Houses of Stone (38 page)

Three fingers remained untouched. Raising his eyebrows, Simon looked from one of them to the other. "And that's it," he said. "That's all you have. Obviously the Gothic trimmings are pure fantasy. The grim labyrinthine old house, the vague hints of sinister secrets—and the characters themselves. Ismene's childish, helpless sister, her angelically handsome cousin, her dark, surly suitor the doctor, the elderly madwoman—don't you see, they are stock characters of Gothic fiction! What leads you to suppose that they have any basis in reality? If you ever learn Ismene's identity, you will probably discover that she was a smug, respectable Victorian matron who had a dozen children and a very lurid imagination!"

Silence fell like a damp, depressing fog. Karen could think of nothing to say. Simon was one hundred percent right. She ought to have known it. She had known it. And she knew why she had not been willing to admit the truth.

Peggy emitted a long sigh. "All right. So what do you suggest?"

"I suggest we take our departure," Simon said, beckoning the waiter. "It is getting late."

They were in the car heading back before he spoke again. "The only thing that puzzles me is why two intelligent, highly educated women should be so reluctant to face facts that must be even more obvious to them than they are to me. Have you any information you are keeping to yourselves? If you choose not to confide in me—"

"Don't be an idiot," Peggy growled.

"Then the answer is obvious, surely. Rid yourself of your preconceptions. Start again from the beginning, which is the manuscript itself. What you require is evidence that will enable you to fix the date of the manuscript more closely. You may find a specific reference to some historic or literary event. If not, you should be able to make an educated guess
on the basis of the style of the writing itself. I fear you are letting your preconceptions influence your judgment on that question as well. The earlier the book, the more important the discovery; I quite understand that. But it sounds to me as if it is closer in time to the Brontes than to Mrs. Radcliffe."

"Karen is the best judge of that," Peggy said loyally.

Karen said nothing.

Simon didn't wait for her response. There was a new note of urgency in his voice when he spoke. "I must leave tomorrow. I have an important appointment on Wednesday. Please, Karen, won't you come with me? Have I not convinced you that remaining here is counterproductive?"

"He's right," Peggy said. "Much as I hate to admit it. Not that you're in any danger—"

"No, no," Simon said quickly. "I didn't mean to alarm you."

"Like hell you didn't." Karen reached out to pat his shoulder. "But I appreciate your concern, Simon dear. And your insightful analysis. You are right, of course, I should be concentrating on the manuscript. Anyway, I've accomplished most of what I hoped to do here. I can't leave until my car is fixed, but I promise, as soon as it's ready, I'll head for home. Are you satisfied?"

They were not as late as she had believed they would be; it was a few minutes before eleven when Peggy turned into the driveway. She and Simon followed Karen up the stairs and into the apartment.

"It's all right, you see," Karen said, switching on the lights. "You needn't look under the bed, Simon."

Simon gave her a cool stare and proceeded to do so. While he was looking into the bathroom and the closet, Karen whispered, "You aren't going to say anything to him about—about—"

"Of course not! I adore that man, even if he does treat me like a blithering idiot sometimes; I don't want him to think I'm a superstitious blithering idiot."

Simon emerged from the bedroom. "No one is there," he announced.

"Thank you," Karen said meekly.

"Not at all. Be sure you bolt the door securely. If you are ready, Peggy?"

Peggy gave Karen a wink and a grin, and she smiled back. Simon could lecture them all he liked about irrational romanticism, but he was
not entirely immune; there was a certain swagger in his step as he strode to the door and held it for Peggy.

As soon as the car pulled away Karen turned out the light and prepared for bed. All that wine, and brandy on top of it, after a day of strenuous physical activity, had left her stumbling and groggy. She felt sure she would sleep soundly, in spite of Simon's deflating, depressing, devastatingly accurate analysis. She consoled herself by concluding that no real harm had been done. She hadn't wasted that much time. Viewing the house had not been just a romantic indulgence. Simon didn't understand; atmosphere was important, being actually on the spot had given her a new insight.

The dark figure came shambling down the corridors of sleep. Holding the candle high, she waited for it to approach. Knowing what it was, horror had been replaced by pity—or so she believed; but when the dreadful face lifted toward hers and the white eyeball shone yellow with reflected light—when the twisted hands groped blindly for her skirts— compassion faltered and she recoiled from the touch and from the hoarse mumbling voice.

"Is it she? Is she the one? She must be warned, it will soon be too late ..."

And then, in the manner of a true nightmare, the film vanished from the creature's blinded eye. Both eyes opened to display dark dilated pupils rimmed with brilliant blue—the eyes of youth, clear and bright and wide with fear. The voice rose in a high woman's scream. "Wake! Wake, or it will be too late!"

The cry had come from her own throat. Gasping for breath, Karen rolled over. Her face had been buried in the pillow, but when she inhaled she found herself still struggling for air. The room was white with moonlight—strange, heavy light, like curdled milk. She sucked it into her lungs with the next breath, and burst into a fit of coughing.

Sheer instinct got her out of bed and to the window. A few deep breaths brought her closer to conscious waking. What had happened to the moon? The milky light was not white, it was reddish, uncertain, flickering.

Now wide awake and weak-kneed with terror, Karen ran to the closed bedroom door. One touch was all she needed; the wooden panel was so hot it stung her palm. Thank God some half-remembered lecture had kept her from opening that door. The living room must be engulfed in flames.

The air near the floor would be clearer. She remembered that too. A folder in some hotel room, telling guests what to do in case of fire . . . On hands and knees she crawled to the closet and dragged out the unwieldy bundle of rope and metal. Her head was swimming and she could hear the crackle of the flames through the closed door.

