown held up his crabbed hands. “There is a bit of a scrape in the lid’s release, what I can’t remember. You try. The circles must be pressed in a particular sequence, if I properly recall.”
Of all the incompetence! Lympton slid the box toward him and made a complete visual survey. The wood was maple, darkly and perfectly varnished; inset, however were much lighter wood pegs, pine, most likely; and there were nine such pegs, all flush with the box’s surface. Three across the top, three across the middle, three across the bottom. Lympton had no patience for games, and no aptitude for ciphers. He pressed three random pegs—
“Blast!” he yelled.
“What be yar trouble, sar?”
“Why, your vampirical box is booby-trapped, it seems!” He displayed his fingertip on which welled a tiny drop of blood.
“Aye, but, sar, look. Ye’ve succeeded on the first go.”
So I have, Lympton realized. He daubed away the drop of blood with his handkerchief and saw with relishment that the container’s lid stood open.
Lympton, jowls quivering, cast his gaze inside.
All the tenants of the Doll-House lay neatly compartmented within. Three strata were stacked upon one another, all fashioned of thin steamed wood slats configured into circular form so to fit precisely inside the container. At this revelation, Brown said the queerest thing: “Three such circular trays, sar, wherein rest ye inmates. Patten was quite taken by that number: three. ’Tis said that magic circles from olden days were made of three circles,” but Brown pronounced the word “circle” as sarcle.
Be that as it will, Lympton barely heard the proprietor, so engrossed was he with the contents of the box. Gingerly, he removed each tray and set them before him.
Here, as before, is a situation of prose-craft, creative composition, and the element of description in which many a story-writer would thrilled to relate. I, on the other hand, will not thrill, for describing the box’s contents—the renditions of each figure, their raiments, genders, and presumed employments—is not within the scope of my skills, nor my patience.
I’ll only relate (for I do bear some responsibility of obliging the reader) that six figures occupied each tray, each statuette cocooned in its own generous shroud of cotton wooling, with no little space on either side to afford safe transport of the box. Here the prospect presented itself of a collector’s examination of the most satisfying sort. Yet such a survey would encompass hours, and Lympton was cognizant that the longer he endeared himself to the house, the figures, and all else, the more solidly set Brown would be on an elevated price. So, it was with great difficulty, then, that Lympton removed only one figure for cursory inspection.
Good Heavens! What detail, and such an inimitable style!
The selected figure was that of a woman (three inches tall, not more), a servant very likely, dressed in the outfit of the piping days of pleasant country squires, generous land barons and smiling farmhands, and the simple splendor of life in those simple times. All attire was hand-painted with meticulousness, down to the purple bow atop the white serving cap; the red rosette of the white apron; the embroiderments of the bodice. These intricacies alone (never mind the house itself) were the indubitable proof of the efforts of no unskilled carving blade but also of sheer technical genius of craft. However—
Hmmm, Lympton thought.
—there was something…well, there seemed to be an inhumanness about the figure’s overall impression. It is simply too difficult for me to put the reader in possession of what was described to me. The best I can say is the figure, to most, would likely leave an unpleasant, no, an evil taste. Diabolonian is the only word this writer can summon to parallel said impression. Or, better, Tartarean.
However, Lympton was not yet struck by this taste, and found the grotesque style of the statuette only extraordinarily unique. Oddest of all, one would suppose, were the features of the servant’s face: whereas, every other aspect of the figure had been executed in extreme detail, the face was but three tiny holes, two for eyes, one for the mouth.
He feigned little enthusiasm while preparing to replace the figure and put back the trays, but—
What is this?
The bottom tray possessed only five figures, he saw now; one wool-laden compartment lay empty.
“One of the figures is missing,” he said reproachfully.
“Aye, ’tis possible, sar,” said Brown after a cough, “and though I don’t believe it so, I cannot prove otherwise. See, the talk went down through our family over the long years: the eighteenth figurine was crafted by the Master as a likeness of himself.”
This prospect instilled Lympton with a prodigious excitement. “So, where is it?” he demanded.
“I can only speak as I’ve heard: ‘tis in the house.” “In the house? Whatever do you mean? I see no
figures in the model, only in these wooden trays.”
Brown nodded. “The figurette of Patten is said to be submerged somewhere in the confines of the mansion, in one of its many chambers, either not visible through the windows or in one of the rooms without windows at all, for there are several, sar. ’Tis said also a pox on he who dismantles the house in order to find him—”
Lympton’s frown was lengthening.
“—and ‘tis said likewise that the figure of Patten will come out of its seclusion and reveal itself, but only to the right person,” and Brown pronounced “person” as parson.
More occult ballyhoo, Lympton realized. “It’s but a wooden doll, man! You speak as though it will one day walk out of the model on its own two tiny wooden feet!”
