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

is she? She must be warned. It must not be. Is she the one?"

Karen had dreamed of that face, luridly lit by flames. The portrait of the old woman and Peggy's morbid commentary must have recalled to her sleeping mind the last scene she had transcribed from the manuscript. It was still unpleasantly clear in her mind as she got dressed and made coffee.

She wished she hadn't agreed to join the expedition to the cemetery. It had been three days since she had been able to work on the manuscript, and she was anxious to find out what was going to happen next. She had finished almost two-thirds of it now, and her familiarity with the conventions of the Gothic novel had inspired several hunches—educated guesses, rather—as to how the book would end. In one sense she hoped she was right, for that would prove how clever she was; in another sense she hoped Ismene would prove cleverer than she, scorning the old Gothic traditions in favor of a more original solution.

It would have to wait a few more hours. She had been too tired the night before to work, and there wasn't time now; she had promised to meet the others at the motel and she was already late. She called Peggy, announced she was on her way, grabbed her purse and the briefcase, and ran out.

Absorbed in literary speculation—was the dark, surly doctor the hero, or were the dark hints about Edmund only red herrings?—she didn't notice the ominous thumping sound until she turned onto the highway and put her foot down on the gas. By the time she reached the motel it sounded as if there were a rock ricocheting back and forth under the hood.

They were waiting for her: Peggy in her commando outfit; Bill equally businesslike in jeans and denim shirt; and Simon, whose only concession to the rough work ahead had been to leave off his cravat.

Peggy trotted toward the car. "What's wrong with it?" she yelled, over the thunderous knocking.

"I don't know. It just started." Karen turned off the ignition.

"Sounds like a rod," Bill said, sauntering up. "Want to take it to a garage? I'll follow you—"

"Follow her where?" Peggy demanded. "We haven't got time to locate a reliable mechanic. I'll drive. Pull over next to my car, Karen."

"How much is that rod going to set me back?" Karen asked, once they were on their way.

Bill, in the back seat with Simon, replied, "Try not to think about it."

"Damn. All right, I won't think about it." She turned, arm over the seat. "I thought you were going back to Baltimore, Simon. You aren't dressed for this, you know."

"I mean to supervise," Simon said coolly. "And take a few photographs, if you are fortunate enough to find anything worth photographing."

"You brought a camera? Good thinking, Simon."

"It's mine. I brought tools, too." Peggy indicated the shopping bag at Karen's feet. "Clippers, shears, trowels."

Karen's first thought, when she saw the cemetery, was that a power mower and a few scythes would have been more useful. Except for the rusted iron fence that surrounded it and the ruins of the church, she would have taken the place for a meadow or an unmowed pasture. A few monuments reared stained marble heads above the waving grass, but there was no sign of an ordinary tombstone.

Bill was the first to break the pained silence. "We could just set fire to it."

"I'd be tempted, if I thought the damned stuff would burn," Peggy muttered. "Oh, well. Let's get organized."

Rummaging in her bag she produced an aerosol spray can and advanced purposefully on Karen. With a resigned shrug, Karen submitted.

"Is this necessary?" Bill demanded, watching the evil-smelling mist surround Karen. "Surely it's too early for ticks."

"No, it's not," Peggy said. "Hold out your arms."

When she turned to Simon he backed away. "No, thank you."

"You want Lyme disease?"

"No, but—"

"Hold out your arms."

The gate sagged on rusted hinges. One by one they squeezed through. "Disgraceful," Simon murmured. "Even the church has fallen into ruin. They show no respect, these people."

"They probably don't have any money for restoration," Peggy said. "Fan out now. We're looking for the Cartright place. There should be a monument or mausoleum in the center of it, and maybe a low fence around it. Watch out for that, if it's metal you could trip and impale yourself."

The grass was knee-high. Lush and green, sprinkled with the delicate blooms of weeds and wildflowers, it was as pretty as a piece of embroidery, and Karen decided not to think about why it flourished with such extravagance. She stumbled over an unseen obstruction, and felt a supportive arm catch her around the waist.

"Fan out, Bill," she said.

"Then start shuffling" was the amused reply. "It's the only safe way to walk in this terrain; there are fallen tombstones every foot or so."

Shuffling, Karen headed for the nearest of the visible monuments, a tall marble column horribly stained by weather and bird droppings. Whatever object had surmounted it was now gone; the jagged shaft had cracked clean across. The lettering had been deeply incised; she could make out enough of the name to be sure it was not the one she wanted. A face leered up at her from the grass at its foot; dimpled cheeks and the stubs of wings at its shoulders identified it as some variety of angel.

Bill and Peggy had fanned out, Peggy to her right and Bill to her left. True to his promise, Simon was supervising. He had found something to sit on, but she couldn't see what, because it was hidden by the tall grass. He looked uncannily like a Hindu mystic perched cross-legged on empty air, his face as blandly impassive as that of an idol, his fine hands folded loosely on his lap.

It was Bill who found the Cartright monument—a miniature mausoleum shaped of dark stone, square and unadorned except for a simple cavetto cornice. In response to his hail they converged upon him; even Simon