Houses of Stone (46 page)

For a while there was no sound except the patter of rain against the window. Then Peggy muttered, in obvious chagrin, "And I call myself
a historian! The clothes in that trunk were Late Victorian in style, so the manuscript must have been hidden
after
that time. Well, there won't be any difficulty identifying Ismene now. Her sister was Eliza's mother. Hand me my briefcase, will you, please?"

Karen obliged. It didn't take Peggy long to find the genealogy. She was as methodical about her work as she was careless about her personal property. "Here she is. Helena Cabot, wife of Frederick."

"Her brothers and sisters aren't listed." Karen craned her neck
to
see over Peggy's shoulder.

"Well, you knew that. I understand how you feel," Peggy said with a wry smile. "We're so close now, closer than we ever hoped; and yet we still don't know Ismene's real name. But now we know her last name, and we can go on from there."

"Cabot's an awfully common name," Karen muttered.

"Not as bad as Smith. And it's commoner in New England than in the South."

"That's right," Karen exclaimed. "And according to the manuscript, Ismene's father came from 'a northern city.' "

"Interesting," Peggy muttered. "Am I stretching things, or is Helena's name significant?"

"You probably are stretching things. But . . . Peggy, look at the dates. Helena was two years older than her husband. Edmund was born after Ismene and Clara's mother left her husband, so he would have been ..."

"Younger than either of the girls," Peggy finished. "So—how much of the novel is autobiographical?"

"We'll never know. We don't even know how it ended."

"Ah, but we can make some educated guesses." Peggy's eyes gleamed. Karen recognized the look; it was the pleasurable anticipation of scholarly speculation. Peggy went on, "If those bones are Ismene's—"

"There should be enough left to indicate sex, age and race. If they are those
of
a female Caucasian under thirty, she's the most logical candidate. Her body was never found, remember." Karen stared at her clenched hands. "Of course we can't be certain until the experts have examined them. I don't know anything about anthropology. I'm jumping to the wildest of all possible conclusions."

"But you're sure, aren't you?"

"Yes," Karen said quietly. "I'm sure."

Peggy nodded thoughtfully. "All right, let's accept that as a working hypothesis. Let's also accept the likelihood that the book had a happy ending; most of the novels of that type did. Even if Ismene the heroine met a tragic end, it would be too much of a coincidence to suppose the author died in exactly the same way as her heroine. However, Eliza did read the ending, and it horrified her so much she tried to burn the manuscript because it 'cast a stain' on her mother. Suppose it described a murderous attack on Ismene by her own sister? The novel would mirror reality to that extent at least—not the manner of Ismene's death but the motive for it."

"Motive," Karen repeated stupidly. She couldn't deal with the problem as dispassionately as Peggy.

"You can't get around it," Peggy insisted. "If those are Ismene's remains, she was deliberately murdered. If she had been crawling around in the tunnel involved in some kind of antiquarian research and died of natural causes, they'd have gone looking for her and removed her body. She was trying to get out; that's the only logical reason for her to be there. Someone had shut her up in her own house of stone, and barred the door."

"And invented a story about her falling off the cliff in order to explain her disappearance." Karen shivered. "It fits, doesn't it?"

"Could Clara have managed that by herself?"

"It would have been easy." Karen's lips twisted. "Ismene must have had a key; she wouldn't leave the place unlocked, not with her private papers and books there. But when
she
was there, she'd have no reason to lock herself in, would she? She may have been in the habit of leaving the key in the lock—outside. So ... just turn the key and walk away. No blood or mess, no unpleasant confrontation. The place had been long abandoned, none of the servants went near it. The walls were too thick for cries to be heard ..." She broke off, biting her lip.

Her voice deliberately matter-of-fact, Peggy said, "But Edmund—Frederick—knew about the stone house. Even if he believed his wife's lie about Ismene falling into the river, wouldn't he have gone to the house to retrieve her books and papers? He knew how much they meant to her, and he was fond of her—"

"Are you talking about Edmund or Frederick? We're back to the same question: how much of the novel is autobiographical?"

