"Or tracing the ownership of a plot of land." Peggy lit another cigarette from the stub of the last. Karen could tell she was hooked. She wondered why she hadn't thought of confiding in Peggy earlier. This part of the problem required historical rather than literary research and Peggy loved puzzles in all forms, from mystery stories to double-crostics.
"There's another possibility, of course," Peggy went on musingly. "From Mrs. Radcliffe to the Brontes; you're talking about a literary type that flourished around the turn of the eighteenth century, right? This part of the country was well settled by 1800. The author must have been a member of a wealthy, land-owning family; only the upper classes bothered to have their sons educated, much less their daughters. They were lordly aristocrats—slave owners—flaunting their wealth, importing books and furniture from England, building great mansions ..." She had been talking to herself, letting her agile and informed imagination build up a theory. Now she looked directly at Karen and said, "That's what you believe, isn't it? That the seller is one of Ismene's descendants. That the house where the manuscript was found is her home."
"I don't know why the weather is always foul when I go to Baltimore," Karen grumbled. "If I were superstitious I'd regard it as an omen, and turn back."
It was rain, not sleet or snow, that darkened the highway that morning. Patches of mist drifted across the road.
Peggy checked her seat belt for the tenth time. She had offered to drive, but Karen had overruled her, even though she knew Peggy hated being a passenger.
"You wouldn't turn back if the clouds opened up and God threw a thunderbolt at you." Peggy reached in her purse, which squatted on the floor at her feet like a malignant black gnome, and then made a face and withdrew her hand.
"Go ahead and smoke," Karen said resignedly.
"And deprive you of ten minutes of your busy, productive, happy, interminable life?"
"I don't want to see a premature end to your busy, productive, happy, interminable life. And I hate having the smell of it in the car. But I'd rather put up with that than have you twitching and snapping at me all the way to Baltimore."
Peggy grinned. "Oh, well. If you insist."
She lit her cigarette, cracked the window, and then leaned back, looking more relaxed. "I'm looking forward to meeting your friend Simon. Do you think he'll mind my coming along?"
"If he does, he won't show it. He's a perfect gent. Your presence will add a certain legitimacy to my claim on the manuscript; he'll think you represent the college."
"Just watch what you say," Peggy warned her. "I don't represent the college, and I don't particularly want to be sued for misrepresentation— by Simon or the board of trustees."
"Don't worry."
"Huh," said Peggy. "Are you still set on that crazy scheme of yours?"
"I have to know who the other bidders are, Peggy! Simon wouldn't tell me."
"You didn't expect him to, did you?"
"Well—no. I certainly wouldn't want him to give the others my name. Call it idle curiosity if you like—"
"Oh, I can see why you're interested."
"Will you please stop interrupting me?"
Peggy laughed aloud. After a moment Karen laughed too. "Am I being prickly?"
"Uh-huh. And overly defensive. Hell, you don't have to explain why you're curious about the competition. I am too. I wouldn't miss this for the world. Skulking in doorways with my hat pulled down over my eyes, snapping pictures with my hidden camera, trailing suspects through the byways of Baltimore ..."
Karen groaned. "I knew I'd regret letting you come."
It was a lie; she could only thank heaven that chance had involved Peggy in her project. Not only was her historical expertise proving invaluable, but her practical, commonsense presence steadied Karen's imagination. She had been in danger of going off the deep end that first week; excitement had muddled her thinking processes and endangered not only her job but the acquisition of the precious manuscript. With Peggy nagging her, she had resumed her normal academic schedule and managed to refrain from hassling Simon. Her enforced patience had paid off; when he called to tell her she wouldn't have to wait much longer, he had volunteered the information that he expected the other interested parties that weekend, and when she asked if she might have another look at the prize, he had agreed.
"You're sure Bill Meyer is coming today?" Peggy asked. "I don't mind playing spy, even in the rain, so long as it isn't a waste of time."
"I'm not sure who the client is," Karen said. "Simon's too damned discreet to mention a name. But someone will be there today or tomorrow."
"Goody, goody. I can play spy two days in a row."
"That's why I suggested you bring an overnight bag. Simon mentioned two prospects. If both show up today, we won't have to stay over, but just in case ..."
"Fine with me. For God's sake," Peggy added irritably, "you're driving fifty miles an hour and every damned vehicle on the road is passing us. Can't you go a little faster?"
"Have another cigarette," Karen said.
The rain slackened when they approached the city; only a dismal drizzle dampened their coats as they walked toward Simon's shop. Peggy had covered her head with a garish red-and-purple tie-dyed scarf. She explained she was saving her hat for surveillance purposes.
Simon was waiting at the door. His bushy eyebrows lifted when he saw Peggy, but he acknowledged the introduction with a slight bow and took the hand she extended.
They made one of the oddest couples Karen had ever seen. Simon's lean height dwarfed Peggy's stocky form, though he bent gallantly at the waist in order not to seem to loom over her. Peggy stood with her feet firmly planted; the pockets of her shabby raincoat sagged, and the hideous scarf drooped over her face. She pushed it back and
