THE MAD MUSEUM MOUSER
A police car was cruising down the street as I parked at the gate of the Lockmaster Museum, and the officer at the wheel appeared to be scrutinizing my license plate. It was the first hint that something unusual was happening in that sleepy town. Security is the first consideration in museum management, but small communities rarely provide such noticeable police protection.
I removed my sunglasses, fixed my lipstick, found the Historical Society brochure in the glove compartment, and retrieved the little black box from under the seat. In doing research for my book,Minor Museums of Northeast Central United States, I have found a tape recorder more convenient than a notebook for collecting information.
The police cruiser made a second appearance as I slung the recorder strap over my shoulder, scanned the brochure, and recited the basic facts on the place I was about to visit:
“Lockmaster Museum, built in 1850 by Frederick Lockmaster, wealthy lumberman, shipbuilder, and railroad promoter. Victorian mansion with original furnishings. In family for five generations. Donated to the Historical Society for use as museum.”
Then I walked up the curving brick sidewalk to the house, dictating as I went:“Three-story frame construction with turrets, gables, balconies, bay windows, and verandahs. Set in spacious grounds surrounded by ornamental iron fence.”
The museum was open to the public only in the afternoon, but I had arranged for private admittance at 11:00 a.m. A tasteful sign on the door said CLOSED, but I rang the bell. While waiting I noted:“Magnificent carved entrance doors with stained glass fanlight and etched glass sidelights.”
There was no answer from within. I rang again and waited, turning to admire the landscaping. The police car was circling the block slowly for the third time.
The Lockmaster was the fifteenth small-town museum I had researched, and I knew what to expect. The interior would be embalmed in a solemn hush. The staff would consist of two genteel ladies over seventy-five who would say,“Please sign the guestbook,” when I arrived and, “Thank you for coming,” when I left, meanwhile conversing in whispers about the latest local funeral.
Such was not the case at the Lockmaster, however. As I was about to ring for the third time I heard theclick of a lock being turned and theclank of a heavy bolt being drawn. Then the door was opened cautiously by a wild-eyed and fragile little woman with wispy white hair. She appeared flustered and kept one hand behind her back, while the other grasped a knobby stick, midway between a cane and a club. She was accompanied by an overfed animal with bristling orange fur and a hostile glint in its squinting yellow eyes.
I identified myself, at the same time turning on the tape recorder. The cat—if that’s what it was—replied with a deep rumbling growl that ended in an explosive snarl.
“Marmalade! Stop it!” gasped the little woman, breathless from some recent exertion. “Please come in,” she said to me. “This is Marmalade, our resident mouser. He is usually quite friendly, but he has had a traumatic experience of some mysterious kind. I hope you will forgive him.”
As I stepped into the large formal entrance hall the orange cat arched his back and fluffed his tail, swelling to twice his size, then bared his long yellow fangs and flattened his ears to attack position.
“Has this cat been watching horror films?” I asked.
“Go away, Marmalade. You are not needed.” The woman nudged him with the stick, which he grabbed in his teeth. “Nice kitty, nice kitty,” she said as she wrestled with him for possession of the shillelagh. I noticed that her left hand was wrapped in a bloodstained handkerchief.
“What happened to you?” I asked in surprise.
“I do hope you didn’t wait long,” she said, still breathing heavily. “I didn’t hear the bell. My hearing aid seems to be out of order. I think the battery is weak. But Marmalade let me know you had arrived. You must pardon us. We’re a little disorganized this morning. I’m substitutingfor Mrs. Sheffield. The ambulance took her away just half an hour ago. I hurried over as fast as I could to let you in.”
From the entrance hall I could see the drawing room—huge and lavishly furnished, but with tables and chairs knocked over and broken china on the floor.
“What happened here?” I asked in a louder voice.
“I’m Rhoda Finney. Mrs. Sheffield is the real authority on the collection, but I shall do my best. Let me get rid of this handkerchief. The bleeding seems to have stopped. It’s nothing serious.” She turned to the cat, who had assumed a bulldog stance and was eyeing both of us with suspicion. “We had a little misunderstanding, didn’t we, kitty?”
He started licking his claws. I looked at him with speculation, and he took time out to hiss in a nasty way before resuming his chore.
“I’m afraid the drawing room is a sorry mess,” Ms. Finney went on, “but we have been told not to touch anything. Mrs. Sheffield discovered it an hour ago and had a heart attack. Fortunately Mr. Tibbitt arrived and found her. He’s our volunteer custodian. A dear sweet man. Ninety years old.”
“Is this the work of vandals?” I shouted. Marmalade gave me a mean look, and Ms. Finney continued as if I had not said a word.
“To appreciate this house you must understand the five generations of Lockmasters. Frederick was the founder of the family fortune. Being a lumber baron he used only the finest hardwoods in the house, and the construction was done by ship’s carpenters. Notice the superb woodwork in the grand staircase.” Her manner became coy. “Frederick was a handsome bearded man and had mistresses by the dozen! We’re not supposed to mention personal details, but I think it adds to the interest, don’t you? And I know you won’t print it … . Now let us step into the drawing room. Be careful of the broken porcelain.”
The walls were hung with oil paintings and tapestries, while the far end of the room was dominated by an elaborate organ on a dais, above which were four portraits. Besides the bearded Frederick there were a Civil War officer, a dapper Edwardian chap, and a contemporary businessman in banker’s gray, double-breasted.
“The four generations,” my guide explained. “Frederick’s son was named Charles. We call him Charles the Connoisseur. After the war, in which he fought heroically, he acquired the old masters you see in this room, and the Gobelin tapestries, and the signed French furniture. Also the rare reed organ. They’re all identified in our catalog, which sells for three dollars, but I’ll give you a copy … . Oh, dear! There’s blood all over thisvaluable Aubusson. Do you think the rug cleaners will be able to get it out? Marmalade has been licking his claws all morning. I think it was the taste of human blood that drove him out of his head.”
My efforts to interject a question or a comment went ignored as Ms. Finney led the way into the next room.
“Now we come to the third generation,” she said. “Theo was a world traveler and big-game hunter. Also a bit of a playboy like his grandfather, but don’t print that. Shot himself in India—not accidentally, they say. This is the gentlemen’s smoking room.”
On the tooled leather walls were mounted animal heads of every exotic species, as well as primitive hunting spears. The orange cat was still following us and was now smelling my shoes and making a disagreeable face.
“Kitty, stop that!” my guide scolded. “It’s not proper! Go and watch a mousehole … . To continue: the fourth generation established the fine library across the hall—thousands of rare books and first editions. Philip the Philanthropist, we named him. He and his charming wife, Margaret, deeded this house to the Historical Society when they disinherited their son. A tragic situation! He was their only child. Dennis the Disappointment, our custodian calls him. Dennis is in prison now, and we all feel more comfortable knowing he’s behind bars. Please don’t print that, however.”