A Mischief in the Snow - By Margaret Miles Page 0,92
his eyeteeth for such decorations! The weapons add a curious touch. It's as if Fisher hoped to keep the medieval past alive, far from where it once belonged. All in all, it's an amazing collection.”
“There is more,” said Moses Reed shortly.
“Then let's go and see it,” said Longfellow. He took a few steps one way, then turned another and began to stride toward the room Charlotte knew would lead to the hearth where she'd taken tea.
Once in the dark antechamber, he went to the windows and grasped a curtain. Turning to Magdalene, he asked for permission to let in the light. She nodded and he pulled, only to find the material falling in a heap at his feet, setting dust flying all around. However, he'd lightened the room so that the paintings on the walls seemed to come to life, and the chairs made of antlers and tusks stood out against the darker wood paneling of the walls.
“German, certainly,” said Longfellow, dismissing them for the moment. Turning on his heel, he went on through the far doorway to enter the larger room beyond. Here, he and the lawyer both took hold of sets of curtains, and let them fly. These held, sliding on iron rings over their rods, so that the air remained reasonably clear. The next thing to draw their attention was the portrait of Catherine Knowles, whose blue eyes fell upon the room with an icy sentience that caused Charlotte to shudder.
“I see now why Horace Walpole imagined a portrait might leave its frame, to walk among us,” was Longfellow's first comment. “I only wish it could speak, so we might learn exactly what happened to old Mrs. Knowles.”
Charlotte was about to reply. She saw movement just above the hearth. She felt her stomach lurch. The mirror had renewed its gamboling. In its dark reaches, between spots of blackened silver and the overlay of rosy glass, she again seemed to see colors swirling.
“Look!” she cried.
“A lovely old thing, to be sure,” Longfellow answered. “Venetian glass, I would say. Older than the one in my study, but similar. Do you admire it particularly, Carlotta? I might find one for you one day, during my travels.”
“You—you see nothing unusual?”
“How do you mean?” he asked, his nose wrinkling.
“Nothing moving?”
“Well, Reed, behind us.” Longfellow turned to make sure. “Yes, looking at a small chest on the table there. Meant to hold letters, do you think, Moses?” he asked, going to investigate further.
“Possibly,” the lawyer replied. He found that the jeweled lid needed a key, which none of them had. “Magdalene, do you know where we might find something to open this?”
“She wears the keys at her waist,” she answered. Charlotte then recalled putting such a set away, in her desk at home.
Removing a small folding knife from his pocket, the attorney inserted it into the brass lock. He rocked it back and forth, then applied a prying motion, forcing the mechanism to give way. Inside were folded letters; the seal to each had been lifted gently, to keep the wax impression of a signet ring intact.
“It seems,” said Reed a few moments later, “that they're all letters of love, addressed to Catherine by a man named Donald.”
“A good Gaelic name,” Longfellow said, allowing the matter to drop. “Let's move on. I see nothing to help us understand what has occurred here.
Charlotte pulled her eyes from the mirror, and saw that the rug before the hearth was singed and stained with ashes.
“It's a terribly sad place,” she said suddenly, looking up. Longfellow stooped to examined her face. “Are you all right, Carlotta? You look as if you've seen a ghost.”
Though she had not, she heard once more the sound of faint music—a harpsichord jingling, voices joined in song. Looking to the others, she saw their concern for her, but nothing more.
“I'm quite well,” she assured Longfellow, taking her skirt in her hand, making her way quickly to the sunlight by an uncovered window.
“Then let's keep moving,” he suggested. “Magdalene, do you know where Mrs. Knowles kept her papers? Those that dealt with legal matters, and finances?”
“In her bed chamber,” the woman replied without hesitation. “She has them there.”
“Will you lead the way?”
Magdalene turned and looked about the room, as if for the last time. Straightening her back, she walked with new resolve along the way they'd come. In the vast entry she began to climb steps against a gray wall, past windows with colored glass, toward a second floor. The others followed, enjoying