by Kathy
The steps leading to the front door were not gracefully curved, just slabs of stone mortared into place. They were a little too high, a little too narrow. She climbed them, treading carefully on the water-slicked surface. The door was a flat expanse of wood, with no window and no fanlight above. If ever a door had been designed to keep people out, this was it. Tentatively she raised her hands and pressed them against the panel. For a moment she had the unnerving impression that they had vanished. Everything was the same shade of pallid gray—her winter-whitened skin, the worn paint of the door, the surrounding air.
Karen stepped back, putting her hands in her pockets. They were ice-cold. Small wonder, she told herself. The air was cold—wet—chill. Even if the door were not locked, which it probably was, she had no business inside the house. Retreating a little too quickly, she followed a brick walk between low hedges of boxwood toward the west side of the house.
The windows on this side were lower than those in front, or the ground was higher; standing on tiptoe, she was able to look in. The view was discouraging—an empty room, swept clean of furniture and every other object. It might have been a library. The opposite wall, the only one she could see with any degree of clarity, had rows of shelves below a stretch of what appeared to be dark-paneled wood. The shelves were bare.
Her spirits plummeted. She reminded herself this was what she had expected.
The house was larger than it had appeared from the front. Instead of extending wings on either side of the main block, the owners had simply stuck another group of rooms onto the back when additional space was required. There was no attempt at architectural symmetry; the end product was a hideous hodgepodge of different materials and disparate shapes. There seemed to be no end to it, and the farther she went, the more apparent were the long years of neglect.
Finally the wings and extensions ended and she found herself in what might loosely be described as the backyard. The weeds there were not so high or so pervasive; they rose from what had been cultivated soil. She deduced that the area had once been a garden. A vegetable garden, no doubt; Great-Uncle Josiah wouldn't have bothered with flowers. Behind the plowed earth was a wall of tangled wilderness. The heavy stems of poison ivy and honeysuckle wound tight around tree trunks and hung in green curtains from dead boughs; fallen branches interlaced with prickly thorns lay in tumbled heaps.
There was a single narrow opening in the barricade. As Karen approached, she saw it was the entrance to a path of sorts, low-roofed by leaves. An animal trail? But surely deer wouldn't come so close to the house, not when they had acres of wilderness in which to roam.
She had not seen any outbuildings, barn or sheds or the like. Perhaps that was where the path led. Ducking under a low branch, she followed it. After the first few yards it began to descend, gently at first, then at a steeper angle before it ended, abruptly, in an open space, sunken and roughly oval in shape. Hickories and white pines enclosed it, and a jagged outcropping of rock formed a natural wall along one side. The ground underfoot was thick with fallen needles that muffled her footsteps.
Except for the drip of water from the leaves, the air was utterly still. "A savage place, as holy and enchanted ..." Not a comfortable verse to recall just then; but at least the moon wasn't waning and she was not tempted to wail for a demon lover. There was something uncanny about the place, though. Why should anyone beat a path to an empty clearing? And why wasn't it overgrown with weeds and brambles, like the rest of the woodland?
At first, when she heard the sound, she took it for the murmur of water—a stream tumbling over rocky rapids or the ripple of the river, which could not be far distant. Abruptly, shockingly, the murmur changed direction. It sounded as if it were coming straight toward her. It sounded as if it were just beyond the trees, closer, closer, under the ground at her feet, in the air itself, rising in pitch and volume until there was nothing else in the universe except that piercing undulating scream.
Karen ran blindly, arms across her face to shield it from the branches that stretched out as if to block her passage. By the time she broke out into the open, there was no sound except the drip of water and her own harsh breathing. As she stood struggling for control a shift in the direction of the wind carried a sweet scent to her nostrils. The bushes beside the enclosed back porch were lilacs. Though they needed pruning, the deadly vines had been stripped away and the branches were heavy with bloom. They were a reminder of normalcy and of beauty. Her breathing slowed. Stupid of her to be panicked by some unusual acoustical phenomenon . . .