Brown’s bushy eyebrows rose. “I can speak only as I’ve heard, sar.”
He’d pronounced “heard” as hard, and Lympton was getting warry of the Yankee tain
t in the seller’s accent, and he was sartan that he did not car for Brown one bit. Enough of this nonsense. Business was at hand, and Lympton was determined to see that it was transacted in his favor. “If you cannot produce the miniature of Patten, I am forced—as would be any competent collector—to conclude that it is lost or absconded with, and I will have to take this into serious consideration when computing a price—”
For the first time, something like alarm touched Brown’s expression and sickly features. “But, sar, as my notice so stated, the price be five hundred pounds, firm.”
FIRM, you cretin! Lympton’s patience slipped in thought. The word is FIRM, not FARM! “All matters of sale are negotiable, Mr. Brown. You’re a dealer of some expertise—or were in your younger day—so you know this,” and he continued at his rude best. “Now, what you’re not seeing is that I’m a busy man, and I’ve tarried here quite past my usual allotment, and you won’t take this the wrong way, I’m sure, because I’ve not a word to say against you, not a single word—being in your company is a pleasant ordeal, but I’ve more important issues at hand—far more—than to fritter time on pleasantries. You stated that the dolls’-house was inscribed in Patten’s hand. I’ve read his only surviving journal with ample scrutiny, and am well-familiar with the intricacies of his signature and chirography. I must see this inscription at once with no further diversions, otherwise I must bid you good day.”
The monologue seemed to change Brown into a man not only broken of body but broken of spirit; hence, he resigned to silence as he shuffled to the front of the marvel. From a sliding drawer on the plinth of the Doll-House, he produced a modest rectangular magnifying lens fitted with a brass handle, and transferred it to Lympton’s stifled hand. “And the meaning of this, Mr. Brown?”
“Carefully raise the left corner of the floor-covering in the front parlor, sar,” was all Brown replied. Smirking, Lympton located the parlor—magnificently revealed as was every room in the house—and saw, with the glass raised to his eye, the carpet to which his attention had been directed. “Superb!” he exclaimed. “Absolutely superb!” but these remarks reflected his reaction to the floor-covering only, and just as Lympton knew his doll-houses, he knew his wines, and knew only the most empyreal cuisine, he also quite knew his carpets, and this tiny replica in the model’s front parlor, not three by three inches, was a perfect hand-sewn replica of a Kidderminster tapestry rug of the middle-1600’s. Kidderminster was the stylistic response to the neo-classicism of the French Aubusson floor coverings, and of course, those of the orient. Floral designs and needlepoint likenesses of royalty marked the English tradition: in all, the epitome of elegance in all matters concerning carpeting. “I’m all but speechless,” he said, forgetting his need to act un-enthused. “No doubt Patten crafted this needlepoint carpet himself, while the glass reveals the staggering detail therein!” To this, Brown nodded curtly, pointed a twisted finger.
“If the good sar will raise the left corner of the floor-covering…”
“Oh, yes!” Lympton chuckled. “The original purpose slipped my mind!” Very gingerly, then, his thumb and forefinger lifted the carpet-replica, under which there seemed to be the most minuscule black marks on the bare wood floor. Lympton felt a rush like eroticism when he adjusted the glass to perfect its focus on the indicated spot. There, in the tiniest of cursive letters, was this line of writing: Welcome to mine abode. I bid thee enter. Sincerely, L. Patten, Armiger, 1690.
“My God,” Lympton whispered to himself. “It is in Patten’s hand.”
“Yes, sar, tiny though it be,” Brown commented, “my ancestor wrote if himself just before his decease. How he guided his hand to craft script and signature in such a Lilliputian manner no one is the wiser. But ‘tis only mar proof of the man’s artistic mastership.”
Lympton, in rare display of levity, turned with the obvious jocular remark: “It almost makes one wonder if not Patten himself but your tiny missing replica of him came out of hiding to pull the job off itself,” and then he looked up jovially at the wizened seller.
Brown did not return a smile at the comment.
Lympton rose to re-assume his air of hard-nosed collector. He lied in his throat, “This doll-house is an interesting piece of work, Mr. Brown, yet the day that such things possessed their most extreme value is long gone, as you well know. I shall pay fifty and one hundred pounds, and not a shilling more.”
The old man seemed to grow yet older in the moment of this grim revelation, at once becoming an exercise in living despair. “But, but, sar, the apothecaries which me ailment calls for bear a cost of five hundred pounds.”
“I regret you ailments very much, sir, but your pharmaceutical requirements exist in quite a distance from the matter at hand. I assert—as would any informed connoisseur—that the viability of dolls’-houses in the modern marketplace is long departed. I trust no one but myself has come in response to your ad?”
