Houses of Stone (27 page)

"That's far enough. The book couldn't have been written before then. Why are you so set on tracing the ownership of the house?"

"I don't like unfinished business. However, there's not much I can do about it unless I spend a lot of time and effort trying other sources. So I spent the rest of the day looking up birth and death certificates. I managed to fill in a number of blanks on the genealogy."

She stubbed out her cigarette and turned so that she could unfold the papers. "Don't worry, I made copies before I started scribbling on them," she said, anticipating Karen's objection. "Here's the second generation. As you might expect, a lot of the poor little devils died in infancy. Three of the girls survived, one to the ripe old age of seventy-four. She must have been a tough old bird; she managed to outlive three husbands, and produced—are you ready for this?—sixteen children."

"My God," Karen breathed.

"You said it. I doubt she's Ismene. Show me a woman who finds time to write while birthing and raising sixteen kids, and I'll introduce you to a real superwoman. One of the other women—Alexandra—died at seventeen. Too young?"

"Almost certainly. But she could be Clara."

"Clara . . . Oh, Ismene's sister. I think you're leaning too heavily on the autobiographical idea, but . . . The other, Ann, was older by two years. She lived to be thirty-seven. Had only two children."

"She was married?"

"That's what women did in those days. Got married. Period." Peggy lit another cigarette and stared thoughtfully out across the garden. The cat had gone, leaving the broken corpses of several hyacinths. "Don't get fixated on a picture of Ismene as a carefree unattached spinster. It happened, but not very often. Most women achieved economic independence by surviving a well-to-do husband. Ismene could have been a widow or even a happily married woman with a husband who was sympathetic to her literary aspirations."

"Fat chance," Karen said cynically. "Even Tom Jefferson, who gave his daughter a classical education, told her she had to learn to sew in order to direct the servants' work." She picked up the papers and leafed through them. "You've only covered one generation."

"The farther back you go, the more fragmentary the records," Peggy explained patiently. "I don't see the sense of spending time and effort on unlikely possibilities. What's your informed, expert opinion on a probable date? You must have some idea by this time."

"I was afraid you were going to ask me that."

"I know you can't be precise within a year or two—"

"Year, hell. I can't even pick a likely decade." Karen shifted position; the wooden steps were hard. "There are too many variables. You've got to allow for originality and individual talent. The style of 'Houses of Stone' is much less artificial and stilted than that of the eighteenth-century Gothics, but the type had almost disappeared, at least in America, by 1800. It was replaced by the sentimental or domestic novel, whose plot elements are entirely different from—"

"Spare me the lecture," Peggy interrupted. "And never mind the cautious academic qualifiers; I'm not one of your critical colleagues. Pick a decade."

"Well." Karen thumbed through the pages of the genealogy. "I'll commit myself to this extent: the women of the second and third generations are the most likely. You can concentrate on them."

"That's some help," Peggy grumbled. "All right, I'll tackle the third generation tomorrow; at least I should be able to eliminate the ones that died young. But bear in mind that there's a limit to what I can do with original historical sources. Some of them just aren't there. I have some hopes for the auction, and for those possibly apocryphal boxes of papers Cameron mentioned. How I'd love to find a family Bible—one of those big heavy tomes with pages for births and deaths. And I intend to have a nice long gossip with your landlady. If I can— Well, well, speak of the devil."

Mrs. Fowler had emerged from the back door. She wore a wide-brimmed hat, tied under her chin with a coquettish bow, and a pair of gloves. At first she appeared not to see them. Hands behind her, she strolled slowly along the walk, pausing from time to time to sniff at a blossom or inspect a clump of what appeared to be violets. When she approached the sundial she let out a squeal and knelt stiffly, fingering
the broken flowers. Her agitated monologue was audible, but Karen could not make out the words. Rising, she stamped her foot and turned, looking around the yard.

"I pity the cat if she gets hold of it," Peggy said with a chuckle. "She's seen us. Hi, there, Mrs. Fowler!" She waved.

Mrs. Fowler waved back, but was apparently too ladylike to imitate Peggy's yell. Crossing the grass she stopped at the hedge that bordered the drive and looked up. "Did you see a cat?" she demanded.

"Why, yes," Peggy answered. "It was lying by the sundial."

"I knew it!" Mrs. Fowler's chins quivered. "I've told the Millers over and over they must keep that beast out of my yard. It digs in the flower beds and—and—uses them as a litter box, and leaves dead moles on my back steps and kills the sweet little birds."

"Sweet little birds my arse," Peggy muttered out of the corner of her mouth. "They make as much mess as a cat—droppings, and piles of seed hulls . . . You notice there's no feeder visible."