The clouds overhead had darkened and mist veiled the wet ground. She knew she ought to go. Just one more look, she told herself. One more window. That one, to the left of the porch. The exquisite scent of lilac surrounded her as she forced her way between the bushes.
The sudden sound struck at her like a physical blow. It was a human voice—a man's voice, raised in a shout. "I know you're there! Come on out." He said something else, but she didn't hear the words; jumping forward, in an instinctive attempt at concealment, she felt the ground give way under her feet.
She did not fall far, but the jolt of her landing sent a stab of pain through one leg and took her breath away. She caught at the wall beside her for support. The rough surface rasped her fingers. The wall was of stone—large, roughly trimmed blocks. A single small window broke its solidity, a window heavily barred with rusted iron.
A yell of triumph from the invisible pursuer brought her reeling brain back to reality. The stone wall wasn't that of a prison cell, it was part of the foundations of the house. The grilled window, four feet below ground level, must open into the basement. Her weight had broken through the rotted covering of a window well. She stood ankle-deep in stagnant water.
The well wasn't deep; the top of her head was on a level with the ground. Left to herself, she could have climbed out, though one ankle had begun to throb. Too late for that. The crash of her fall had betrayed her presence and given him a clue as to her location. She heard the rustle of branches as he pushed them aside, searching.
Better to concede defeat, she told herself, instead of being dragged ignominiously out of hiding. He'd find her anyway as soon as he spotted the broken cover of the well. His peremptory tone suggested he had a right to be there, that he wasn't a wandering rapist or killer.
She took a deep breath and called, "I'm here."
He had already located her. Kneeling on the edge of the well he looked down, and the shadow of his body further darkened the gloom. The face that hovered close to hers was not the one she had expected to see, but it was only too familiar.
He recognized her too. Astonishment replaced his scowl, and an unpleasant smile widened his thin mouth. "Why, if it isn't my distinguished colleague Dr. Holloway! Fancy meeting you here."
"Hello, Bill." She managed to keep her voice under control. He sat back on his heels, studying her with that insufferable smile. "Would you be good enough to help me up?" she inquired.
"Oh, certainly. A pleasure. Give me your hands." Instead of grasping them he took hold of her arms just above the elbows. She clutched at his sleeves as he rose to his feet, lifting her without apparent effort. Her feet slipped on the wet leaves and she tottered, on the rim of the well. Meyer caught her in his arms and pulled her back onto solid ground. Instead of letting her go, he drew her closer. One arm circled her shoulders so firmly that she had to choose between resting her head against his chest or tilting it back at an angle that brought their faces into such close proximity that his breath warmed her cold lips.
Karen fought the temptation to struggle. Futile efforts to free herself would only amuse and exhilarate him, and she had a feeling he was well aware of how desperately she hated being held helpless. Maybe this was the moment to apply "conscious virtue," the last defense of beleaguered heroines who freed themselves from the villain's lustful embraces by forcing him to admit their moral superiority. Looking Meyer straight in the eye, she said coldly, "Thank you. You can put me down now."
<
br /> According to the books, his eyes ought to have fallen and his cheek mantled with shame. He had read the same books, though, and he was infuriatingly quick at catching nuances. With a shout of uninhibited laughter, he quoted from one of the classics. " 'He stood for a moment the slave of virtue, though the votary of vice.' Fear not, innocent maiden, rescue is at hand."
"Have you found him?" The distant voice was a woman's, clear and anxious. "Be careful, William, he might have a gun."
"It's not a he, it's a she, and she is unarmed," Meyer answered. He backed out through the clustering lilacs, dragging Karen with him. A branch clawed at her face; another caught the dripping scarf and yanked it over her eyes.
Too depressed even to swear, Karen pushed the wet folds of cloth away and saw, as she might have expected, that the newcomer was young, attractive, and smartly dressed. Her spotless raincoat was pink, belted tightly around her narrow waist. A jaunty matching hat failed to cover a mass of blond hair—the kind of hair that curls bewitchingly with damp instead of subsiding into limp flatness. Neatly cut boots covered her calves.
