Authors: KATHY
There comes John, and I must put this away,—he hates to have me write a word. . . . She is all the time trying to crawl through. But nobody could climb through that pattern—it strangles so. . . .
Charlotte
P.
Gilman,
The Yellow Wallpaper,
1892
"SO
that's the way
the land lies," Peggy said, returning the papers to Karen and signaling the waitress for more coffee. "I thought Edmund would declare himself before long. I'm betting on the doctor, though."
"Why?" Karen pushed the remains of her cereal away. Peggy had insisted she eat a hearty breakfast, in preparation for the hard day's work ahead. She hated cereal.
"Edmund's after her money. And," Peggy added, before Karen could object to this dogmatic statement, "the sister, Clara, has her eye on Edmund too. Ismene's too noble to find happiness at her sister's expense. Then there's The Horrible Secret to be exposed. The old lady knows what it is, and maybe she's not as crazy as she seems."
"You really are jumping to conclusions."
"I'm making educated guesses," Peggy corrected. "That's part of the fun of reading mysteries—trying to figure out the solution. Ismene has set up the plot, and unless she cheats by introducing a new character or a vital clue at the last minute, an intelligent reader ought to be able to predict what will happen. How much more of the manuscript have you got to read?"
"Forty or fifty pages. But I have a nasty feeling that 'Houses of Stone' is going to be another
Edwin Drood.
You know, the murder mystery by Charles Dickens that he never finished."
"Why didn't he?"
"He died."
"That's a good reason," Peggy admitted.
"Dickens set up the plot and the list of suspects," Karen went on. "And the victim. But nobody knows whether Edwin disappeared voluntarily, or was kidnapped or murdered, much less which of the suspects committed the crime—if there was a crime. Hundreds of books and articles have been written speculating on how Dickens meant to end the book."
"Is this going to be the same? I know you said some pages seem to be missing, but maybe it's only a few. Come on, don't tell me you haven't cheated and looked ahead."
"I peeked," Karen admitted. "The last page ends in mid-sentence; it seems to be a description of some damned rose garden. This isn't a typical murder mystery, where the explanation is left till the last chapter, so I'm hoping Ismene tied up most of the loose ends earlier and that the missing pages contained only unimportant moralizing. But I won't know till I've read the whole thing."
"Maybe you ought to stay with it, Karen. I can take pictures and supervise the workmen."
"The manuscript can wait. I'll have to go over it again and again anyhow. We may not have access to Amberley much longer."
"Especially after what we did yesterday." Peggy scribbled her name on the check and pushed her chair away from the table. "Not that we intended to misbehave; we were properly invited and had no reason to think Cameron would resent our being there."
"I suppose I might have suspected he would," Karen said slowly. "He never invited me to his home or gave me the address—only a phone number. He's made it clear from the beginning that our relationship was strictly business."
"Hmmm. Are you sure you didn't miss a cue here and there? I'm not criticizing, mind you, it's none of my business how you feel about him, but he's awfully thin-skinned; the slightest hint of rejection and he pulls back into his shell."
"I tried to be friendly," Karen protested. "He never—" She broke off in some confusion, remembering at least two occasions when Cameron
had.
"Anyhow," she went on, "he has nothing more to sell. From now
on we're not potential buyers, we're damned nuisances. He'll be happy to see the last of us."
Cameron certainly did not appear happy to see them that morning. The man who followed him out of the house was a stranger to Karen, but she knew who, or what, he must be.
Cameron was wearing a suit and tie and carrying a briefcase. He greeted them with a frown and a curt "I didn't expect you so early. Your crew won't be here for another hour."
"That's okay," Peggy said, deliberately misinterpreting this speech as an apology. "We wanted to take some pictures before we start work."
She turned her bright innocent smile on the other man. "Sleek" was the word that came to Karen's mind—slick, well-groomed gray hair, expensive tailoring, a smooth pink face. "Good morning," she cooed. "We won't be in your way, I promise. Just ignore us."
"Not at all, ladies" was the affable if meaningless reply. His eyes went over them with a curious absence of expression; Karen realized he was seeing them not as women or even human beings, but as potential business rivals.
Peggy said nothing to dispel this impression. Names were exchanged and hands were shaken, and then they excused themselves, leaving the men to talk.
