100 Malicious Little Mysteries

The Collector by Patricia A. Matthews

Allister Hugh loved olden times. He adored the quaint, revered the ancient, and often declared sadly with his hand held over his heart that, “Things today are not the way they used to be.”

That is the reason he loved Lenadine Lou Le Clare. Not that Lenadine was old, far from it. She was young and very beautiful. And to Allister she was the embodiment of all the charms credited to the belles of long past years.

Her beauty was of the Dresden china type. Her hair pale gold and simply styled. She took tea at precisely three each afternoon and often fainted when upset.

Every Sunday afternoon Allister called upon her. They had tea upon the terrace and spoke of gentle things.

He presented her with flowers and once — much moved by her rendition of the Moonlight Sonata played upon an old-fashioned spinet — he composed a sonnet entitled “Lovely Hands of Palest Ivory,” which he dedicated to her.

All went well. She received him with dignity and poise. Their courtship proceeded as gracefully as a minuet, and Allister was happy. He was certain that ultimately she would be his; a fitting culmination to years of collecting museum pieces.

One lovely afternoon as they sat late at their tea upon the terrace, Allister decided that this was the moment to declare his intentions.

The breeze was soft, the air fragrant with the scent of flowers from the garden. He sank to his knees beside Lenadine’s chair.

“Lenadine,” he declared, looking passionately into her sea-green eyes. “Lenadine, I am mad about you. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

“Oh, Allister,” she answered in emotion-choked tones. “Long have I awaited the day when you would offer me your heart.”

“My heart,” he declared movingly, “my soul, my life, are at your feet.”

They were married. It was a lovely old-fashioned wedding and after a discreet honeymoon in Niagara Falls the couple took up residence in the old mansion Lenadine had inherited from her first husband.

Allister found Lenadine all he had ever desired in a woman, and the old mansion was filled with the relics of bygone days which he loved. There was only one flaw. He could not interest Lenadine in his hobby. It was perhaps unrealistic of him to wish to do so, for who expects the collector’s item to be interested in the collection of which it is a part? But as many people will who have an absorbing interest, he wished to share it.

One day he said to her, “Lenadine, my love, since you do not share my interest in antiques, perhaps you should have a hobby of your own.”

Lenadine smiled sweetly. She always smiled sweetly, it was one of the things he admired in her.

“Oh, I have a hobby of sorts,” she replied roguishly; and not a word more would she say on the subject.

He thought it a feminine whim. Women were unpredictable creatures. He let it pass.

Then one day he discovered the locked door. It was a heavy door, well reinforced and bolted. Curious, he asked Lenadine about it.

She was vague.

His curiosity became stronger. He insisted.

She cried.

After that he insisted no more, but his curiosity grew. He decided to break the lock and see for himself what the room contained. He determined to do it that very night, when Lenadine and the servants were asleep.

That evening he was especially attentive to Lenadine, for he felt a trifle ashamed of what he planned to do. She, however, was much subdued that evening.

“Come, my love,” he cajoled her. “Why is my little bird so quiet this evening?”

“I did not wish to tell you,” she said, “but tonight is the very night that my former husband—” Here she burst into soft sobs which she muffled in her lace handkerchief.

“Ah, my dear,” answered Allister sympathetically, knowing that her first husband had died in some vague but tragic manner. “Of course, love. It is natural that you should think of him. I am not offended. Perhaps it would be better if you retired now.”

Lenadine smiled gratefully and, kissing him coolly upon the cheek, retired to her room.

Allister was now free to examine the locked room. He secured a candle — he much preferred a candle to a flashlight — and approached the concealing door.

It took him considerable time to force an entry. The lock was extremely difficult. But at last the door stood open and Allister was able to enter the room.

He lit the candle and went in. The door swung slowly shut behind him. The flame from the candle flickered, but its pale light was sufficient to illumine the strange altarlike block of stone with the odd, dark stains upon it and the queer, round jars sitting in precise rows upon a shelf; each of the jars contained an unidentifiable object suspended in liquid.

With a feeling of dreadful anticipation, Allister raised the candle and advanced toward the jars.

The candle flickered perilously, there was a draught as if someone had opened a door. But before the candle went out Allister was able to see quite clearly the contents of the jars.

And in the first frightful blackness after the extinguished flame, he recalled Lenadine’s words that sunny afternoon upon the terrace.

“Oh, Allister, I have waited so long for you to give me your heart.”