"Mah Gawd," she said.
She then proceeded to complete Karen's humiliation by adding, in a less pronounced but prettily slurred Virginia accent, "You poor thing! There's a shelter for homeless people in town, it's really quite nice, Ah work there one day a week. William, let her go this instant minute, you're frightening her."
The effort Meyer made to keep from laughing made his voice crack. "I'm holding on to her because she seems to have sprained at least one ankle and I suspect she'll collapse if I let go. You are under a slight but understandable misapprehension, Lisa. Allow me to introduce Professor Karen Holloway of Calhoun College. Karen, this is Lisa Fairweather— the owner of this property."
The house wasn't entirely empty of furniture. Someone must camp out there from time to time; a small room next to the kitchen contained a cot and a table and chair. After Karen had been deposited on the cot Lisa said, "I'll just make some coffee, shall I? No, honey, it's no trouble at all, I do assure you. Cameron spends the night occasionally, to discourage trespassers, and he'd as soon face the mornin' without his trousers as without his coffee. It won't take a minute."
She trotted out, her face still flushed with embarrassment at her faux pas. Thank God I'm not that nice-minded, Karen thought. I don't blame her for mistaking me for a vagrant; I sure as hell look like one.
Meyer pulled up a chair and sat down, facing her. "You'd better get those wet shoes off," he suggested, making no move to assist her in doing so.
"What are you doing here?"
"The same thing you are, obviously."
He crossed his legs and leaned back. "I was fairly certain you were the favored purchaser Hallett mentioned. You owe your reputation to Ismene; you'd do anything to gain possession of that manuscript. Just out of curiosity, how did you persuade the dear old gentleman to give you preference?"
Karen gave him a cold stare. "What a low-down filthy mind you have, Bill. You couldn't possibly understand the reasons why Simon approached me first; they have to do with trust, friendship, decency and other things beyond your limited comprehension. I wasn't referring to your reason for being here; I was inquiring how you found out where the manuscript came from."
"Oh, I see. You must learn to be more precise in phrasing your questions." He hadn't stopped smiling since he saw her, except when the smile broadened into a grin. Bastard, Karen thought. She had to keep calm. Yelling at him or smacking the grin off his face, as she yearned to do, would make her appear more of a fool than she already did. If that was possible.
"It wasn't difficult to trace the dealer from whom Simon Hallett bought the manuscript," Meyer continued. "Not for me, at any rate."
"For your graduate assistants, you mean," Karen retorted. "I suppose you had them reading the obituary columns."
For a moment he looked disconcerted, but he recovered quickly. "Among other things. I started with the assumption that the former owner was an elderly eccentric and that he had died within the past few months."
The whistle of a boiling kettle told Karen her unwilling hostess would soon be back. "Never mind telling me how clever you are," she said. "You're wasting your time, Bill. You won't get the manuscript."
"Hallett warned me my chances were slight to non-existent," Meyer said coolly. "I don't know where the hell you're planning to get the money, but that's none of my business, is it?"
"No. I assume you're going to run the price up, out of spite."
Meyer leaned back and brushed the damp hair away from his forehead. No one would have mistaken him for a bagman (if that was the right term), but neither did he resemble the elegant academician she had seen before. His jacket had to be Harris tweed, but his shirt collar was open and his well-tended hands were streaked with mud. The green, heart-shaped lilac leaves caught in his tumbled dark hair looked like the remains of a wreath crowning a sylvan deity.
"No," he said.
"Why not?"
"I suppose you wouldn't believe me if I told you I'm a swell guy who respects your expertise and acknowledges that in moral terms you are entitled—"
Karen laughed.
"I didn't think you would," Meyer said with a faint cynical smile. "However, I admit you have a certain claim on Ismene. I'd be perfectly willing to collaborate."