"Right." Peggy shook her head. "I can't keep them straight. But I still think Frederick must have been involved. Or guilty."

"I'm inclined to agree. But it was her mother, not her father, that Eliza mentioned. Maybe one of them did the actual dirty work and the other was an accessory after the fact. If there was a great deal of money involved, and Ismene was about to marry someone else, on the rebound, Clara would get the whole bundle if her sister died, and a woman's property belonged to her husband. That would give Frederick a strong motive. But we'll probably never know the truth."

"This answers all the other questions, though." Peggy shook her head. "To think this diary was lying there, in the box, while we were speculating and guessing! Eliza must have had the poems published as a kind of expiation. She wouldn't use her aunt's real name, so she chose that of the heroine of the book. Come to think of it, that's the one question we haven't answered. Why did she call herself Ismene?"

Karen got up and went to the window. The rain had slackened; it slid like tears down the wet pane. She followed the path of one drop with her finger till it melted into the puddle below. " 'There is no triumph in the grave, No victory in death.' She had no patience with the kind of martyrdom Antigone courted. She wouldn't walk meekly to her death. They had to kill her. And she was still fighting, still trying to get out when she died—at the farthest end of that pitiful tunnel, which had been begun and deepened by other prisoners with the same unconquerable will to live."

Peggy cleared her throat. " 'Dying for a cause is just one of those silly notions men come up with. It has always seemed to me more sensible to go on living and
keep on talking.'
"

After a moment Karen turned from the window. Smiling, she said, "Are you composing aphorisms now?"

"No, I read it someplace. It's not a bad motto, though. Keep on talking."

"Ismene would have agreed. That book is her triumph over death and silence. That's why I'm not concerned about her poor bones; she wouldn't have cared about them."

"You are going to get them out, though."

"Not me. Cameron said he'd take care of it."

"Are you going to marry him?"

Karen stared at her friend in openmouthed astonishment. "Good God, no. I hardly know the man. What put that idea into your head?"

"The way he looked at you last night. And you weren't exactly scowling at him."

"I like him a lot," Karen said primly. "And I feel very sorry for him. He's had a hard time and—"

"Good Lord, you sound like Jane Eyre. No, Jane Austen! Jane Eyre had at least the guts to admit she was sexually attracted to Rochester."

"So I'm sexually attracted. A long-term relationship requires a lot more than that. Something may develop," Karen admitted. "But as Joan might say, why should I deprive all those other guys of a chance to win my heart?"

"Huh." Peggy lit another cigarette. "Then I guess it's up to me to provide a romantic ending. Though it's going to look more like Abbott and Costello than Bacall and Bogart."

"You and Simon are going to be married?"

"I guess so." Peggy shrugged. "He's such a stickin-the-mud he won't consider any other arrangement. Wanna be maid of honor?"

"I'd rather be best mensch."

"Fine with me," Peggy said, laughing. "What are you going to do about Bill Meyer?"

"I'll think of something."

"Something with boiling oil in it?"

"Oh, no," Karen said gently. "Nothing as nice as boiling oil."

"He was also the burglar, I suppose."

"I've always believed that. He pushed Dorothea's guilt too hard. I don't think she could have climbed in that window, she's not exactly built like Jane Fonda. And it's easy to spray yourself with perfume. I imagine he lured Dorothea down here so she could be a suspect. The fire scared the hell out of him, though; he thought she set it and he started feeling like Dr. Frankenstein. That's why he's been so incredibly civil and helpful lately."

"Dorothea didn't set the fire."

"Go ahead, astonish me," Karen said. "I suppose it wasn't Bobby either."

"I shall now proceed to force a confession from the culprit," Peggy announced, reaching for the phone. "And finish another little matter I promised myself I'd tend to before I left town."

After she had finished the conversation she turned a self-satisfied smile on Karen. "I thought she'd crumple under pressure. The woman's got no guts."

