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

"Damned if I know. Maybe she just happened to pick up the phone. Or maybe she didn't. My telephone is always making strange noises. What difference does it make? We haven't discussed anything important over the phone."

"It could make a difference to Tanya," Karen said soberly.

"Surely not! The old bat can't have that much influence."

"God, I hope not. If Mrs. Fowler was listening she got an earful, to put it mildly." Karen groaned. "If Tanya loses her job it will be my fault."

"Let's not trouble trouble till trouble troubles us," Peggy advised.

"What?"

"It's a folk saying."

"So I imagined. Well, there's nothing we can do about it now."

"That's what I said." Peggy pulled into a parking space.

Simon joined them before long, but refused Peggy's offer of a drink. "I made a reservation at a restaurant in Williamsburg. The food here is an affront to the culinary art."

"Is anyone else coming?" Karen asked.

"Bill would have," Simon said. "I did not invite him. I wanted a quiet chat with you two."

"About anything in particular.7" Peggy stood back and allowed him to open the door.

"About everything. I have an interest. I would appreciate being brought up-to-date."

He refused to discuss the subject, however, until they had reached their destination and been shown to a table. Karen recognized the signs; Simon viewed dining out, as opposed to eating per se, as an art form, prolonged, leisurely and deliberate. It took him ten minutes to select the wine, after long consultation with a headwaiter who was obviously enraptured by his attitude toward food. They would be there until midnight, Karen thought resignedly.

After the most important matters had been settled, Simon looked at Peggy. "Begin at the beginning," he said. "And go on until you reach the end."

Peggy was happy to oblige. Simon let her ramble on, with only an occasional question. The last question brought her up short. "What next?"

"Uh—well . . . We're planning to excavate the stone house ..."

"Why?"

Peggy looked at Karen, who stared blankly back at her.

"What do you hope to find?" Simon asked. "Or, to put it another way, what can you possibly hope to find?"

"The fact that it was hers," Karen began.

"Not good enough," Simon said bluntly. "Let me summarize the situation as I see it."

"I'm not going to like this," Peggy muttered, reaching for an ashtray.

Knowing Simon's views on smoking between courses, Karen took it as a meaningful sign when he gave Peggy an affectionate smile instead of a lecture. "I am not criticizing what you have done. All of it would have to be done at some time or other, and you seem to be enjoying yourselves hugely. But you remind me of Stephen Leacock's equestrian, who leapt onto his horse and rode off in all directions.

"The project you have undertaken has two major parts: one, the study of the manuscript itself; and two, the identification of the author. Yes, Karen, I know you have been working on the manuscript and I hope you will entertain me, later, with a summary of the plot. However, you have allowed yourself to be distracted. You ought to be in your apartment in Wilmington, safe and undisturbed."

"Safe," Peggy repeated, narrowing her eyes.

"Safe," Simon said. "Someone invaded her living quarters and attacked her physically. What on earth has come over you two, that you can coolly ignore that event? The intruder may not have intended to harm Karen, but she might have been injured, and the copy of the manuscript might have been taken. It would not be at risk—as it still is—if she had remained where she ought to be."

"You're right," Peggy murmured.

"But—" Karen began.

"Let me finish, please. The second part of the search is primarily Peggy's responsibility in any case, and it is also secondary to the main job. How can you possibly hope to identify this woman? You've already taken the obvious steps; you knew—at least I hope you knew—when you began that your chances of success were slim. What can you learn from that battered portrait? What can you find in the stone house? Even if it is the one she mentions in the manuscript, she left it a century and a half ago."

"There are other possible sources," Peggy said, frowning.

"Correct. And you were wise to purchase as many of the family possessions as you could. Some scrap of paper, some letter or diary may yet turn up. The chance is remote, however, and the search will be prolonged. I cannot understand why you are not concentrating on the manuscript. It has given you your most concrete evidence so far; you know you have found the right house, and that Ismene was most probably a member of the family. You've found absolutely nothing to connect her with a particular woman, and your best hope of finding that lies, it seems to me, in the text itself. Would you care for dessert?"

"You've taken away my appetite," Peggy said gloomily.

They settled for coffee and brandy. "Now tell me about the book," Simon said. "Start at the beginning and go on—"

"I don't know the ending yet," Karen said. "I've managed to resist the temptation to skip ahead; I want to get a feeling for the narrative, as an ordinary reader would do. And I'm horribly afraid we'll never know how it came out. Part of it is missing."

"Start at the beginning, then."

By the time she finished, the dining room was almost empty; except for one other party, they were the only ones there. "The pages I read this afternoon clear up the mystery of the old woman's identity. As Ismene cowers away from that groping hand, Edmund rushes into the room, accompanied by one of the servants. The old woman shrinks from him, mumbling incoherently, but she does not resist when the servant leads her from the room.

"Ismene is on the verge of collapse. Gently Edmund takes her into his arms and carries her to her bed. Rubbing her icy hands, he explains that the old woman is his poor, senile stepmother, his father's