I stared in wonder at the huge house. As we neared, the house grew larger, consuming the view ahead of the car. In the winding ride up the main drive, I counted thirteen chimneys across the expansive rooftop. The house was, for lack of a better word, monstrous.
I did not find these mandatory travel assignments particularly enjoyable. It was my assumption that family men from the company were not chosen for these assignments due to the strain it placed on the relations at home. As a bachelor without siblings or living parents, I was routinely selected. As much as I disagreed with their methods, I approached every travel assignment with great speed and efficiency. It was my belief that the proper end to any demanding assignment was an orderly stack of detailed reports and a quick journey home.
Upon arrival, I was met at the door by Barnabas, a bent, ruddy-faced man who was acting as caretaker to the interior of the estate since just after the passing of Dr. Whateley. That evening, Barnabas gave me a quick tour of the common areas about the house. He made sure that I was comfortable with the provisions in the kitchen and showed me to my room. Exhausted from my day of travel, I put myself to bed and slept somewhat soundly through the night.
In the morning, just after a small breakfast of eggs, sausages and tea, Barnabas allowed me access to the libraries, offices, and private rooms in the house. As I was introduced to the vast assortment of books and oddities collected by the late Dr. Whateley, I found myself wide-eyed and speechless.
It was a museum of horrors. The rooms were filled with ancient books of strange language and origin, occult statuary, weird tapestries, ceremonial weapons, idols and charms depicting bizarre sea creatures, and wall sculptures too vulgar to ponder for any length of time. The only area of the house that I was not allowed to access was the cellar. But after viewing the contents of the private rooms, I did not wish to journey past the locked cellar door for any reason. I would gladly confine my efforts to the main floors of the house. I swallowed my fears and set to work.
Competent and professional as I was, I felt quickly out of my depth with the assets found in the Whateley house and jotted off a nervous message back to the company for immediate aid. Within a day, I received a telegram in reply. Their message stated that assistance would be sent from a sister company in the Innsmouth region. I was to expect a young woman familiar with the type of property on the estate. She would be most willing to help.
As I began pouring over stacks of ancient books and rooms of puzzling old relics, I wondered just what kind of woman would be familiar with the contents of this atrocious collection — and would I actually want to meet such a person.
On the morning the assistant from Innsmouth came to the Whateley estate, I was working over a new stack of tomes, found in one of a number of old trunks. Although seawater or some such corrosive had eaten away at the locks, I managed to pry the trunks open one-by-one. In the first trunk was a collection of thirty-three leather-bound books that consisted of a few journals, a handful of tomes on occult philosophy, and an assortment of other books so arcane and baffling that I didn’t know quite what to make of them. All were wrapped in a wine-colored ceremonial robe that was adorned with a bizarre assortment of dark runes and symbols. I was nearly at wit’s end. Who were the Whateleys? What did they do here? In my unprepared mind, I couldn’t add it all up. That’s when she arrived.
Barnabas showed the assistant into the house and escorted her to the second floor library where I was working. I was immediately consumed by her appearance. She was uncommonly beautiful. But something about her didn’t look right. She was fashionably thin, but not gaunt. She had a full mouth and lips, high cheekbones, a well-defined jaw line, and a sharp nose. Her skin was pale, almost winter white, but her eyes were large and dark and deep.
Barnabas offered to take her overcoat. As she slipped from the sleeves, I stole a glance at her modest bust and shapely figure. She was dressed smartly. Beneath her two-button double-breasted slate gray overcoat, she wore a thin white blouse with small silver buttons. Her gray cotton skirt widened softly below the hip and reached only to mid-calf. She wore no jewelry and no wedding ring. Adding to the striking nature of her appearance, she allowed her silky, bone-white hair to hang down to her shoulders; this was unfashionably casual for a professional of her gender.
She stepped cautiously into the room, her expression blank; her eyes blinked and flitted from one pile of books and relics to another. She looked at me.
“Are you Mr. Combs, the executor on the premises?” she asked, in a deep, resonating voice marked with a strange, cold accent. Was it Bulgarian? Romanian?
“Yes. That’s me,” I replied, standing up from the trunk of odd books.
“I was told that you are having trouble with the assets on the property. What are you attempting to do here, Mr. Combs?”
“I am here to wind up the estate for the late Dr. Whateley, catalog his earthly assets, and protect his property until all debts and taxes have been settled.” I put out my hand to shake with her, or kiss her hand, depending on how she offered hers to me.
She stared intently at me, unmoving, silent. She was like a life-sized porcelain doll with eyes painted in India ink.
“And you are —” I began.
“I understand now,” she said, cutting me short. “I can help you with the identification of the items on the property. I have some experience.”
“What exactly is your background, Miss—?” I trailed off, still not knowing her name.
“I was sent here from Ithaqua Holdings in Innsmouth.”
I leaned slightly forward and raised an eyebrow, still hanging on my last question.
The woman appeared puzzled by this motion. Then, apparently realizing her fault, she grimaced slightly and reached out to shake my hand.
“You may call me Anna,” she said.
I thanked her and accepted her handshake. Her fingers were as cold as river stones, but her eyes were marvelously deep and inviting.
Feeling quite a bit better about having some attractive company in this strange inventory, I called for Barnabas to make some tea and we went to work.
Although Anna was certainly possessed of odd demeanor and not one to make casual conversation, the following three days were most productive. Anna explained that the strange books and relics about the estate were tied to Dr. Whateley’s interest in the arcane study of something called cosmicism. I couldn’t comprehend any of what the artifacts suggested — and I didn’t care. My interest was only in making certain that they all made the inventory and the final report, so that I could leave the Whateley estate forever.
We worked from very early in the morning until late in the evening. Anna was perfectly capable of dictating the details on each and every item with extraordinary efficiency. I followed along dutifully behind her, taking my notes, checking items off my list. While Anna moved about the rooms and was distracted by the work at hand, I would occasionally sneak glances at her legs, the bare flesh at her neckline, and the slight curve of her hips.
At the end of the fourth day, I was genuinely satisfied with the rate at which the inventory was progressing. Our work would be completed in less than a week. Happy to be on track with our deadline, I invited Anna to join me for a late dinner on the balcony of the fourth floor library. This was Dr. Whateley’s private library and the balcony commanded a marvelous view of the river. Looking down some ninety feet below the balcony, we could see the base of the hill where the waters pooled up into a deep, dark lake.
Barnabas was good enough to serve us upstairs and we dined on the balcony overlooking the slow-churning waters below. It was a light meal of toasted bread with butter, a tomato salad, and whole grilled sardines. To round out our celebratory meal, Barnabas selected a lovely little bottle of white wine from down in the locked cellar.