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

"I do wish we could locate Angelo, though. It would be a load off my mind if she turned out to have an alibi."

"Why? I thought you didn't want to suspect Bill."

The amusement left Peggy's face. "Because, whatever Bill's other failings, he isn't likely to commit physical assault. For one thing, he's too smart. For another, he—now don't get mad—"

"I probably will if you say what I think you're going to say."

"Dammit, Karen, I know the signs! He may be a consummate actor, counterfeiting increasing—let's say 'affection'—so you'll admit him to your confidence; but unless I miss my guess he's becoming genuinely— let's say 'fond'—of you. Either way, he's not going to hurt you. She might."

"Whoever it was didn't hurt me," Karen pointed out. "Or try to. He or she could have hit me or choked me; he or she—English needs another pronoun!—was taller and heavier. Instead, I was pushed aside. Does that tell us anything about the burglar?"

"Not a damned thing," Peggy said gloomily. "Bill and Dorothea aren't the only candidates, you know. The entire academic community must know about the manuscript by now. Creepy Joe Cropsey certainly does. Lisa or Cameron, or some third party, might try to steal it in order to sell it to any of the above. Oh, hell, this isn't getting us anywhere. Let's drop the subject."

They went back to the living room with their drinks. "I hope you had a productive day," Peggy said. "Mine was a bummer. I couldn't find birth or death certificates for anyone in the third generation. Whoever concocted that genealogy must have had private sources."

"If it was submitted to the D.A.R. or some other such organization—"

"I don't know what kind of documentation they require. It's worth checking, I agree, but I want to cover all the local possibilities before I leave town. There's one we haven't mentioned. Gravestones. You don't happen to know where the family plot is located, I suppose?"

"The subject didn't come up," Karen said dryly.

"Raise it, then. We might even luck out and find that the parish church has records."

Karen made a face. "I'll leave that job to you. Crawling over gravestones in some weed-infested old churchyard doesn't appeal to me."

"You know not whereof you speak. It's a very soothing activity on a summer afternoon. Old cemeteries are shady and quiet. Very quiet," she added in sepulchral tones.

A rumble of thunder sounded, like a musical score from a horror film underlining the suggestion of menace. Karen laughed uneasily, and Peggy said, "Maybe we'll finally get that storm. If it's raining hard, can I spend—"

"No. Thanks." . "So how's Ismene getting along?"

"Not too well. She and Clara have had a fight. Not that Ismene used such a vulgar word, but Clara accused her of ruining her—Clara's— chances of an advantageous marriage because she—Ismene—has aroused the antagonism of their well-bred neighbors by orating about the rights of women, slaves, and other inferiors. Ismene, thus provoked, retorts that Clara won't have any problem catching a husband because she's got every quality a man wants in a wife—money, good looks, and a complete absence of brains. After she blows up she bitterly repents her unkind words and tries to apologize, but Clara walks off in a huff and gets her revenge by flirting furiously with both Edmund and the doctor, who has become a frequent caller. Edmund is brooding about some mysterious problem, which he won't explain, and which necessitates frequent absences from the house. Ismene spends more and more time in the stone house, writing gloomy poems, and . . . oh, yes, she has another encounter with the mysterious figure in black, but when she attempts to follow it she finds her path barred by a locked and bolted door, from behind which she hears sounds of agonized weeping."

"I hope you never try to write a novel," Peggy said critically. "That's about as boring and flat a narrative as I've ever heard. Don't tell me any more of the plot, I'd rather read her version. She knows how to pile on the Gothic atmosphere."

"I'm getting impatient with her," Karen admitted. "There's plenty of atmosphere and no useful information whatever. It's as if she were deliberately trying to hide from me. Why won't she let me in?"

The silence that followed was broken by another, louder roll of thunder. "That's a strange way of putting it," Peggy said. "Into what?"

The room darkened as the storm drew nearer. The wind was rising. The curtains at the side windows lifted and fell.

"Into her mind, of course," Karen said. "It's closed to me. How much of what she wrote is the 'I,' the identity, the real thoughts of a real woman? She's shut people out just as her society tried to shut her in. A house of stone can be either a refuge or a prison."

"Or a grave," Peggy said. "As it was for Antigone."

The storm broke just as they were sitting down to supper. It was a humdinger, as Peggy put it—torrential rain, lightning and thunder. After a few preliminary flickers the lights dimmed and went out, and Peggy, with loud self-congratulations, produced a pair of flashlights from the other bag she had brought. They were large, heavy torches, and Karen suspected her friend was hoping for another invasion so she could hit the burglar over the head. Nothing of the sort occurred, of course, and when the storm had passed over and the electricity had gone on again, Peggy had no excuse to linger. She wanted to make an early start; Cameron had left a message telling her she could view the merchandise any time after nine.

Stars had begun to show between banks of thinning clouds and the air felt sweet and cool. The flashlights were definitely useful, though. Karen kept hers focused on Peggy until the latter had reached her car.

For all her bravado she didn't sleep well that night. The drip of water from the sodden leaves sounded like footsteps, and just as she was drifting off, a