"You were right," Peggy said sotto voce. "The guy's a developer if I ever saw one. I wonder what he's got in mind for the house. You could turn it into a conference center or bed and breakfast, I suppose, if you weren't sensitive to atmosphere. Me, I'd tear it down and start all over."
"Who gives a damn?" Karen demanded. "Honestly, Peggy, you can waste more time on—"
"Kitchen things," Peggy said, smiling. "Here, hold the light meter and the extra film. Where shall we start?"
They moved methodically from room to room. Karen was dreading the moment when they would reach the narrow stairs that led to the attic; she was determined not to shirk the job, but she wasn't anxious to repeat that experience. Luckily for her, Peggy was a finicky, fussy photographer; they were still on the first floor, in the library, when Cameron joined them.
"I'm driving Mr. Halston back to town," he announced. "The crew should be here anytime. Can you manage without me? I should be back in an hour or two."
"No problem," Karen said. She was dying to know whether Cameron had made his sale, but didn't like to ask.
Peggy was less inhibited. "Is he going to buy the place?"
Cameron's face mirrored his feelings—exasperation, reflection, and finally reluctant amusement. "There are a few details left to work out. Excuse me, I don't want to keep him waiting."
"I don't know how you get away with it," Karen said after he had marched out.
"It's my age. Old ladies are expected to be nosy, and in this part of the world at least, people don't hit grandmas. If we hurry we can finish the library before the men get here."
They were sitting on the front steps when a car pulled up. Karen had forgotten Bill Meyer was to be part of the work crew but she discovered, somewhat to her surprise, that she was glad to see him—or at least not sorry to see him. His scraped face still looked awful, but it seemed to be healing.
"Not even a singed curl," he said, looking her over with an expression that contradicted his light tone.
"I told you she was fine," Peggy said.
He dropped down onto the step next to Karen. "I went by the place this morning," he said soberly. "How you ever managed . . . I guess you'd rather not talk about it."
"I don't see any point in talking about it. But it was nice of you to call yesterday."
"Nice, hell. You're making me very nervous, Karen. Try not to get mashed by falling rocks or bitten by a poisonous snake today, will you?"
"We'll let you boys do the dirty work," Peggy said. "This must be them. Or should I, in the presence of two English teachers, say 'they'?"
The noun fit the other "boys" better than it did Bill; they were all in their late teens and they introduced themselves by diminutives: Scotty, Jimmy Joe and Bucky. They might have been brothers or cousins, they looked so much alike, and Karen had a hard time remembering which was which.
At first they took Bill for the boss, but Peggy soon set them straight.
Shouldering the tools they had brought, they followed in an obedient procession, with Karen and Bill bringing up the rear.
"You've been here before, Bill, I gather," she said, as they entered the woodland path.
"Once. I hope this experience won't be as unpleasant as the last."
"What do you mean?"
He glanced at her over his shoulder, holding back a branch that barred the way. "It was raining and foggy and very still. My five-year-old nephew would describe the ambience as 'creepy,' I suppose. I found a shed snake-skin while I was cutting away the vines, and that didn't cheer me up much. Copperhead."
"Oh." The sound of the brook grew louder. The hour was still early; sunlight slanted through the branches at an oblique angle. It had been midday or later when she and Peggy heard the cry. If it happened again, at a different time of day, in the presence of so many witnesses, she would know the phenomenon was not paranormal. Scotty, Bucky and Jimmy Joe didn't strike her as nervous or overly imaginative.
All the same she didn't offer to wield clippers or shears. Nothing had happened the last time until she got close to the ruin. If there was a danger zone around the structure, like an invisible fence, let one of the others set off the alarm.
She noticed that Peggy stayed some distance away too. Under her direction the others, including Bill, began cutting away the tangled vines. After a while Karen got nerve enough to edge closer and drag the mounting piles of brush out of the way of the workers. So far so good, she thought. The cheerful unconcern of the young men, their brisk movements and good-natured gibes at one another and at Bill—especially at Bill, the city slicker, the old guy—transformed the once uncanny spot into just another clearing in the woods. A woman who came here wailing for her demon lover would get short shrift.
