Read Murder Among the Angels for Free Online Page B

dimensions.”
    “I understand the Nazis did the same thing,” said Jerry.
    “Exactly,” said Lister. “To determine who was an Aryan and who wasn’t. They even used some of the same instruments.”
    “That’s what doesn’t make sense to me about it,” Charlotte said. “Isn’t it terribly deterministic? I mean: what about the poor bloke who was born with bumps indicating a criminal personality? Was there any hope for him?”
    “Fowler would have said not, although people did try to alter their skulls,” Lister said. He led them to yet another shelf. “This is a display of the special hats and lotions that were used to develop the desirable parts of the brain, and hence the cranial contours.” Lister bowed again, this time to Charlotte. “Forgive me, Miss Graham,” he said. “But you speak as if we view things differently today. I would argue that physiognomy is just as much destiny now as it was then, perhaps even more so.”
    “What do you mean?” Jerry asked.
    “Only that we’re just as likely to judge a person by appearances now as we were then, except that instead of using cranial protuberances as our measure, we judge people by youthfulness of appearance, or amount of hair.”
    “By that measure, I’m losing ground quickly, and you’re out of the game altogether,” said Jerry.
    Lister smiled.
    He was perfectly right, Charlotte thought. Why else was she here in the first place than to improve her chances of success by improving her appearance?
    “The standards by which people are judged may change, but the need to judge remains the same. Take the nose, for instance: Roman, aquiline, turned-up—all have been in fashion at one time or another. Case in point,” he said, heading toward a door to the right of the stairwell.
    “Where to now?” asked Jerry.
    “My sculpture gallery,” he replied. Opening a set of double doors, he led them into the room that comprised the third quadrant of the ground floor, the most striking feature of which was a larger-than-life marble statue of a beautiful angel with long, flowing hair and outstretched wings.
    “Here we have the late nineteenth-century ideal of feminine beauty: low forehead; level eyebrows; wide, almond-shaped eyes; high cheekbones; long nose; strong jaw. I think she’s gorgeous, but that’s because, being a sculptor, I like strong features. I don’t think most people today would think so.”
    Charlotte looked up at the statue, which loomed over the room like the Nike of Samothrace over the stairwell in the Louvre. The face was curiously androgynous—it could have belonged to a man or a woman—but it had a heroic beauty. “Were you the sculptor?” she asked.
    “No. My father was. But I’ve carved seven exactly like her.” He explained: “The plans for the Zion Hill Church call for twenty-four identical angels to be mounted above the nave arcade. But my father had only carved six when he died. I picked up where he left off.”
    “That means you still have eleven to go,” Jerry said.
    He nodded. “I do them when I have the time.” He looked up at the angel’s face. “I keep her here as my model. The real model was Lillian Archibald, who was one of the daughters of the founder of Zion Hill. She was a famous beauty of her day. My father was in love with this face. As, I think, am I.”
    “She’s exquisite,” Charlotte said.
    “Yes,” Lister agreed, staring up at the statue. “Look at that jaw! Society doesn’t have the same appreciation for beauty that it once did. The face that’s considered beautiful today is too perfect. No one part stands out more than any other. In my opinion, the result is bland, bland, bland.”
    Charlotte had to agree. She couldn’t see the appeal of the models who were being held up as today’s great beauties.
    “Now Lillian’s era!” Lister continued. “That was an era in which beauty was appreciated. Crawford: what a face. Bacall. Graham.” His devilish eyes twinkled at Charlotte. “If I