"You flat-out lied!" Karen exclaimed. "There was no witness. There couldn't have been!"

"She doesn't know that. She was blind drunk. To do the damned woman justice, she thought you weren't there. She was tucked up in bed boozing when I dropped you off, and your car wasn't in the garage." Peggy leaned back, smiling smugly. "I don't think she'll give Cameron any more trouble. Poor guy, he's had more than he deserves. You're sure you don't—"

"I'm sure," Karen said firmly.

The screen door opened. Simon came out and settled himself in the chair next to Peggy's. He didn't kiss her or take her hand, but the glances
they exchanged brought an odd but pleasant lump to Karen's throat.

"Where's Cameron?" she asked, not so inconsequentially.

"He insisted on bringing the tray," Simon replied. "The man is unnaturally well-mannered, Karen. Can't you do something about that?"

"I'm working on it."

Peggy lowered her voice and glanced over her shoulder. "So how's it going? Are you two—"

Simon's exclamation of protest blended with Karen's laughter. "Stop pushing, Peggy. I'm in no hurry, and neither is he. We've both got a lot of emotional baggage to get rid of before we make any decisions."

"How very cool and mature," Peggy said, wrinkling her nose. "All I was going to say was: Are you two having fun?"

"Oh, that." Karen smiled reminiscently. "I am, and I believe I am safe in stating that he—"

She broke off as Cameron backed through the door carrying a tray. Depositing it on the table, he reached for the bottle. "Shall I open it?"

"I'll do it," Simon said irritably. "Sit down and behave like a guest."

Cameron joined Karen on the swing and took one of her hands in his. Most of the cuts and scrapes had healed; Karen ran a caressing finger along one white scar.

"Champagne?" she asked, as the cork flew into the shrubbery. "Celebrating early, are we?"

"This is a celebration of quite another kind," Simon said, pouring. Cameron jumped up to take two of the glasses from him. Simon handed one to Peggy and then, still on his feet, raised his own glass. "To Ismene," he said solemnly. "May she rest in peace."

Cameron had brought the pathologist's report with him when he arrived that morning. It had taken a while to get it; antique bones did not have a high priority.

Peggy was the first to break the thoughtful silence. "Where are you going to put them—her?"

"In the old cemetery," Cameron said. "We can't be one hundred percent certain of the identification, of course, but it's good enough for me. I thought I'd put up a stone of some kind."

"Absolutely," Peggy said. "Can I suggest an epitaph? It won't be 'rest in peace.' That wasn't her style."

"What did you have in mind?" Simon asked apprehensively.

Peggy grinned at Karen, who grinned back. "Keep on talking," they said in chorus.

"She'll do that, certainly," Cameron said, after Simon's scandalized protests had died away. "How much of her story are you going to include in the introduction, Karen?"

She turned her head to look at him. He was frowning a little. "I wish I could say that's up to you, Cameron," she said gently. "But I can't. I have to tell the truth as I see it."

Cameron's frown deepened. "Of course. Did you think I was suggesting you falsify the facts to spare some sort of meaningless family pride? What kind of a pompous ass do you take me for?"

"I'm sorry," Karen began.

"I thought I'd never see the day!" Peggy exclaimed. "She's apologizing and he's talking back. Are you guys going to have a fight? Can I join in?"

"Depends on whose side you're on," Cameron said.

"Yours."

"Oh, well, in that case . . ."He put an arm around Karen's shoulders and pulled her closer.

"It isn't that simple." Simon was obviously trying to keep the conversation on a sensible plane. "How much of the truth do we know? Legally one cannot slander the dead, but morally one would not wish to make accusations when the accused cannot defend himself."

"Or herself." Karen raised her head from Cameron's shoulder. "I have to present all the evidence, though. Some of the true history of these people is paralleled by the plot of the novel. Ismene's name was Cassandra Cabot—another name from Greek literature, you notice. Her father was born in Boston, but at some point he moved to Charleston, South Carolina, because that was where he died. We know he was a widower, and that he left two daughters. There was no record of a will, so he may have died intestate. We know nothing of what happened to the girls after that, until 1820, when Helena married Frederick Cartright."

