“Professor Moore is very interested in folklore,” he said, apparently resigning himself. That wasn’t an accurate description at all, but it seemed to clear up Denton’s confusion, so Sam let it go.

“Well, I don’t know all the details,” Denton began. “It was a bit before my time—although I’ll bet it’s hard for you youngsters to believe that there ever was a time before my time!”

“Yes, yes,” Sam said. “The story.”

“Well, the rumor is that sometime in the twenties—this was still when the de Boers owned the house, you understand—the family was having an enormous house party. At the time they were very well connected—of course, the next generation lost everything, had it all in Ohio Life, more fools they, but that wasn’t until ’57—so they invited the cream of New York society up to the house for the weekend. It was going to be the party of the decade.”

He paused as their waiter set new drinks down on the table and made gentle inquiries about the state of the meal. Sam flipped his napkin over and started writing down the details of the story.

Denton took a long draught of his whiskey. “Where was I?”

“Party of the decade,” Sam repeated.

“Right. So Friday night, after everyone had arrived and gathered downstairs for the opening party, suddenly they discover all the doors of the house have been locked. They’re trapped. They can’t get out.”

“There being no windows on the entire floor,” Henry murmured into his glass of water. Sam scowled at him.

“So they’re panicking, and before they know it, smoke starts to come down from the top floor, and a man appears, wielding an axe. Turns out he was a radical from one of the nearby towns and he’d gotten it into his head to behead the aristocracy, just like they did in France a few decades earlier.”

He took another drink and set his glass down dramatically on the table. “Murdered three people that night,” he said. “Before the fire got him. The servants got the family out through the basement, see, and locked the doors behind them, so he was the one that was trapped. Burned himself alive, in the end. They say he walks the halls of Liefdehuis still, looking for more aristocrats to murder.”

Sam nodded as he finished writing down the story. “Classic,” he said. “Follows a lot of traditional story points. A dead murderer, hungry for blood. Excellent.”

“Wonderful,” Henry said. “What a delightful tale, Mr. Denton. Now that we’ve all had such a nice break, I wonder if we could turn back to—”

“You said it’s this Mrs. Webster who owns the house?” Sam said, standing. “What a fortuitous circumstance.”

“Yes,” the old man agreed. “Although no one’s kept it for more than—I say, Professor Moore—”