One hard shove sent the screen tumbling out. It seemed to take an eternity to locate the heavy metal strips that hooked over the windowsill, and push the ladder out. Filling her lungs with the relatively clearer air near the floor, she held her breath and ran to the bed. A tongue of flame bit through the smoldering wood of the door and licked toward her as she pitched the briefcase out the window and climbed over the sill, bare feet feeling for the topmost rung. She was halfway down when the fire broke through the wall of the garage next to the ladder. Without looking to see what lay below, she threw herself backward. Prickly branches broke her fall and tore her arms and legs. Rolling over, she saw the briefcase lying on the ground. The lurid light was as bright as the day of a planet circled by a red sun.

Clasping the briefcase to her breast, she retreated to what seemed a safe distance and stood in a benumbed stupor watching the flames blow like wildly tossing hair from her bedroom window. The whole place was gone, it was too late to save it ... But what about the house? The miracle of her own survival had overshadowed all other concerns till then, and she swore at herself in a shaky undertone as she pushed through the hedge and ran across the garden. The neighbors' house was some distance away, it probably was in no danger, but if blowing sparks caught the roof here, and she couldn't wake Mrs. Fowler . . . The windows were dark. Shouting, she banged on the back door. There was no response. Mrs. Fowler's window remained unlighted.

Karen set her teeth, shielded her face with her arm, and swung the briefcase. Glass shattered. She cleared the jagged shards from the frame with another sweep of the briefcase and reached inside. Bolts, chains— thank God, the key was in the lock, Mrs. Fowler must also be aware of
the danger of fire—and of burglary, she had taken precautions for herself that she hadn't bothered to supply for her tenants. The door finally gave way. Still not a sound from upstairs. How could the woman sleep through the racket?

She learned the answer after she had located the telephone and called the fire department. Mrs. Fowler was sound asleep in her bed, snoring like a baritone.

Thank God, Karen thought. She had half expected to find the old woman stark and stiff, her face set in a glare of Gothic horror. She leaned over Mrs. Fowler and shook her.

There was no response, not even a grunt. Karen stepped back, her nose wrinkling. The stench of stale whiskey permeated the bedclothes and Mrs. Fowler herself.

"This is Mrs. Miller," Karen explained. "She's been wonderful. This
is her raincoat I'm wearing, and her coffee I'm drinking. My friend Peggy Finneyfrock, Mrs. Miller."

"Ah, the owner of that handsome cat." Peggy offered her hand. "Thanks for coming to Karen's rescue."

"Well, my land, what else would a person do? I offered to put her up for the night, but she said she'd already telephoned you. Would you like some coffee, Peggy?"

"That would probably save my life," Peggy said gratefully. "If it's not too much trouble."

"Not a bit. Be right back."

As soon as she was out of earshot Karen said urgently, "Simon mustn't know about this. You didn't wake him, I hope."

"No, I didn't. But he's bound to find out sooner or—"

"Make it later. There's no need to worry him unnecessarily."

"Unnecessarily!" Peggy's voice cracked. "How can you be so cool about this?"

"I don't know," Karen admitted. "Maybe it hasn't hit me yet. But this doesn't change anything. The garage was an accident waiting to happen. The fire may be—probably is—unrelated to anything else."

"Oh, Christ!" Peggy threw up her hands. "Let's get the hell out of here. It makes me sick at my stomach just to look at that charred mess."

"You have to drink Mrs. Miller's coffee first," Karen said calmly. "Besides, I expect the fire chief wants to talk to me."

The two arrived simultaneously. Mrs. Miller proffered a heavy mug, and the chief—a tall, stooped man with a face as long and melancholy as that of a bloodhound—took off his hat and blotted his wet face with his handkerchief. "All secure," he announced. "I'm afraid there's nothing left, miss. Any idea how it could have started?"

Mrs. Miller snorted. "The wiring in that place is fifty years old, Bill. And she had all that junk in the garage."

"I think it started in the garage," Karen agreed. "When I woke up, the living room was burning, but there was fire below, under the bedroom, too. It burned through the garage wall when I was halfway down the ladder. I had to jump."

Bill scratched his grizzled head and looked grave. "I told Miz Fowler time and time again she was in violation of the law; at least she went to
the trouble of getting one of them ladders. Lucky for you she did, miss. If you'd had to jump from the upstairs window you could've broken something, or knocked yourself unconscious, and then ..."

Coffee sloshed over the edge of the cup Peggy was holding. Taking it from her, Mrs. Miller scolded, "That's enough, Bill. Why talk about terrible things that didn't happen? Oh, my land, look—they're carrying Miz Fowler out on a stretcher. I better go see ..."

"There's nothing serious wrong with her, is there?" Karen asked, as Mrs. Miller trotted off.

"Don't guess so. But she's an old lady and she was whooping and carrying on and yelling about her heart, so we figured it was better to be on the safe side. Expect you're ready for some rest too, miss. Where'll you be?"

Karen supplied the information and led Peggy to the car. "I'll drive," she said. "No, don't argue; you're shaking like a leaf. Give me the keys."

"They're in the ignition. Mrs. Fowler didn't buy that ladder, did she?"

"No."

"I think I'm going to throw up."

"It's your car. Suit yourself."

A choked laugh from Peggy told her she had said the right thing.

A knock on the door woke Karen next morning. It took her several seconds to orient herself; the bed, the room, even the nightgown were unfamiliar. Then the events of the past night came flooding back and she sat up with a start, in time to see a man in a white jacket beating a hasty retreat. Peggy was pouring coffee. Carrying a cup to Karen she remarked, "Well, you gave one young waiter the thrill of a lifetime."

Karen pulled the nightgown back over her shoulders. It was Peggy's, and far too large for her.

"Sorry," she mumbled.