Chapter 32: Friday, Dec. 15

In which a preposterous domicile is visited, and lust, exquisite food and talk of good vs. evil intermingle.

By Alfred Alcorn

Sep 24, 2001 | The house is empty. I sit here in my modest eyrie, my head and my heart thumping from alcohol, from thwarted desire, and from a despair so solid and dark I feel entombed. We take our faith in mankind, if not in God, for granted. We scarcely know we have that faith until someone challenges it. Then we find ourselves unmoored, casting about for any anchor of decency to cling to.

This afternoon, Diantha, dressed alluringly in slacks, a clinging jersey, and tailored jacket, came in to see me at the Museum. My delight at her appearance vanished when I learned she wanted to borrow my car to drive out to "Eigermount," as Mr. Bain's country place is called. I was perfectly willing to let her take the old thing, but then she had another idea. "Why don't you drive me out instead? That way you can see Freddie in his natural habitat. It's surreal, to use one of your words."

When I declined, she persisted. "Oh, come on, Dad, you need an outing."

I couldn't really refuse, even though I was busy with year-end budget matters. Dealing with surpluses, I've found, is quite as tiresome as dealing with deficits. So we took a cab home where Diantha packed an overnight bag.

We drove northwest out of Seaboard to the Balerville Road and the picturesque little town of Tinkerton. Where the road forks just beyond a bridge that crosses Alkins Creek, we went right. The route climbed for several miles through gloomy stands of pine and hemlock and brought us eventually to a turnoff that would have been easy to miss. We drove into it and made our way along a rough and rutted drive.

Well, Diantha was right about one thing. Seemingly out of nowhere, like a castle conjured in a tale about sinister fairies, rose a great round structure of cut granite. Nestled in a rug of evergreens, it towered at least four stories against the side of a steep declivity. The windows, narrow vertical slits with Gothic arches, blinked at the visitor uncomprehendingly, bringing to mind that line in Yeats about the pitiless sphinx.

A baleful kind of folly, I thought immediately, but let that impression seem, in my outward expression, a kind of awe. "A Martello Tower in the woods," I said, as though giving it some kind of architectural context might blunt the sense of foreboding I felt wafting from it.

We pulled up across from the main entrance -- two massive oak doors with studded hinges set in a portal with pointed arch and curved surrounds of weathered stone. I wanted to drop Diantha and scuttle back to the office. I wanted really to keep Diantha in the car with me and drive away. But as in a dream bordering on nightmare, one of the oak doors opened, and Freddie Bain, in loose trousers and one of those Russian tunics cinched around the waist, came forth.

The man positively clung to me. He wouldn't hear of my returning without coming in for a cup of tea or a glass of wine.

I parked the car, and we crossed over a virtual drawbridge spanning a dry moat before entering through the great doorway. Such places are not really my cup of tea, but I admit the basic design had a vulgar grandeur to it. Indeed, it reminded me of the Museum, only circular, the central core an atrium around which rooms led off from balustraded balconies. Sconces in the form of torches alternated with large oils on the walls, which, made of marble or synthetic marble, gave off a dark shine. An octagonal skylight opened dimly at the top.

Diantha, apparently knowing the place well, went into a kitchen off the main floor to see about tea. Mr. Bain showed me around. He was particularly proud of the immense fieldstone fireplace that, situated on the side of the building against the mountain, rose up through three stories, narrowing as it went before disappearing into the wall. Somewhat prosaically, the heads of mounted game -- mostly deer -- looked down with glass-eyed serenity from over the fireplace.

"I had a moose up there, but he was too... How do you say..."

"Lugubrious," I suggested.

Then, as though on the same subject, he said, "Permit me to express my condolences on the death of your wife, Diantha's mother."

I nodded and murmured my thanks, feeling oddly compromised. "This is quite a space," I said, sweeping my arm around the area. There were sofas and several armchairs upholstered in black leather on a raised stone dais before the fireplace. A dining area, not far from the kitchen door off to one side, was furnished with Chippendale table and chairs. Otherwise, the remainder of the ground floor, a vast expanse of polished hardwood that gleamed, remained bare. "What do you use all this for?" I asked.

"Human sacrifice," he said, and laughed, making a sound devoid of humor. With a sharp glance, he went on. "I hear you have a very interesting tape from the late Professor Chard." We had stepped up onto the raised area and he was indicating an armchair to one side of the fireplace.

I tried to dissemble any double-take. "Diantha told you?"

"She says you say it's quite... sensational."

"That's one way of putting it."

Mr. Bain, whom I could see was handsome in a brutal kind of way, pursed his wide mouth. His frown was nearly confiding. Though accented, his English was very nearly American colloquial. He said, "I don't know quite how to put this delicately, Mr. de Ratour, but I believe that tape is my property." He turned and scarcely had to stoop to enter the fireplace, where he tended to the lighting of paper, kindling, and massive logs.

"On what grounds do you base that claim?" I asked, as evenly as I could.

"As you know from Professor Bauer, The Green Sherpa funded most of that expedition."

"He told you he told me?"

"He did." He bent with a long taper to light the fire in various places.

"In that case Professor Chard should have sent the tape to you. He very clearly sent it to me at the Museum."

Next Page: "You seem to have a penchant for things Russian"

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