"None of that has anything to do with Ismene's—Cassandra's— death," Simon objected. "You can't offer a motive for murder; you don't know the size of Mr. Cabot's estate, and you've absolutely no reason to suppose that Mrs. Cabot didn't die a natural death in Boston or Charleston."

"I'm not a prosecutor in a court of law," Karen retorted. "Just a poor hard-working scholar. I don't have to produce evidence."

There was one kind of evidence she would not, could not mention, without destroying her reputation. In her own mind however, it was irrefutable. There had been something in the attic of that terrible old house—some thing, or someone, who had suffered and despaired and died without forgiveness or reconciliation. She could never prove it; she did not want to prove it. She could only pray the remnant of that suffering was impersonal, an echo of past pain and not the bodiless survivor of it.

A slight, almost imperceptible shiver ran through her, and Cameron's arm tightened its grasp. He knew about the cold in the attic; it had been a step forward in their relationship when he had been able to admit he had felt it too and had found it so unbearable he had hired workmen to carry the contents of the attic to a lower floor.

"Stop hassling Karen, Simon; she'll do a proper job," Peggy ordered. "Let's talk about something more cheerful. Such as how many more people have you invited since yesterday?"

"Only one but he's not coming," Simon said. "He got back from England three days ago, and he was too—"

"Not Bill Meyer!" Peggy exclaimed. "Simon, how could you?"

"He's not coming, I said. Why shouldn't I have asked him?"

"After he bribed that moronic Bobby to pretend to run Karen down so he could heroically save her life, and broke into the apartment trying to steal the manuscript—"

"You have absolutely no proof of that," Simon declared. "Professor Meyer's manner was completely open and forthright. He asked me to convey his best wishes and regrets ..." He stopped, his mouth ajar.

"That's about as close to a confession as we'll ever get from Bill Meyer," Peggy declared.

"Good heavens," Simon muttered. "It never occurred to me that ... I thought he was making a tactful and manly reference to his—er—broken heart. He certainly gave me the impression—"

"Oh, I think he was beginning to harbor the delusion that he was in love with me," Karen said calmly. "At least I hope he was. It would add a particularly sweet tang to my revenge."

A smile curved her lips as she told the others of her meeting with Dorothea Angelo.

Angelo had been deeply suspicious but too curious to decline Karen's invitation. They had met at a restaurant in D.C.—neutral ground—and the expedition had taken an entire day of Karen's time. It had been worth it, though.

"I don't suppose you're going to offer me a chance to help you edit the manuscript." Dorothea had opened the conversation with that remark; meaningless courtesies weren't her style.

"No. Would you like a glass of wine? Lunch is on me."

Dorothea's blackened brows lowered. "What are you up to, Holloway?"

"I wish to see justice done," Karen said solemnly.

It had been glorious to watch Dorothea's face as she heard, in the most lurid terms Karen could invent, how Bill Meyer had set her up, and worth every penny of the very expensive lunch Dorothea consumed as she listened. They had shared a carafe of wine. Karen had one glass. At the end of the conversation she raised it. "Shall we drink confusion to a certain person?" she asked.

"Damned right." Dorothea had chewed most of her lipstick off, and her expression would have sent small children howling for their mothers. She refilled her glass. "You're not such a bad sort, Holloway," she said awkwardly. "Thanks."

"What for?"

"For believing me when I said I didn't do those things. And for telling me how that bastard Meyer tried to use me. Don't worry, I'll take care of him."

"And I'm sure she will." Karen finished her story, while the others stared at her in horrified fascination. "She's the worst gossip in the M.L.A. and by the time she gets through embroidering the story it will make Bill look like an even greater horse's behind than he actually is."

Cameron drew a long breath and pretended to flinch away from her. "Remind me never to do anything to irritate you."

"That was brilliant," Peggy declared respectfully. "Absolutely inspired. You deserve a medal."