"You think that's the answer, do you?" Fischer sounded dubious.
"Of course," said Barrett. "The breakdown of an antique generator can scarcely be classified as a psychic phenomenon."
"What are we going to do?" asked Edith. "Stay in Caribou Falls until the new generator is installed?"
"That might take days," said Barrett. "We'll use candles until it arrives."
"Candles," Edith said.
Barrett smiled at her expression. "Just for a day or so."
She nodded, her returned smile wan. Barrett looked inside the house. "The question now," he said, "is how do we find some candles? I assume there must be some inside - " He broke off, looking at the flashlight Fischer had taken out of his coat pocket. " Ah," he said.
Fischer switched on the flashlight, pointed the beam inside, then, bracing himself, stepped acoss the threshold.
Barrett went in next. He stepped through the doorway, seemed to listen briefly. Turning then, he extended his hand to Edith.
She entered the house, clutching at his hand. "That smell," she said. "It's even worse than outside."
"It's a very old house with no aeration," Barrett said. "It could also be the furnace, which hasn't been used in more than twenty-nine years." He turned to Florence. "Coming, Miss Tanner?" he asked.
She nodded, smiling faintly. "Yes." She took a deep breath, held herself erect, and stepped inside. She looked around. "The atmosphere in here - " She sounded queasy.
"An atmosphere of this world, not the next," said Barrett dryly.
Fischer played the flashlight beam around the dark immensity of the entry hall. The narrow cone of light jumped fitfully from place to place, freezing momentarily on hulking groups of furniture; huge, leaden-colored paintings; giant tapestries filmed with dust; a staircase, broad and curving, leading upward into blackness; a second-story corridor overlooking the entry hall; and far above, engulfed by shadows, a vast expanse of paneled ceiling.
"Be it ever so humble," Barrett said.
"It isn't humble at all," said Florence. "It reeks of arrogance."
Barrett sighed. "It reeks, at any rate." He looked to his right. "According to the floor plan, the kitchen should be that way."
Edith walked beside him as they started across the entry hall, the sound of their footsteps loud on the hardwood floor.
Florence looked around. "It knows we're here," she said.
"Miss Tanner - " Barrett frowned. "Please don't think I'm trying to restrict you - "
"Sorry." Florence said. "I'll try to keep my observations to myself."
They reached a corridor and walked along it, Fischer in the lead, Barrett and Edith behind him, Florence last. At the end of the corridor stood a pair of metal-faced swinging doors. Fischer pushed one of them open and stepped into the kitchen, holding the door ajar for the others. When all of them had gone inside, he let the door swing back and turned.
"Good Lord." Edith's eyes moved with the flashlight beam as Fischer shifted it around the room.
The kitchen was twenty-five by fifty feet, its perimeter rimmed by steel counters and dark-paneled cupboards, a long, double-basin sink, a gigantic stove with three ovens, and a massive walk-in refrigerator. In the center of the room, like a giant's steel-topped casket, stood a huge steam table.
"He must have entertained a good deal," Edith said.
Fischer pointed the flashlight at the large electric wall clock above the stove. Its hands were stopped at 7:31. A.M. or P.M., and on what day? Barrett wondered as he limped along the wall to his right, pulling open drawers. Edith and Florence stood together, watching him. Barrett pulled open one of the cupboard doors and grunted as Fischer shone the light over. "Genuine spirits," he said, looking at the shelves of dust-filmed bottles. "Perhaps we'll raise some after supper."
Fischer pulled a sheet of yellow-edged cardboard from one of the drawers and pointed the flashlight at it.
"What's that?" Barrett asked.
"One of their menus, dated March 27, 1928. Shrimp bisque. Sweetbreads in gravy. Stewed capon. Bread sauce in gravy.
Creamed cauliflower. For dessert, amandes en cr��
me: crushed almonds in whipped egg whites and heavy cream."
Barrett chuckled. "His guests must have all had heartburn."
"The food wasn't aimed at their hearts," said Fischer, taking a box of candles from the drawer.
12:19 P.M.
They started back across the entry hall, each carrying a candle in a holder. As they moved, the flickering illumination made their shadows billow on the walls and ceiling.
"This must be the great hall over here," said Barrett.
They moved beneath an archway six feet deep and stopped, Edith and Florence gasping almost simultaneously. Barrett whistled softly as he raised his candle for a maximum of light.
The great hall measured ninety-five by forty-seven feet, its walls two stories high, paneled in walnut to a height of eight feet, rough-hewn blocks of stone above. Across from where they stood was a mammoth fireplace, its mantel constructed of antique carved stone.
The furnishings were all antique except for scattered chairs and sofas upholstered in the fashion of the twenties. Marble statues stood on pedestals in various locations. In the northwest corner was an ebony concert grand piano, and in the center of the hall stood a circular table, more than twenty feet across, with sixteen high-backed chairs around it and a large chandelier suspended over it. Good place to set up my equipment, Barrett thought; the hall had obviously been cleaned. He lowered his candle. "Let's push on," he said.