She raised her voice and called back, "It's hard to confine cats, Mrs. Fowler. But it's a shame about your pretty flowers. We have been admiring your garden."

"Such a lot of work," Mrs. Fowler sighed, inspecting her gloves, which appeared to be unstained by vulgar dirt. "But worth every bit of it. I derive spiritual sustenance from these lovely blooms. 'One is nearer to God in a garden, Than anywhere else on earth,' you know."

"I'll bet that's the motto on the sundial," Peggy said, in the same ventriloquist's murmur.

"I mustn't stand here shouting," Mrs. Fowler shouted. "That's the sort of vulgar thing the Millers do. But I'm glad I happened to see you, Dr. Holloway; I wanted to tell you the Colonel has kindly offered to drive us to the meeting tomorrow. He'll pick us up at eleven-thirty."

Karen had been enjoying the double-edged conversation; consternation replaced amusement when she heard Mrs. Fowler's offer. She could imagine how the Colonel drove—straight down the middle of the road, through red lights and stop signs. "That's very kind, but unnecessary," she called. "I'll drive you. The meeting isn't at your house, then?"

"Oh, no, my dear, there wouldn't be room. We're expecting a large crowd, with such a distinguished speaker. Our monthly meetings are always at the restaurant. A private room, of course."

"Creamed chicken on toast and petrified peas," murmured Peggy. "Lucky you."

"Are you sure you want to drive?" Mrs. Fowler called. "The Colonel will be happy—"

"Absolutely sure," Karen said firmly. "Can you be ready by eleven? I'd love to have a little chat before we go." Out of the corner of her mouth she mumbled, "How was that?"

Peggy raised her thumbs.

After Mrs. Fowler had retreated, Peggy got to her feet. "My stomach is making noises Mrs. F. would consider vulgar. Where shall we eat?"

"I don't care. Someplace quiet. I have a treat for you—an excerpt from the manuscript. The stone house was Ismene's—a room of her own. The book was probably written there."

The small structure drew her to it. She could think of nothing else. What had been the function of that strange house of stone? Why she thought of it as a house she could not say; the word was inappropriate, with its connotations of a dwelling place, a source of homely comfort. It preyed on her mind to such an extent that one evening, when she and Edmund sat in the library, she spoke to him of it.

They were alone. Clara and Isabella had gone the day before to visit friends of the latter; they would remain, in all probability, for at least two weeks. Ismene had refused the invitation; the alacrity with which her excuses were received, without urging or repetition, assured her that only courtesy had prompted the offer. She did not repine; Clara was lost to her now, unless some sudden change of fortune or of heart should lead her sister back to the love that would never fail. Much more to her taste than empty chatter and laughter were those peaceful hours of companionable silence with one who shared her interests and sympathized with her feelings.

For a time she watched the play of lamplight through his golden curls as he sat with head bent over the volume he was perusing. Not for worlds would she have disturbed his communion with the poet; but at last he closed the volume and turned in his chair. '
7
feel your eyes upon me,'' he said with an affectionate smile. "Are you musing, in your own thoughtful way, on the passages you have read, or does something trouble you? Surely you know you need not hesitate to confide in me.

Thus
encouraged, she told him of her discovery and confessed the inexplicable urge that drew her to the structure. It seemed to her that his brow grew troubled as he listened; yet when she had finished he answered with ready grace. "1 knew of it, yes; but I cannot tell you what its function may have been. It has been long abandoned. A grim, unsightly place; I confess I do not understand your attraction. But, " he went on, "that very attraction is sufficient cause to arouse my interest. We will inspect the place together, shall we? Tomorrow."

This duly ensued; though summer's stifling breath had oppressed the earth for the past weeks, this day might have been stolen from May. Soft breezes caressed their cheeks, and the luxuriant greenery, the fascination of nature brought a smile to Edmund's face as they strolled.

"This is a pleasure, indeed; I am grateful to you,
Ismene,
for forcing me out of my office. I have been bent over my ledgers too long."

"I observed that." She hesitated, unwilling to display vulgar curiosity, but affection conquered delicacy. "I trust, Cousin, that there is nothing in those ledgers that causes you concern. If I can assist in any way
—"

He
pressed the hand that rested on his arm and smiled at her. "You need not assure me of your goodwill or your affection, Ismene. Let me forget the deadly dullness of business for a time. What a heavenly spot! Those grim stone walls are like a blot on a master painting. "

Yet to Ismene there was beauty and meaning in the contrast of rocky harshness and twining greenery. The delicacy of the honeysuckle softened the stone, smothering it in a soft veil of green. That slow, patient growth would triumph in the end over man's intrusion. Here was a living illustration of the Divine promise that the meek should inherit the earth.

