Houses of Stone, KATHY [classic literature books TXT] 📗

Karen got out of the car. "Yours is an enlightened, liberated viewpoint, actually," she said demurely. "A lot of male critics consider Jane a prissy, priggish pain in the butt."

"I didn't say she wasn't." His eyes inspected her from the top of her head to her sneakered feet. "Didn't you bring boots? You're going to need them."

"They're in the car."

"Good. The water's gone down, but there's a lot of mud on the floor. And other things."

"I'm not afraid of snakes, if that's what you mean. Or mud."

"Snakes, spiders, rats. Very Gothic." He smiled. "I'm sure you could tackle a tiger single-handed, but I'd prefer to come with you. Can you wait half an hour or so? I want to let the fire die down before I leave it."

He had phrased it as a request, but he had every right to insist on her compliance. It was his house, and his liability, if she accidentally injured herself. She told herself that that was why she acquiesced—not because she was afraid to go alone. But only the need to search for what might be the final proof of her belief that Ferncliffe had been Ismene's home could have forced her to suggest the visit to the cellar. If an empty attic and a harmless woodland path had sent her imagination into overdrive, how would it react to a dank dark underground cavern, the quintessence of Gothic nightmare?

It wouldn't misbehave in his presence, she assured herself. Sheer pride would inhibit another expression of "womanly" squeamishness.

After Cameron had returned to his fire she leaned against the car and studied her notes. In passing, Ismene had mentioned a number of the features of the fictitious house. If they matched the features of the real house, the identification would be strengthened, even if she didn't find what she hoped to find in the cellar.

One difficulty was the question of how much had changed since the early nineteenth century. Karen decided she wouldn't worry about that now. It was a complicated question that might necessitate consulting an expert in architectural restoration. Some parts of the house were obviously relatively late in date; others, like the main block and the long wing jutting out behind it, were just as obviously very old. The house Ismene had described had two such wings. One might have been destroyed, in a fire or otherwise, but there ought to be some traces of it remaining . . .

She was stalling, and she knew it. Sooner or later she would have to face that cold hallway. Squaring her shoulders, she went to the door.

It wasn't as bad as she had feared. Knowing what to expect helped. So did her memory of the dreadful blast in the attic. By comparison, this was like a balmy afternoon in Bermuda.

Still, her fingers were stiff and clumsy with cold when she heard the front door open and Cameron called to her. "Ready when you are."

He studied her clipboard curiously, but said only, "You'd better leave that and your purse in the kitchen. You'll need both hands."

"For climbing the walls in case I'm attacked by a tiger?" Karen inquired. She followed him through the maze of corridors that ended in the kitchen. No question about it, the temperature in this part of the house was a lot more comfortable. "What on earth have you got down there?"

"You'll see. Here." He handed her a flashlight and took another from the same drawer before leading her back toward the front of the house.

She had not noticed the narrow wooden door. It was in a deep alcove under a staircase—not the one in the front hall, another, even narrower, flight that might have been the servants' stairs of the original house. The hinges shrieked when Cameron pulled the door open. Reaching inside, he pressed a light switch.

Why the flashlights? Karen wondered. She started down the steps. They were only boards nailed onto a support, with no risers between. She took hold of the railing and felt it give; Cameron's hand closed firmly over her arm. "It would be a grave error to depend on that," he said. "I haven't got around to replacing it yet."

He held her arm until they reached the bottom of the steps. She was beginning to see why he had told her she would need both hands free. The floor was slimy with a mixture of mud and the crumbled mortar that had fallen from the stone wall. The roughly shaped stones had once been painted. Little of the paint or the mortar remained; the latter substance wasn't modern cement, but a pale-brown, crumbling mixture. It must be part of the original foundations, but only one wall was old. The others looked like partitions of wood or plasterboard. A single bare bulb dangled from the ceiling, which was crisscrossed with a maze of pipes. The only objects visible were an oil tank and a huge antique furnace.

"Where are the tigers?" she asked. "This is no worse than my parents' basement before they installed a sump pump."

"That was one of the useful items Uncle Josiah refused to buy," Cameron said dryly. "He decided it was cheaper to seal this room off and let the rest of the place rot. I presume it's the picturesque part you want to see."

Without waiting for an answer he headed for a door opposite the stairs. It screeched horribly across the floor as he wrenched it open. Karen stepped carefully across a hole in the floor that must act as a drain, and went to Cameron's side.

The stench that issued from the open door, compounded of mold, damp, and other elements she did not want to identify, was so strong it made her gag. Her companion gave her a sardonic look. "Sure you don't want to change your mind? Come on, then. Mind the steps."

He took her arm again and turned on his flashlight. Karen followed suit. The pale-yellow beams were lost in the cavern of darkness ahead.