They left the great hall, moved across the entry hall, beneath the overhanging staircase, and turned right into another corridor. Several yards along its length, they reached a pair of swinging walnut doors set to their left. Barrett pushed one in and peered inside. "The theater," he said.
They went inside, reacting to the musty smell. The theater was designed to seat a hundred people, its walls covered with an antique red brocade, its sloping, three-aisled floor with thick red carpeting. On the stage, gilded Renaissance columns flanked the screen, and spaced along the walls were silver candelabra wired for electricity. The seats were custom-made, upholstered with wine-red velvet.
"Just how wealthy was Belasco?" Edith asked.
"I believe he left in excess of seven million dollars when he died," Barrett answered.
"Died?" said Fischer. He held open one of the doors.
"If there's anything you care to tell us . . ."
Barrett said as he stepped into the corridor.
"What's to tell? The house tried to kill me; it almost succeeded."
Barrett looked as though he meant to speak. Then he changed his mind and peered down the corridor. "I think that staircase leads down to the pool and steam room," he said. "No point in going there until the electricity's on." He limped across the corridor and opened a heavy wooden door.
"What is it?" Edith asked.
"Looks like a chapel."
"A chapel? " Florence looked appalled. As she neared the door, she started making sounds of apprehension in her throat.
Edith glanced at her uneasily.
"Miss Tanner?" Barrett said.
She didn't answer. Almost to the door, she held back.
"Better not," said Fischer.
Florence shook her head. "I must." She began to enter.
With a faint, involuntuy cry, she shrank back. Edith started. "What is it?" Florence was unable to reply. She sucked in breath and shook her head with tiny movements. Barrett put his hand on Edith's arm. She looked at him and saw his lips frame the words, "It's all right."
"I can't go in," Florence said, as though apologizing. "Not now, anyway." She swallowed. "The atmosphere is more than I can bear."
"We'll only be a moment," Barrett told her.
Florence nodded, turning away.
As she went inside the chapel, Edith braced herself, expecting a shock of some kind. Feeling nothing, she turned to Lionel in confusion, started to speak, then waited until they were apart from Fischer. "Why couldn't she come in?" she whispered then.
"Her system is attuned to psychic energy," Barrett explained. "Obviously it's very strong in here."
"Why here?"
"Contrast, perhaps. A church in hell; that sort of thing."
Edith nodded, glancing back at Fischer. "Why doesn't it bother him?" she asked.
"Perhaps he knows how to protect himself better than she does."
Edith nodded again, stopping as Lionel did to look around the low-ceilinged chapel. There were wooden pews for fifty people. In front was an altar; above it, glinting in the candlelight, a life-size, flesh-colored figure of Jesus on the cross.
"It looks like a chapel," she started to say, breaking off in shock as she saw that the figure of Jesus was naked, an enormous phallus jutting upward from between the legs. She made a sound of revulsion, staring at the obscene crucifix. The air seemed suddenly thick, coagulating in her throat.
Now she noticed that the walls were covered with pornographic murals. Her eye was caught by one on her right, depicting a mass orgy involving half-clothed nuns and priests. The faces on the figures were demented - leering, slavering, darkly flushed, distorted by maniacal lust.
"Profanation of the sacred," Barrett said. "A venerable sickness."
"He was sick," Edith murmured.
"Yes, he was." Barrett took her arm. As he escorted her along the aisle, Edith saw that Fischer had already left.
They found him in the corridor.
" She's gone," he said.
Edith stared at him. "How can she - ?" She broke off looking around.
"I'm sure it's nothing," Barrett said.
" Are you?" Fischer sounded angry.
"I'm sure she's all right," said Barrett firmly. "Miss Tannet!" he called. "Come along, my dear." He started down the corridor.
"Miss Tanner!" Fischer followed him without making a sound.
"Lionel, why would she - ?"
"Let's not jump to conclusions," Barrett said. He called again. "Miss Tanner! Can you hear me?"
As they reached the entry hall, Edith pointed. There was candlelight inside the great hall.
"Miss Tanner!" Barrett called.
"Yes!"
Barrett smiled at Edith, then glanced over at Fischer. Fischer's expression had not relaxed.
She was standing on the far side of the hall. Their footsteps clicked in broken rhythm on the floor as they crossed to her.
"You shouldn't have done that, Miss Tanner," Barrett said. "You caused us undue alarm."
"I'm sorry," Florence said, but it was only a token apology. "I heard a voice in here."
Edith shuddered.
Florence gestured toward the piece of furniture she was standing beside, a phonograph installed inside a walnut Spanish cabinet. Reaching down to its turntable, she lifted off a record and showed it to them. "It was this."
Edith didn't understand. "How could it play without electricity?"
"You forget they used to wind up phonographs." Barrett set his candle holder on top of the cabinet and took the record from Florence. "Homemade," he said.
"Belasco."