Not only vines but coarse weeds and saplings had rooted themselves among the stones. Peggy moved in closer as the shape of the structure began to emerge from the greenery that had veiled it. "Be careful. Clip as close to the surface as you can, but don't try to pull any plant out by the roots. They're intertwined through the crevices like a net; you could dislodge one of the stones."
"Sure hate to have one of them suckers fall on me," Jimmy Joe—or
possibly Bucky—agreed. "Wonder how come they cut 'em that big? Never seen anything like it around here."
By the time Peggy decreed a break for lunch they had cleared only two of the remaining parts of the four walls, but the shape of the structure was now plain. It had been approximately eight feet square; the height could only be estimated, since neither of the cleared walls had survived intact. No traces of window apertures were visible, but an opening on one side must have been a door; rusted spots on the stone indicated the presence of hinges, though these, and the door itself, were missing. Nothing of the interior could be seen. It was filled with rubble and with a luxuriant growth of plants, including two good-sized trees.
Back at the house, the boys piled into their truck, promising to return in an hour, and went in search of sustenance. "It had better be a drive-in," Peggy announced, gesturing the others toward her car. "We aren't dressed for anything fancier."
Karen had to agree. Bill was the most disheveled; he had worked as hard as any of the boys. Their jokes must have gotten to him. His wrinkled, sweat-soaked shirt stuck to his skin, his hair stood on end, and his face was flushed. If the M.L. A. could only see him now, Karen thought. He saw her looking at him, and read her mind; acknowledging her amusement with a wry smile, he got meekly into the back seat of Peggy's car.
Cameron had not yet returned when they got back. "Looks as if he's made the deal," Peggy said. "He'd be here working his little heart out if he hadn't found a buyer."
"Unless his mother ..." Karen stopped herself. She was getting to be as bad as Peggy, gossiping and guessing about things that were none of her business. Poor Mrs. Hayes was none of Bill Meyer's business either.
"The boys are late," Peggy said critically.
"Here they come. Shall I bring the cooler?"
He had suggested they buy it and stock it with ice and soft drinks, an idea Peggy had approved. The truck arrived and the boys emerged; one of them—Karen had given up hope of telling them apart by now— hastened to take it from him. If Bill's face hadn't been so flushed with heat it would have reddened with indignation, but he did not protest.
The temperature grew uncomfortably hot as the afternoon went on.
Towering white clouds piled up and passed overhead, making the sunlight flicker like a faulty light bulb. "I hope to hell it's not going to rain," Peggy muttered. "One more day, God, just give me one more day."
Bill mopped his streaming brow with his sleeve and managed to laugh. "Sounds like a spiritual, Peggy. You can't do this job in two days."
"This isn't a proper dig, Bill. I just want to get a general idea of what's here." She had to raise her voice to be heard over the roar of the chain saw. "If we find anything that justifies excavation . . . well, we'll face that if we come to it."
One of the trees toppled, crashing to earth, and she let out a cry. "Dammit, boys, I told you to watch out. You could bring that wall down."
"No, ma'am, no chance," called Bucky or Jimmy Joe. "We made sure it would fall thataway. The back wall's solid rock, not cut stones."
"What? Let me see."
"He's right," said Bill, posing picturesquely atop a tree stump. "That's limestone, not earth—a good-sized outcropping. The builder of the house must have smoothed off a section and used it for one of the walls."
Curiosity, and the absence of anything unusual, had overcome Karen's fear of going too close to the house. Following Peggy, she looked over the top of the cleared wall.
The interior was still knee-deep in dirt, from which a few corners of fallen stone protruded, along with the stubs of the trees. The far wall was far from smooth, but it had unquestionably formed the fourth side of the structure. Just above the uneven surface of the earth Karen thought she saw a darker shadow, like a break in the stone. It might have been the top of a narrow opening.
Involuntarily she fell back a step. There had been no cry, no sudden wave of cold; only a sudden memory that carried a chill of quite a different kind. "Could that be the entrance to a cave or a tunnel?" she asked.
"There's no mention of such a thing in the book," Peggy answered.
Karen saw Bill's ears prick, but for once she didn't care what he overheard. "It might have been blocked up. But earlier ..."
Peggy gave her a curious look. "Well, we can find out. Boys, I want the whole interior cleared, but there isn't time to do much more today; concentrate on that side and see if there is an opening in the rock."