Karen gasped. "You are ... You have the most . . . Words fail me, Bill, they honestly do! My vocabulary is inadequate to describe the sublimity of your conceit. What could you possibly bring to a collaboration that I can't supply myself?"
The insult didn't bother him a bit. His smile stretched wider. "Let's be kind, and say, 'A fresh viewpoint.' Two heads are better than one. And," he continued, over Karen's wordless sputter of outrage, "I have connections in the publishing world and in the media that might be very useful. If it were properly promoted, this book could be a best-seller."
"You would think of that."
"There's another thing." His smile vanished. In repose, his long lean face was as forbidding as that of an inquisitor. "You need a keeper, my girl, or a bodyguard. Are you out of your mind, coming here alone? Aside from the danger of running into some evil-minded trespasser, you could have fallen—as you did—broken a leg instead of spraining an ankle—"
"Your tender concern touches me," Karen snapped. "My ankle isn't sprained."
"Are you sure?" Lisa had returned carrying a tray. Meyer, bland and smiling, rose to take it from her. She thanked him with a sweet smile and went to Karen. "Do you mind if I look at it? I took a first-aid course ..."
I'll bet you did, Karen thought. And courses in flower arrangement, yoga, and how to fold napkins into pretty shapes. Trying to emulate Meyer's sangfroid—though her cheeks were still hot with fury—she said, "Please don't bother. You've been more than kind, considering . . . considering the circumstances. I did speak to Mr. Cameron Hayes last week. I was under the impression that he was the present owner."
"He didn't mention me?" Lisa smiled and shook her head. "That's just like Cameron. A mean old male chauvinist at heart. The property was left to both of us, jointly. Naturally I agreed to let Cameron handle the business arrangements, but I didn't think he'd be rude enough to ignore my very existence."
"Lisa is Mr. Hayes's first cousin," Meyer said smoothly. "And he can't act without her consent. Right, Lisa?"
"I wouldn't want to cast the slightest doubt on Cameron's integrity," Lisa said with equal smoothness. "But I'd sure have to be a stupid little thing to give up my rights, wouldn't I?"
Her eyes weren't blue, as Karen had thought. They had a distinct greenish cast.
"Well, we can talk about business another time," Lisa went on cheerfully. "I hope you won't think me inhospitable, Dr. Holloway, if I suggest you get back to your hotel as soon as possible. It's starting to rain again and that ankle is going to swell up if you don't get some ice on it. Would you like me or William to drive you?"
"I can manage," Karen said, thinking she had never been
dismissed with such courteous finality. "It's the left ankle."
They left as they had entered, via the side door.
Lisa insisted that she lean on "William," who obliged with a particularly infuriating show of gallantry. The last thing Karen heard, before she closed her car door, was his voice: "Take good care of yourself, my dear. I'll be in touch soon."
Chapter Four
To say in print what she thinks is the last thing the woman novelist or journalist is so rash as to attempt . . . Her publishers are not women.
Elizabeth Robins,
first president of the Women Writers'
Suffrage League, 1908
On a bright spring morning, with a chorus of birdsong filling the air and wildflowers blossoming among the coarse grass, the house didn't look menacing or sinister. It was just plain ugly.
Karen stopped behind the other vehicle and sat staring out the window, gripped by a feeling of flat anticlimax. The one positive feature of her disastrous visit the day before had been her conviction that she had found Ismene's house, the one described in the novel. Without the Gothic atmosphere, it looked like any other unattractive tumbledown old mansion.
After she had returned to the hotel the preceding afternoon, she followed Lisa's advice, wrapping her ankle in an ice-wrapped towel before she nerved herself to reach for the telephone. She wasn't looking forward to telling Cameron Hayes that she had trespassed on his property and been caught in the act by his cousin. But if she didn't tell him Lisa would, and by confessing before she was accused, she might preserve a few rags of her dignity.
He listened in silence as she stumbled through her explanation. The silence continued for several uncomfortable seconds after she stopped talking.
"I'm so sorry," he said at last. "I had no idea Lisa meant to be there yesterday. I ought to have told you about her."
