It didn’t concern Miss Rhodes. She told the agent she would like to see the property, whereupon Mr. Longeway called a cab and the two of them drove to the Haney Lane address. Miss Rhodes went through the house with a critical eye. She made certain minor objections — a suspected leak in the roof over the bedroom ceiling, a weakened spoke in the balustrade, a sticky sash weight in one of the dormer windows — all of which the agent agreed to repair. After a little haggling over price, she signed a lease.
The following day Miss Rhodes oversaw the transportation of her paints, canvasses and personal possessions to her new home. Then she dispatched a letter to Edith Halbin, her old friend in Bristol. She had acquired a house, she wrote, and needed someone to occupy it with her. Now there was nothing in the way of Edith’s long-contemplated move to London.
On the twelfth of April Edith Halbin, a gaunt, prematurely grey woman, arrived, together with two portmanteaux, three trunks, a Siamese cat named Kuching, and four kittens.
Miss Rhodes greeted her warmly and proceeded to show her the house. “Of course, it’s much more space than we need,” she said gayly, “but I like breathing room and… Whatever is the matter?”
Just over the threshold of the library, Edith had stopped and stood staring into the center of the room. “What’s that?” she asked.
Miss Rhodes frowned slightly and led the way forward like an unwilling museum guard asked to describe an unpleasant picture. The aquarium was mounted on a low platform and measured nearly ten feet in length, three in width. At first glance, it resembled a sarcophagus of antiquity with ornamental stonework at each corner and eight legs that looked like enormous claws. The glass tank occupying the midsection of this structure was filled to the three-quarters mark with roily water into which Edith Halbin peered now with troubled eyes.
“Do you mean to say fish live in that?” she asked.
Miss Rhodes shook her head. “No, there are no fish. Whoever had this aquarium installed was a conchologist. He wanted to duplicate as closely as possible the natural conditions the specimens are found in.”
“What’s a conchologist?”
“A collector of shells. It’s quite a study, you know. I would have put in fresh water but the valve seems to be stuck.”
Edith Halbin took a step closer. An overpowering smell of putrefaction and stagnant water rose up out of the aquarium and crawled into her nostrils. With one hand she reached for the heavy cover.
“That’s stuck too,” said Miss Rhodes. “I shall have to have a man out to fix the thing.”
In most respects, the house proved to be all that Miss Rhodes had hoped for. The conservatory jutted off from the rear and offered both good lighting and seclusion for her work. The bedrooms were large and airy.
Only the library was a disappointment. The furniture there was heavy and cumbersome and the entire room had an atmosphere of gloom and depression. The door, too, a heavy oak affair, persisted in squeaking no matter how much oil was applied to the hinges; it was equipped with a latch that had a trick of locking of its own accord.
A week after they had taken up their joint residence, the two women had their first visitor. Answering the door, they found themselves confronted by a middle-aged man with a bristly moustache, greyish temples, and pale eyes behind huge bone-rimmed spectacles.
“I believe this is yours,” he said without preamble, handing across a very wet and bedraggled cat.
“Kuching! Wherever have you been?” cried Edith Halbin.
“She was on my roof and couldn’t get down,” explained the man. “I’m your neighbor — Lucius Bates.”
While Edith took charge of the Siamese, Miss Rhodes thanked their visitor and asked him in to tea. She led the way to the library which seemed the most masculine room of the house.
“I see you’ve still got the aquarium,” Lucius Bates said some time later. “If I were you, I’d have that thing taken out of here.”
Miss Rhodes began to pour the tea.
“It takes up too much room and it’s an ugly piece at best,” he continued. “And personally I don’t care too much for its contents.” “You mean the shells?”
Bates nodded. “They were collected, you know, by Horatio Lear, the former owner of this house. He died a year ago.”
Edith Halbin, who had finished drying the Siamese with a cloth, looked up.
“Is that the Lear who was famous for his deep sea work?”
“Yes, in a diving bell. He explored the Senarbin Deep off the coast of Haiti. He was a conchologist, too, and brought up some rare shells from the ocean floor.”
“I seem to remember,” said Edith Halbin, “some unpleasantness connected with his name….”
Lucius Bates nodded. “That would be about his brother, Edmund. For years, there was bad feeling between the two men. It reached a climax when Edmund publicly accused Horatio of falsifying reports as to the depths he had reached in the diving bell. But they must have patched up their differences, for they continued to live here together — until one day Edmund left.”
“Where did he go?”
“I don’t really know. Horatio wasn’t sure either, though he said something about his brother having interests in Haiti.”
“Is this all of Horatio’s shell collection?” asked Edith Halbin, nodding toward the tank.
Bates shook his head. “No, but for some reason, he destroyed most of it before his death. He suffered a heart attack, you know, while fitting that cover on the aquarium.”
Next day, by means of hard, if unskillful work, Miss Rhodes managed to get the frozen valves into operation. She drained the tank and when it was emptied saw that the bottom was made up of a thick layer of greyish sand upon which the shells rested or were partially buried.
While the tank was refilling, she turned her attention to the library desk and came upon a drawer she had not opened before. Here were several file folders with the name, Horatio Lear, stamped upon them. One contained a chart labeled Caribbean Area, Subdivision: Senarbin Deep. There were other charts, many of them illustrated with pen and ink drawings of marine shell life.
As Miss Rhodes looked through these papers, a desire to know more about the subject seized her. Across the room in a tiny alcove off the library proper Kuching, the Siamese, lay on a pillow, surrounded by her kittens, and watched through slitted eyes. Presumably, the alcove had been built for bookbinding, cataloguing, and other related tasks, but when Edith had seen it, she decided it was the place for her pet.
By carefully comparing some of the smaller shells from the tank with the illustrations on the charts, Miss Rhodes was able to catalogue a dozen or more specimens including a rare bluish Stimpson’s Colus, a deep water Solariella obscura, an albino Queen Conch and a Caribbean Vase.
Then she began to read from a typewritten paper which she found in another file folder. The manuscript seemed to be a hodgepodge of deep water scientific observations and autobiographical remarks. As she continued to read, a feeling of detachment and unease slowly stole over her. Her first impression was that Lear had been a very erudite man, completely absorbed in his work. But when she came upon several vitriolic notations concerning his brother, Edmund, her admiration changed to a feeling of repugnance.
Miss Rhodes went to bed that night, her head filled with unpleasant thoughts. What sort of man was this, who was so obsessed with anger for his own kin that he would violate the ethics of his profession by baring his soul in a paper ostensibly devoted to science? Moreover, his hatred seemed to have no greater motive than Edmund’s refusal to accept Horatio’s theory concerning some forms of deep marine life. What that theory was, was not explained.
Miss Rhodes tossed restlessly, finally dozed off. About two in the morning something awakened her.