“
Strange indeed,'' murmured Edmund, studying the structure with a puzzled frown.
"
Let
us see what is within.

With a strength his slender form did not suggest he put his shoulder to the sagging door and forced it open. ' 'You had best stay back,'' he warned.
“
A regiment of spiders guards the interior.

Nevertheless she came to his side and looked inside.

Only dust and cobwebs met her eyes. The interior, windowless and dark, had been swept clean of visible objects. At first it seemed to her that the floor was of earth, but then she realized that under the dust lay a carpet of cut stone, blocks as massive as those in an antique temple, closely fitted.

"It is like a pagan temple," said Edmund, echoing her thoughts as he so often did. "The innermost sanctuaries of the shrines of Greece and Egypt
were made thus: darkness shrouded the mysteries of those ancient cults.
"

"It
could not have served such a purpose here.''

"Surely not. There is a mystery, however, and it would amuse me to solve it. I will have the place cleared out; perhaps some clue as to its function lies buried under the dust. "

Ismene had not intended to speak, unless to express approbation of his intent. She heard her voice as if it had been that of another. "May I, thereafter, claim it as my own? A private place in which to write and read and reflect?

Astonishment
shaped his features as he drew her away. "This grim, lonely place? There is much to admire in the uncultivated expanses of nature, but it is wild, uncontrolled
—"

“
So must Eden have been,
''
Ismene said. Her hands were clasped so tightly they pained her. "
I
would be alone.

"I see." Thoughtfully he repeated, "Yes, I see. If this is your desire
—"
But
then he broke off with a cry, and caught her up in his arms, swinging her aside; and she heard a rustle of foliage and beheld a sinuous footless form glide through the open doorway into shelter.

“
There is a serpent in your Paradise, Cousin,'' Edmund said with a strange little laugh. "If it offers forbidden fruit, will you resist the tempter?

Karen rolled over onto her back. She had tried every other conceivable sleeping position, and she was still wide awake. She couldn't blame the weather; it was, as Peggy had said, a perfect night for sleeping, cool and crisp as autumn, with a soft breeze stirring the curtains and rustling the leaves.

Nor was it the thought of her "talk" next day that prevented her from sleeping. Stage fright no longer bothered her and she had delivered countless lectures on the immortal Jane, to her own classes and elsewhere.

Could the Screaming Lady be a distorted, romanticized memory of a woman silenced not by nature but by her society? Karen would have liked to believe it—what a subject for an article that would make!—but she couldn't. The symbolism was too subtle, too farfetched. Did the weird story contain the seeds of some actual past event, or was it only another version of a common folk legend? Peggy's admission that she had reached a dead end in tracing the ownership of the house implied a corollary Karen hated to admit. This might be the first of many dead ends. She might never know who Ismene really was.

She forced her tense muscles to relax; she had been lying stiff as a board, fists clenched. Historical research seldom presented neat, unanswerable solutions to problems. Scholars were still arguing about whether Richard III had slaughtered his nephews in the Tower, and how much Mary Stuart knew about the plot that had taken her despised husband's life. She had been unreasonable to expect that a few days or weeks of investigation would provide an answer to the question that had become an obsession. Sharon would probably say she needed counseling. It wasn't "healthy" to care so much about a dead woman.

I don't need a psychologist to explain why I feel that way, she thought, turning onto her side. That same sense of helpless rage, of voicelessness, was familiar to her too, though—thank God and Betty Friedan—not to the same extent. She understood Ismene's need for a place of her own, even a place as forbidding as the abandoned house in the woods. It was desirable because of its very desolation; no one else would claim it.

Did everyone feel that same need for solitude, she wondered, or was it an aberration, experienced by only a small percent of the human race and incomprehensible to the rest? And why was it so difficult to attain? Modern life had added various forms of mechanical intrusion into one's privacy; the very ringing of a telephone was a demand for attention, even if one had enough willpower to ignore it, and automobiles made it easier for friends to drop in and purveyors of goods and services—including purveyors of salvation—to reach one's door. Resentment of intrusion provoked not apology but indignation and hurt feelings. That had been true even in Jane's day, when she sat writing in the parlor, covering her papers when she was interrupted as she so often was. Some people found that picture charming—cute little Jane, curls tied back and slippered feet dangling, looking up with a smile whenever someone popped in to chat. It had always made Karen's blood run cold.

She yawned and stretched and wondered drowsily whether that had ever been used by a mystery writer as a motive for murder: the frantic, frustrated need to be alone. Snatching up the first weapon that came to hand—shotgun or knife, frying pan or baseball bat—striking out in a frenzy, seeing faces turn from smiles to blood-streaked, ruined horror.

Perhaps it had been a motive for murder more frequently than anyone suspected—uncomprehended even by the killer.