Brown looked crestfallen. “I cannot lie, sar. None but ye.”
“There, then,” Lympton made the curt remark, and his expression showed no tinge whatever of guilt, shame, or self-disgrace, for here was his most paramount of lies: the old man was not apprized of the fact that his advertisement was not yet in circulation. Once it was, in another few days, there would likely be good many collectors knocking at Brown’s door. But by then, this priceless masterpiece will be mine. Lympton saw it as a chink in Brown’s professional armour. It was the utmost edict of business that a seller’s superior knowledge of a property’s value was not actionable. Shame on the seller, not the buyer.
“However, I’m feeling rather generous today, Brown”—Lympton had already slipped the notes from his pocket and held them in his hand—“I shall pay you this one hundred fifty and absorb the full cost of the model’s removal and transport which, ordinarily as you know, are part of the seller’s responsibility.” Here, Lympton, held out the bills…
Did more wrinkles appear on the gypped seller’s face? No, of course not—this was mere abstraction, I’m sorry to say, on my part. “It’s quite a generous sum of money,” Lympton added, “and I’m sure it will serve you well in your next trip to the chemist’s.”
“Aye, sar,” Brown grated. His crabbed hand took possession of the payment. “Excuse me presently whilst I prepare a receipt.”
Lympton nodded, but his thoughts raged, The word is PREPARE, not prePAR!
“Be at your leisure, sar, to inspect my few remaining heirlooms,” Brown said, shuffling for the door. “Perhaps ye’ll find something mar which tickles thy fancy.”
“Yes, possibly. I’ll peruse a bit.”
The old man wobbled out of the room, dragging his disappointment banner-like in his wake. Upon the click of the door closing, Lympton’s staid deportment changed to that of an excited child—mind you, a very overweight excited child, but that nonetheless. His portly frame paced forth and back in front of the masterpiece of which he’d just taken possession. His eyes gazed at the many exposed rooms and all their appurtenances (which the reader may envision of himor herself), and he rubbed his hands together briskly. All mine, thought he, and for next to nothing: the fourth and final work of Lancaster Patten! His pacing took him to the shelved wall he’d barely noted beforehand, and he took a cursory glance at the handful of items remaining to be sold. It was a sketchy lot. Here was a large codex of sorts, lying on a crudely fashioned white cloth embroidered, rather ineptly, with a pale red cross. A coat of arms, in gold leaf, was pressed into the aged leather of the cover, and if Lympton correctly recalled his French, smaller pressings identified the owner as one Canon Alberic de Mauleon. Never heard of the bloke, came Lympton’s thought; the innards of the folio contained leaves of manuscript pages, Biblical, by the looks of them, all in Hebrew, Greek, and Latin. What could be duller? Next, he hefted a pair of amateurishly made binoculars, and frowned outright. Why are they so beastly HEAVY? he wondered. Cracked lenses appeared to have been mended with some sort of glue, and there was a price tag: ₤50! Bro
wn must be mad affixing such a price to a pair of glasses with BROKEN lenses! He put them back without even bothering to look out the window with them. Next was a Book of Common Prayer with a printing date of 1653—not particularly noteworthy; and beside it what appeared to be a roughly wrought helm of silver, East Anglian, perhaps, and Lympton had no cause to think it earlier that the 1600’s. Not even good for a flower pot, he surmised in near disgust. Next, he picked up—and put down just as quickly—a book of mazes by someone called Lady Wardrop; and next, a tin box stuffed with dairies and handwritten correspondence on whose lid was taped a label that read Papers of the Ven. Archdeacon Haynes; next, a common prism, quartz most likely, and wholly uninteresting; next, a black-framed mezzotint of a nondescript English house; and next, an old accounting ledger identified as that of one Magnus de la Gardie, evidently a Swedish baron or some such. Brown, clearly, was not a dealer of particular merit. What a lot of bloody rubbish this is. It seemed untoward for things so paltry to be surrounding what was likely the rarest dolls’-house in the country. If Brown expects to cover his medicine bills by selling THIS junk, he may as well engage the grave diggers now…
When the proprietor hobbled back in, Lympton was looking over an older-style typing machine. “Ah,” said Brown with a tint of hope in his cragged voice, “Sar has a keen eye for true treasures.”
“What, a simple typewriter?”
“Aye, but ‘tis not so simple. The very same, Sar, if ye’ll believe me, the same typer used by Mr. Edward Frederic Benson while redrafting his great novel Dodo, Sar. A Latham Sholes No. 2, and as ye can imagine, ‘tis a very rare piece.”
“I’ve no interest in literature,” Lympton said just short of gruffly, “nor in its instruments of production.”