Gibbous House 67

The door offered no protesting creak - or indeed any indication that it was in less than daily use. The room was small but could not have squared with the paradox engendered by the scullery's dimensions. It could not possibly have been an illusion of the optical kind, or if it were I could not begin to guess the mechanics of it. The outside of the building was clearly based on the standard box-like shape: the vertices and angles of the polyhedron seemed isovalent to the eye. And yet...

There was nothing peculiar or noteworthy about the room itself – save that it was in better condition than many in the main house. It seemed that a duster had been in use within the last few days, which was more than could be said of many rooms I had seen of late. I could see no items of a personal nature. Furniture was serviceable, if plain, comprising merely a narrow bed , some drawers and a chair. I was unsurprised by the absence of a mirror. The only remarkable thing about the room was its resident, who sat motionless in the chair. He, for it was a man, showed little emotion at my intrusion into his sanctum. I was foolish enough to attempt to engage him in conversation before I noticed the peculiar leathery texture of his skin and the glassy unblinking eyes.

For me this latest specimen of the taxidermist's art was by far the most disturbing I had seen. I wondered who the poor fellow had been, and how he had come to such a pass. At that point, I heard the the crunch of wheels coming to a stop.

Withdrawing from the room and quickly locking it behind me, I opened the door to the side and peered out. Two fellows, one uniformed, one not, both a little bedraggled and removing straw from their persons, were arrived in the back of a farmer's cart. Plainly, I was to play gatekeeper for the reporter and the constable. Moving to the gate, I saw that Maccabi had had the foresight to leave the chain un-padlocked and with some effort I removed the heavy chain from the iron gates. I looked up expectantly at the passengers. The constable attempted to speak first, but the reporter, who appeared to think much of himself for a fellow with straw in his hat, interrupted:

'Edgar Allan, Alnwick Mercury: the constable is here about the body. Show us up man.'

There was something odd about the man's accent, but I was more concerned about his presumption in judging me a servant of the house. Perhaps I would avail myself of Maccabi's raiment sooner than planned. Nonetheless, I waved them through and followed the cart up the drive, losing very little in distance thanks to the dilatory nature of both horse and driver. As the cart pulled up at the doorway, it opened showing Maccabi in the aperture. The man was either prescient or had intended to wait on the threshold until the constable's arrival. To my reckoning there was no window in the house from which - having used it as a vantage point over the drive – he could possibly have arrived so quickly at the entrance.

The visitors alighted from the rustic vehicle; the reporter somewhat more nimbly than the policeman. Allen's introduction was the same terse, almost brusque, announcement he had given me. The constable appeared to have given up hope of getting the first word in any exchange. Maccabi raised his eyebrows over Allen's shouder at myself: I gave him a rapid shake of the head. He spoke:

'Good morning, gentlemen, I shall show you to the unfortunate fellow's last resting place.'

He addressed me then:

'Moffat, accompany us, we may need to move the cadaver.'

The man was not so dull as not to realise that I wished -for the time- to remain incognito, but I felt he could have relished the peremptory tone a little less.